Spider Shepherd 10 - True Colours

by Leather, Stephen

  ‘Dmitry, mate, if our roles had been reversed I would have done exactly the same to you,’ said Shepherd. ‘Except I’d have had them gloved up and giving you an internal examination.’ He stood up and pocketed his wallet. ‘Right, why don’t you give me the tour?’

  Peter Grechko’s mansion was the biggest home that Shepherd had ever seen. He’d been in five-star hotels that were smaller and less luxurious and it took the best part of an hour for Popov to give him the lie of the land. Popov took Shepherd into the house through the garage. They had driven towards the garage doors in Shepherd’s X5 but as they rolled up it became clear that the garage was actually the entrance to the lower levels of the house. The ramp curved around and opened into an underground parking area large enough for a dozen cars. They climbed out and Popov took Shepherd over to a lift. The lift doors opened as they approached. There was a keypad to the right of the door and Popov tapped out a four-digit code and touched his thumb to a small sensor on the keypad before pressing the button for the second floor. Shepherd frowned at the buttons. ‘There are five floors?’ he said.

  ‘Three are underground,’ said Popov. ‘The control centre is on Basement One, where we are now, with the car parking area and storage rooms. Basement Two has the recreational areas, including the cinema, games room, billiards room and bowling alley. Basement Three has the pool and the boss’s gym, the wine cellar, more storage. Our gym is on Basement One. You’re welcome to use it.’

  ‘I’m not a great one for gyms,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘You keep fit, though,’ said Popov.

  ‘I run,’ said Shepherd. He gestured at the scanner. ‘So you know who is where at any point, right?’

  ‘We know which doors have been accessed and by who. And the transceivers we carry have GPS so have real-time locations for all the security staff. I’ll fix you up with a transceiver and get you a security code once we’ve done the tour.’

  They arrived at the top floor and Popov walked Shepherd though the two wings, either side of a large hallway from which a huge marble staircase swept down to the ground floor. There were ten bedrooms in each wing, each exquisitely furnished and each with a massive en suite bathroom. The bedrooms all had double-height ceilings but they were individually designed in a range of styles and colours, any one of which could have been featured in a glossy magazine. None of them appeared to have been slept in.

  ‘Where does Mr Grechko sleep?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘Since the shooting he has slept in a room on Basement Two,’ said Popov. ‘He says he feels safer there.’

  ‘Understandable,’ said Shepherd. He was looking out of the window of a room decorated in Japanese style with a low bed and rosewood furniture. There was a collection of Japanese pottery that looked as if it had just come from a museum and several Japanese swords in display cases. ‘But the house isn’t overlooked.’ He tapped the window. ‘And this is bulletproof glass, right?’

  Popov nodded. ‘I explained that but he insisted on going below ground.’

  Shepherd turned to face him. ‘He’s scared?’

  ‘You’ve never met him, have you?’ Shepherd shook his head. ‘Mr Grechko doesn’t scare easily,’ said Popov. ‘But after the sniper he sent his wife to France.’ He grinned. ‘Shopping.’

  ‘Shopping?’

  ‘Mrs Grechko likes to shop.’

  ‘And he has two sons, right?’

  ‘Sixteen and fourteen. They are with their mother. The former Mrs Grechko. Mr Grechko owns a large estate on Cyprus and Mrs Grechko knows that she is to stay there with the boys until this is resolved.’

  ‘And what about security in Cyprus?’

  ‘Mrs Grechko has her own security, but they have all been with the family for many years. Totally trustworthy.’

  Shepherd nodded. ‘Before the attack, he had a lot of guests?’

  Popov shook his head. ‘Mr Grechko rarely entertained here,’ he said.

  ‘But all these rooms?’

  The bodyguard shrugged. ‘The new Mrs Grechko likes nice things,’ he said. He grinned. ‘I’ll show you her dressing rooms.’

  ‘Rooms?’

  Popov’s grin widened. ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘Rooms.’ He led Shepherd down a corridor lined with a thick green carpet, with small chandeliers hanging every ten feet or so. At the end of the corridor were two gilt doors. Popov threw them open. ‘The shoe room,’ he said. He wasn’t joking. The room was filled with rack upon rack of shoes, most of which hadn’t been worn. Popov pressed a button and the racks began to move to the side. More shoes appeared. And more.

