‘It’s even weirder out in Afghanistan and Iraq,’ said Shepherd. ‘Over there they don’t have uniforms, they use women and kids as suicide bombers and they fire missiles from mosques. Yet we carry on following the rules of war that are supposed to apply to soldiers in uniform. It’s like fighting with one arm behind your back.’
‘Lions led by bloody donkeys,’ said Whitehouse. ‘They should just have let your lot run things out there. Done it as Special Ops instead of putting bodies on the ground.’
‘I’m not sure that would have been any better,’ said Shepherd. ‘You can’t defeat an enemy that fights like that. The Yanks should have learned that from Vietnam. And if not from that, the fact that the Russians had to leave Afghanistan with their tail between their legs should have shown them which way the wind was blowing.’
‘Shouldn’t have been there in the first place, is that what you mean?’
Shepherd shrugged. ‘It’s not my call, Mark. I went to Afghanistan because I was told to go. I was eight years old when the Falklands War broke out, but looking back, I can see why we were there. The Argentines invaded British territory. End of. We had every right to do what was necessary to take it back. But you look at Afghanistan and Iraq and you have to ask yourself why British troops were ever sent.’
‘You know why. Because Tony Blair was Bush’s lapdog. Did what his master told him to.’ The armourer shrugged. ‘You’re right. At least I knew what I was fighting for.’
Shepherd put down the Glock. ‘If you got the chance to take that shot, to shoot the guy who killed Will, would you do it?’
Whitehouse tilted his head to one side as he looked at Shepherd. ‘That’s one hell of a hypothetical question,’ he said. ‘Where’s that come from?’
‘Just wondered, that’s all.’
‘It was a long time ago,’ said Whitehouse. He closed his metal case and snapped the locks shut. ‘More than thirty years.’
‘Time heals all wounds?’
‘I often wish I’d told the sergeant to go to hell and had just pulled the trigger,’ said Whitehouse. ‘That was the time for the bastard to get what he deserved. In the heat of battle. That is one of the great regrets of my life. I went to Will’s funeral and met his mum and his dad and his sister and it fair broke my heart when they asked me what had happened. I had to tell them, right? I had to tell them that Will was shot and that the guy who shot him went unpunished. They wanted to know why he wasn’t at least put on trial and you have to explain that it was war. But then if it was war why wasn’t I allowed to shoot him?’ He grimaced at the memory. ‘I’ll never forget the way his mum burst into tears and his father tried to comfort her, all the time looking at me with the unspoken question in his eyes. Why? Why didn’t I do something?’
‘Like you said, he’d surrendered. That changes everything.’
‘Yes, but it shouldn’t. You can’t be a killer one second and a prisoner of war the next. That’s just not right. But if you’re asking me if I’d slot him now, then no, I wouldn’t. He’d be in his fifties now, he’s probably a father himself, maybe a grandfather. He wouldn’t be the same man who’d killed Will all those years ago.’ He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Now, if Will had been my son, then it might be different. You’ve got a kid, right?’
Shepherd nodded. ‘Yeah, Liam. He’s sixteen this year.’
‘Will was only a few years older. See now, that I would never forgive. If someone killed one of my kids I’d never forgive or forget, I’d slot them no matter how much time had passed.’
‘Yeah, amen to that,’ said Shepherd.
Whitehouse stood up. ‘Well, better be going.’ He held out his hand and the two men shook. ‘I’m not sure what’s on your mind, Spider, but you take care. There’s an old Chinese proverb. A man setting out for revenge needs to dig two graves.’
Shepherd nodded. ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ he said.
After the armourer had left, Shepherd made himself a mug of coffee and phoned Charlotte Button. ‘I’ve got my car, gun and vests,’ he said.
‘And Grechko is expecting you, so you’re good to go. He’s at home all day and says he’ll see you after dinner. You’re to liaise with Dmitry Popov.’
‘I’ll Popov and see him,’ said Shepherd.
‘Just be aware that the Russians aren’t renowned for their sense of humour,’ said Button. ‘Popov’s nose will be out of joint, so bear that in mind.’
‘I’ll treat him with kid gloves,’ said Shepherd. ‘But at the end of the day I’ll be the one carrying the gun.’
‘Please don’t shoot any of Grechko’s bodyguards,’ said Button, only half joking. ‘I really couldn’t bear the paperwork.’
The Bishops Avenue was a ten-minute drive from Shepherd’s Hampstead flat. The tree-lined road ran from the north side of Hampstead Heath to East Finchley. Houses on the road had never been cheap but in recent years prices had gone stratospheric and it was now commonly known as Billionaires’ Row. There were just sixty-six houses on the road, each standing on a two- to three-acre plot. As and when older properties came on the market they were snapped up, demolished, and replaced with multimillion-pound mansions, with the result that only the word’s richest families could afford to live there.
The president of Kazakhstan had paid £50 million for his mansion in 2008 but many in the street were now valued at double that figure. Ten of the houses were owned by the Saudi royal family with a collective value of almost a billion pounds, and the Sultan of Brunei’s residence there was rumoured to have solid gold toilets and baths.