  Shepherd began to laugh and Popov laughed with him. ‘Are you serious?’ said Shepherd.

  ‘If she sees a style she likes, she buys them in every colour,’ said Popov. ‘At the last count she had close to one thousand pairs.’ He pressed the button and the racks stopped moving. At the end of the room were two more double gilt doors and Popov pushed them open. ‘The handbag room,’ he said. The room was smaller than the previous one and lined with display cases containing handbags of every conceivable design and colour. Shepherd recognised many of the brands – Gucci, Chanel, Prada, Louis Vuitton.

  ‘Are you married, Tony?’

  ‘I was. She died.’ Even though the Tony Ryan legend was a work of fantasy, legends always worked best when they bore some resemblance to reality.

  ‘Sorry about that. I was going to say wives go crazy over this room. Mrs Grechko, when she goes into a handbag shop, if she sees something she likes she orders dozens and gives them to all her friends.’ He pointed to a bright green Prada bag. ‘She gave me one of those for my wife last Christmas.’

  ‘That’s generous,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘It means nothing to her,’ said Popov. ‘She doesn’t even ask the price when she buys something. In most of the shops she doesn’t even have to hand over a credit card. She points out what she wants and they deliver and the bill goes to Mr Grechko.’

  The next room was the evening wear room with rows and rows of gowns and dresses. There was a huge gilt mirror on a stand in the middle of the room and two winged leather armchairs. Popov pointed at one of the chairs. ‘Sometimes Mr Grechko sits here while she tries on dresses. If I’m lucky I get to watch, too. Have you seen Mrs Grechko?’

  ‘I’ve seen photographs.’

  ‘She is beautiful. Seriously beautiful. Eight years ago she was Miss Ukraine but if anything she is even more beautiful now.’

  ‘Mr Grechko is a lucky man.’

  ‘Mr Grechko is a very rich man,’ said Popov. ‘I don’t think luck has much to do with it.’ He took Shepherd through to the next room. It was the casual wear room and there were countless shirts, jeans and dresses on hangers and on shelves. There was another large free-standing gilt mirror and two leather armchairs. The room was the size of a regular high street clothing store; all that was missing was a cash register.

  The next room was what Popov called the underwear room, and it was filled with underwear, lingerie and swimwear, and was a riot of colour. Shepherd realised the clothing rooms pretty much occupied the whole top floor of a wing that was running parallel to the main house. There were no windows but if there had been they would have been overlooking the tennis courts. The next room also didn’t have windows. It was a complete beauty and hairdressing salon with a mirrored wall that made it look twice its size. ‘Mrs Grechko has her two hairdressers and a make-up girl,’ said Popov. ‘They’re with her in France.’

  ‘When they are here, where do Mr and Mrs Grechko sleep?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘The master bedroom suite,’ said Popov. ‘It’s in the opposite wing, along with the children’s bedrooms and the bedrooms of the children’s nannies. I can’t show you those quarters without Mr Grechko’s permission.’

  ‘Nannies? They’re a bit old for nannies, aren’t they?’

  ‘The boys are accustomed to servants,’ said Popov. ‘They are in Cyprus with them now. Four women, all from Russia.’

  ‘And where is Mr Grechko a
t the moment?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘In his gym,’ said Popov. ‘I’ll show you the ground floor and then we’ll do the basement floors.’

  The rooms on the ground floor were even bigger and more opulent than the bedrooms. There were two enormous sitting rooms, one with a Victorian cast-iron fireplace that was taller than Shepherd, and another in a minimalist style dominated by a circular fireplace under a stainless-steel hood. There was a library lined with leather-bound books, two dining rooms each with tables large enough to accommodate two dozen diners, a room with two grand pianos in it, and two fully equipped kitchens. In one of the kitchens a pretty brunette in chef’s whites was preparing Beef Wellingtons. Popov introduced her as Sheena Edmonds, one of Grechko’s three personal chefs. She grinned at Shepherd. ‘Let me know if you need feeding at any point,’ she said. ‘Mr Grechko’s here on his own at the moment so I’m not exactly rushed off my feet.’

  ‘Sheena’s club sandwiches are the best I’ve ever eaten,’ said Popov. He patted his waistline. ‘And I have to force myself not to eat too many of her cheeseburgers.’