The houses that Shepherd drove by were a strange mix. There were designs based on traditional Greek and Roman styles with towering columns and triangular pediments, but there were also huge modern cubes of steel and glass and massive country houses that would have been more at home on a Scottish grouse moor. Most were hidden by high walls and electric gates and all had the warning signs of private security firms predominantly displayed.
Shepherd had often driven down the street and was always struck by the thought that the mansions resembled prisons. He couldn’t imagine a more soulless place to live. The residents usually flew in by private jet and were taken to their luxurious mansions by limousine to be protected by high walls and guards. There would be no popping around to a neighbour’s for a chat. In fact no one ever walked down The Bishops Avenue and if anyone did decide to take a stroll they’d be under CCTV and human scrutiny every step of the way.
Grechko’s mansion was about halfway down the avenue. It was fronted by a brick wall that was a good ten feet high and there was a black metal wheeled gate. He pulled up and sounded his horn. The gate steadfastly refused to move and he blipped the horn again. There was a loud clicking sound and then the gate slowly rattled back, revealing a drive a hundred metres long leading to a sandstone mansion with half a dozen towering chimneys. There were tennis courts to the left of the house and a double-door garage to the right.
As the gate withdrew, Shepherd edged the car forward. He had barely moved a dozen feet when a large man in a black suit appeared in front of the car holding up his hand. ‘Turn off the engine!’ he shouted.
Shepherd wound down the window. ‘Tony Ryan,’ he said. ‘Dmitry Popov is expecting me.’
‘Turn off the engine and get out of the car!’ the man shouted again. He was short, probably not much more than five foot seven, but he was broad shouldered and had bulging biceps that strained at the arms of his suit. He was wearing impenetrable Oakley wraparound sunglasses and had a Bluetooth earpiece in his left ear. Shepherd recognised him as Timofei Domashevich, one of the recruits to the security team. From his attitude it looked as if he had something to prove.
Shepherd pulled his Tony Ryan warrant card from his jacket pocket and held it out. ‘I’m a cop,’ he said. ‘I’m here to see Dmitry Popov.’ The gate started to rattle closed behind him.
A hand grabbed at the handle of the X5 and yanked the door open. ‘Out!’ said a second man. He was tall, a good foo
t taller than the first man, and wearing a similar suit, shades and earpiece. It was Konstantin Serov. According to the file he’d read, Serov had been with Grechko for almost ten years. Shepherd realised there was no point in arguing. He put his warrant card away and released his seat belt. He stepped down out of the four-by-four but his feet had hardly touched the ground before the man had spun Shepherd around and pushed him against the car. ‘Hey, go easy!’ shouted Shepherd, but as he put his hands on the roof to steady himself the bodyguard roughly kicked his legs apart.
A third bodyguard appeared on the other side of the car. It was Alina Podolski, the only female member of the security team. Like the other two bodyguards she was wearing a black suit but her white shirt was tieless and open at the neck. She stood watching him with amused pale blue eyes, her arms folded. She had short blond hair with a fringe that reached down past her eyebrows and her red lipstick matched the colour of her nails.
Shepherd flashed her a tight smile as hands roughly patted him down. He decided not to tell them that he was armed, he figured they might as well discover it for themselves. A few seconds later a hand patted the Glock in its holster. Serov shouted something that sounded like ‘pistolet’ which Shepherd assumed was Russian for ‘gun’. He held the Glock in the air and waved it around for the rest of the bodyguards to see.
‘I’m a cop,’ said Shepherd, but a hand hit him in the middle of the back and pushed him against the car.
Another man was rooting through the back of the X5 while a fifth bodyguard had appeared with a mirror on the end of a metal pole and was using it to examine the underside of the car. It was Max Barsky, the youngest member of the security team and one of the new arrivals. He was tall and thin and his suit was slightly too small for him so that his white socks were clearly visible below the hems of his trousers. He was wearing Ray-Bans that were too big for his face, giving him the look of an ungainly stick insect.
Another man patted him down again, paying particular attention to his legs. They didn’t seem to notice the vest that he’d put on underneath the shirt. ‘OK, turn around,’ said the man. Shepherd did as he was told. It was Boris Volkov, tall and skinny with a shaved head, his eyes hidden behind impenetrable Oakleys. A former Moscow policeman, according to the file that Shepherd had committed to memory. ‘Boris Volkov,’ said Shepherd.
Volkov frowned and put his face closer to Shepherd’s. Shepherd could smell garlic on the man’s breath. ‘You know me?’
‘I’m here to see Dmitry Popov,’ said Shepherd. ‘But you know that, of course.’ He held out his hand. ‘Now stop pissing around and give me back my wallet and my gun.’
‘No one gets in with a gun,’ said Volkov, his English heavily accented.
‘You realise I’m a cop, right?’ said Shepherd.
Serov ejected the clip from Shepherd’s Glock.
‘You break it, you pay for it,’ said Shepherd. Serov ignored him and slotted the clip back in.