  Popov showed Shepherd a pantry the size of a small supermarket, and a cold storage and freezer filled with enough meat to feed an army.

  Just outside the kitchen was another lift, and Popov used it to take them down to the first basement level. Shepherd watched as Popov tapped in the four-digit code and touched his thumb against the sensor. The Russian saw him and gestured at the keypad. ‘Every member of staff has their own code,’ he said. ‘The code has to match the thumbprint. That way we know exactly who goes where.’ He nodded up at the roof of the lift, where a small shiny black dome showed their reflections. ‘Plus we have CCTV in all the lifts and hallways.’

  ‘But not in the rooms?’

  ‘Mr and Mrs Grechko like their privacy,’ said Popov. ‘But we do have CCTV in the boys’ quarters, and in the kitchens. And all around the exterior of the house.’

  The lift doors opened and Popov took Shepherd through into the main car parking area. ‘This is where we park our cars,’ said Popov. There were two black Range Rovers and two Mercedes SUVs, and half a dozen saloons. He nodded at a steel shutter. ‘This is where Mr Grechko keeps his vehicles.’ He pressed a red button and the shutter slowly rattled up to reveal several dozen immaculate cars, most of them classics. There were three bright red Ferraris, a yellow Lamborghini, a Maserati, two Bentleys, and a number of vintage cars with huge grilles and sweeping mudguards. ‘Mr Grechko likes cars almost as much as Mrs Grechko likes shoes and handbags,’ said Popov with a sly smile.

  ‘Does he go out in them?’

  Popov nodded. ‘Every now and again. Sometimes takes a run out to a pub with Mrs Grechko. When he does go out there’s always one of our vehicles with him.’

  ‘And what about maintaining the cars?’

  ‘You’re thinking bombs?’ said Popov.

  ‘Considering all the options,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘There are two mechanics but they’ve both been with Mr Grechko for five years. A father and son.’ He pointed at a small cubicle next to a ramp and a workshop. ‘They’re usually in there drinking tea.’

  ‘If Mr Grechko does decide to go out, no matter in which vehicle, I need advance notice,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘No problem,’ said Popov. ‘We have a full briefing every day at seven hundred hours. I detail any travel arrangements, visitors, deliveries and so on then.’ He pressed the button to close the shutters and they rattled back into place.

  Popov took Shepherd down a corridor and showed him a door marked ‘security centre’. Popov gestured at the sign. ‘This is where we coordinate security,’ he said. ‘I’ll bring you back at the end, it’ll make more sense that way.’ On the opposite side of the corridor were six identical doors, numbered one to six. ‘Our people have the option of living in or getting a place outside,’ said Popov. ‘I’m here most of the time but the guys work twelve-hour shifts, six days a week, according to the contract but with the option of doing a seventh as overtime.’ He opened the door to number six. It was a cube about ten feet by ten feet with a single bed, a built-in wardrobe and desk, a small television and Blu-Ray player. ‘These are just crash-rooms,’ said Popov. ‘There are showers down the corridor. You’re welcome to any free room whenever you want, first come, first served.’

  ‘Do all the guys live in?’ asked Shepherd.

  Popov closed the door. ‘Some do, some don’t. It’s up to them. There are more permanent rooms on the level below this, more like small apartments with their own bathrooms. Why, do you need a place?’

  Shepherd shook his head. ‘I’ve got a flat not far away,’ he said.

  ‘There are seven of the guys living in, plus me,’ said Popov. ‘It’s the cheaper option but some of the guys like their own space.’

  ‘I guess they’re not allowed to bring girls back,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘No one is allowed in unless …’ began Popov, but then he realised Shepherd was joking. He wagged his finger at him. ‘English humour,’ he said. He took him back down the corridor and along to another area of the car park where there was a room marked drivers. Popov opened it. There were two cheap plastic sofas and a small table around which three middle-aged men in grey suits were playing cards. They had the guilty look of schoolboys caught doing something they shouldn’t have been. Shepherd realised there was a handful of banknotes in the middle of the table and that the men were gambling.

  If Popov noticed the money, he didn’t mention it. ‘These are Mr Grechko’s regular drivers,’ he said. He introduced them from left to right. ‘Roman Khorkov, Yulian Chayka, and Nikolay Eristov.’ The three men hadn’t been in the file that Shepherd had seen and he made a mental note to check up on them when he got the chance. ‘There are two more drivers but they are with Mrs Grechko.’

  Chayka said something in Russian to Popov and the other two drivers laughed. Popov replied, also in Russian, and the three drivers nodded. ‘He was asking if you were the latest member of my team,’ explained Popov. ‘I told them that you’re here to advise on security.’

  Shepherd had the feeling that there was more to it than that but decided not to press it.

  At one side of the car park was a glass wall beyond which was a room full of exercise equipment, including treadmills, exercise bikes and weights. ‘You said you were a runner but if you want to work out, the gym is always open,’ said Popov.

  There were two men in the gym, both of them big with thick forearms emphasised by their sweat-stained vests and slightly bowed legs. One of them was lying on his back lifting a heavy barbell while the other stood over him, his hands out ready to grab the bar if his colleague began to struggle. The guy doing the spotting noticed Popov. It was Konstantin Serov, one of the bodyguards who had been at the front gate. He took the barbell from the man on the bench and slotted it on to the rack. The man on the bench sat up, his face bathed in sweat. Leo Tarasov. Serov was a former mixed martial arts champion; Tarasov had been in the Russian navy but had been court-martialled after punching a fellow sailor unconscious.

  Popov pushed open a glass door and introduced Shepherd to the two men. They both shook hands with Shepherd. Serov said something in Russian to Popov and Popov replied. Tarasov said something and all three men laughed. Shepherd looked over at Popov and Popov put up a hand. ‘They were asking if you worked out and I said you were a runner,’ said Popov.

  ‘And what was so funny?’

  ‘Leo said that running could come in handy. It was a joke.’

  Shepherd nodded at Tarasov. The man’s forearms were about twice the size of Shepherd’s and he had a neck so thick that Shepherd doubted he could get his hands around it if he tried. ‘You speak English, Leo?’

  The Russian nodded. ‘Sure.’

  ‘You look strong,’ said Shepherd. ‘What can you bench-press? Three hundred and fifty?’

  ‘Three eighty kilos,’ said Tarasov, nodding.

  ‘That’s impressive,’ said Shepherd. ‘How are y
ou on pull-ups?’

  ‘Pull-ups?’ Tarasov frowned. ‘What are pull-ups?’

  Popov said something to Tarasov in Russian and pointed at a Nautilus Gravitron machine. It had been specifically designed for chin-ups, pull-ups and vertical dips, with numerous bars and handholds at various sites. ‘Sure,’ said Tarasov. ‘Pull-ups.’ He raised his right arm, bent it at the elbow and flexed his bicep. It was the size and shape of a rugby ball.

  ‘How many can you do? I bet you can do a lot.’

  Tarasov frowned. ‘Fifteen. Twenty.’

  Shepherd could tell from the uncertainty in the man’s voice that pull-ups didn’t form part of his regular exercise regime. He grinned. ‘I bet I can do more than you,’ he said. Shepherd knew that he was taking a risk, but it was clear from Tarasov’s build that he was better suited to lifting heavy weights with his legs than he was to lifting his own body weight with his arms. It was all down to power–weight ratios and Shepherd was pretty sure that while he didn’t have the muscles of the big Russian, he did have the advantage when it came to stamina.

  ‘A bet?’ said Tarasov. ‘For money?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Shepherd. ‘That’ll make it interesting. For every pull-up I do more than you, you give me ten pounds. Or for every one you do more than me, I’ll give you ten pounds.’

  Tarasov frowned in confusion so Popov explained in Russian. Tarasov nodded enthusiastically. ‘Deal,’ he said.

  Shepherd waved at the machine. ‘Why don’t you go first?’

  Tarasov nodded and then began flexing his arms and wiggling his fingers. He walked up and down, his face impassive.

  ‘Leo is strong,’ said Popov.

  ‘I can see that,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘How many can you do?’

  Shepherd shrugged. ‘I’m not sure, it’s been a while.’

  Tarasov bounced up and down on the balls of his feet and then got into position. He grunted, then jumped up and grabbed the bar above his head. He grunted again and began to lift his chin towards the bar.