To the side of the gate was a brick gatehouse with a thick-glassed window and above it a white metal CCTV camera. Shepherd realised that someone was watching him from the gatehouse, a big man with a weightlifter’s build and the standard wraparound Oakley sunglasses. It was Dmitry Popov. He was standing with his arms folded, and Shepherd nodded, acknowledging his presence. His ears were slightly pointed, giving him the look of an oversized elf.
Popov turned away from the window and a few seconds later stepped through the doorway. Serov held out the Glock. ‘Pistolet,’ he said.
Popov took it from Serov and looked at the gun as if it had just appeared from a cow’s backside. ‘Plastic,’ he said. ‘I never liked plastic guns.’ He jutted his chin at Shepherd, emphasising the ugly scar on his left cheek. It looked as if someone had taken a broken bottle and ground it into the flesh. ‘Guns are not allowed on the premises.’ Like the rest of the bodyguards he had a Bluetooth earpiece in his left ear.
‘I’m an SFO, a specialist firearms officer, and I’m authorised to carry my weapon anywhere in the British Isles,’ said Shepherd.
‘This is private property,’ said Popov. He took Shepherd’s wallet and flicked through it. He paid particular attention to the warrant card.
‘How about you and I have a quiet word,’ said Shepherd, gesturing at the guardhouse.
Popov nodded, turned his back on Shepherd and walked inside. Shepherd followed him. The door opened into a small room with two plastic chairs facing the window. There was a line of grey metal lockers on one wall and a whiteboard on which were written various car registration numbers, times and dates.
Another door led into a windowless office in which there was a desk with a computer terminal and behind it another whiteboard. Under the whiteboard was a line of charging transceivers. Popov walked behind the desk, placed the Glock and the wallet next to the terminal and sat down. He waved Shepherd to a chair on the other side of the desk. Shepherd sat down and crossed his legs. He said nothing as Popov picked up the wallet, opened it and scrutinised the warrant card again before going through the rest of the cards. He tossed the wallet towards Shepherd and it thudded on to the desk, but Shepherd ignored it. Popov picked up the Glock, ejected the clip and checked there wasn’t a round in the breech. ‘You like the Glock?’ he said.
‘It does the job,’ said Shepherd.
Popov reinserted the clip and leaned over to put the gun next to the wallet.
Still Shepherd said nothing. Popov leaned back and put his hands behind his bull neck. He stared at Shepherd with pale blue eyes. ‘You said you wanted a word,’ he said eventually.
‘Are you done?’ said Shepherd.
‘Done?’ repeated Popov.
‘Done. Finished. Have you finished showing me how on top of things you are? Because I’m assuming that’s what that little charade out there was all about.’
Popov put down his hands and leaned forward, putting his elbows on the desk. He opened his mouth to speak but Shepherd beat him to it.
‘First let me say that I understand what happened out there,’ said Shepherd. ‘You wanted to demonstrate that security here is good, and I got that message loud and clear. There’s a few things we need to put right but I can see that you’re on top of things.’
Popov inclined his head slightly to acknowledge the compliment but his face remained impassive.
‘And I understand your need to let everyone see that you’re the top dog here. Having me brought in like this, it suggests that you’ve somehow failed, so by giving me a hard time, you show everyone that you’re still in control. I understand that, which is why I’ll let today pass.’ Shepherd smiled thinly. ‘But make no mistake, Dmitry, if you ever disrespect me like that again, I’ll destroy you.’
Popov’s eyes hardened but still his face remained neutral.
‘I’m sure you’ve got the right working visa but I can have the immigration authorities all over you. I gather you’re in the UK more than ninety days a year so I’ll have you audited by the Inland Revenue – they’ll squeeze you so hard that your eyes will pop. I’ll make a call to a contact of mine who works for Homeland Security in the States and I’ll have you put on the no-fly list which means your flying days will be pretty much over. And that’s before I get through telling your boss what a liability you are.’ He smiled easily. ‘But I’m sure it’s not going to come that. We both need the same thing, Dmitry. We want to make sure that nothing happens to your boss. So no more pissing around, OK? We work together, we help each other, we make each other look good.’
Popov nodded slowly. ‘I understand.’
Shepherd smiled. ‘Just so we’re clear, I’m running the show while I’m here. It has to be that way, I don’t have time to run everything by you or to waste time massaging your ego. I’ll be respectful and I’ll include you as much as I can, and wherever possible I’ll make suggestions rather than issue orders, but at the end of the day I’m in charge. If something does happen and I tell you to jump, I need you to jump. On the plus side, if this does turn to shit it
’ll be down to me and everyone will know that.’ He leaned over, picked up the Glock, and slid it into his holster, still smiling.
Popov stared at him for several seconds and then forced a smile. ‘Agreed,’ he said. ‘And I apologise for the overenthusiasm of my team.’ He held out his hand and Shepherd reached over and shook it. Popov squeezed hard as they shook, but not hard enough to hurt.
Spider Shepherd 10 - True Colours Page 10