Spider Shepherd 10 - True Colours

by Leather, Stephen

  Piruz paid his respects to Fahad and he presented the AK-74 he had taken from Khan to Fahad’s son. The boy darted a nervous glance at his father and then, at his nod, gave a grave bow of thanks. He began turning the weapon over in his hands, squinting along the sight towards Khan and pretending to pull the trigger. His father gave an indulgent smile and Piruz roared with laughter.

  The Taliban fighters then went from house to house, rousting out the villagers and forcing them to assemble in the square. As they watched silently, Khan was methodically kicked and beaten before he was dragged in front of Fahad.

  Piruz puffed out his chest, revelling in the moment, his voice carrying to the farthest reaches of the village. ‘I accuse Ahmad Khan,’ he said, stabbing the air with his finger as if plunging a dagger into Khan’s heart, ‘of the grossest treachery, the betrayal of the faith, his country, and the nation’s protectors, the Taliban, charged by Mullah Omar himself with the sacred duty of guarding the Islamic Emirate from its enemies. I demand death for the traitor, who is not even man enough to confess his crimes.’ He spat in the dirt at Khan’s feet.

  A few of the villagers applauded or shouted ‘Allahu akbar’ but most remained silent.

  ‘Ahmad Khan, you have one final chance to confess your crimes, before Allah, whose name be praised, sits in judgement upon you,’ Fahad shouted. He signalled to the guards flanking Khan to untie his hands.

  As he rubbed some life back into his wrists and hands, Khan let his gaze travel over the faces of his persecutors. They all stared back at him with undisguised hostility, except for Ghulam, who was looking at the ground. At last he began to speak and, despite his exhaustion and the pain from his wounds, his voice was steady and clear. ‘Who among you has done more for our country than I? I have fought the Russians, the Americans, the British, the Afghan army and the Pakistani army. I have risked my life scores of times and I bear the scars on my body to prove it. Yet this is how you treat me in return?’ He pointed an accusing finger at Fahad’s son. ‘You take the weapons from heroes and you give them to children. And now you even accuse me of treachery? Give me a weapon and I’ll show you the real traitor.’

  ‘Liar!’ Piruz shouted, and raised his weapon ready to shoot him, but Fahad placed a restraining hand on his arm. He stared at Khan in silence, his eyes hooded, then reached into his robe and pulled out an old Makarov pistol that had been taken from a dead Soviet soldier many years before. It was so old that parts of the gunmetal had been worn to a shiny, silver patina. Fahad emptied the magazine into his hand, then put a single round back in the chamber, pocketing the rest of the ammunition.

  He threw the pistol to Khan, while several Taliban covered him with their weapons. ‘Because you fought well for us in the past,’ Fahad said, ‘I am giving you this last chance to preserve your honour. Kill yourself now like a man, or we will kill you like the dog you are.’

  Khan stared down at the weapon in his hand, then suddenly whipped it up to the firing position and shot Wais with a bullet between the eyes. As Wais slumped to the ground, already dead, Khan screamed, ‘He’s the traitor. Search him, if you don’t believe me.’

  The Taliban fighters were screaming at Khan, their fingers tightening on their triggers, but Fahad held up a hand to silence them. ‘Hold your fire and search the body,’ he shouted.

  Ghulam stooped over Wais’s lifeless body, running his hands through his robes. ‘There is something!’ he shouted. He straightened up, holding a bulging money belt he had taken from the dead man’s waist. He opened it, stared inside then took out a thick bundle of notes and threw them on the ground. There was a gasp from the watching crowd as the breeze stirred the thousands of US dollars that lay there.

  ‘Wais has been in the pay of the British for many months,’ shouted Khan. ‘He has been giving them information about our bases and our leaders. They know him as Abu Qartoob.’

  Ghulam passed the money belt to Fahad, who flicked through the notes, his face impassive.

  ‘I heard that Wais had been seen talking to a British officer, but I needed you to see that for yourself,’ said Khan, pointing at the money belt. ‘I was never a traitor. It is Wais who has been betraying you!’

  ‘We have misjudged you, brother,’ Fahad said, walking over to him and embracing him. He motioned for his son to give the AK-74 to Khan and the boy sullenly obeyed, clearly unhappy at having to return the weapon.

  Khan slung it on his shoulder and then walked over to where Wais still lay and spat on him. He watched the spittle dribble down the side of the dead man’s face and drip from the stump of his earlobe – the rest shot away in some long-forgotten gun battle that had earned Wais the Arabic nickname he had chosen as his code name. Khan offered up a silent prayer of thanks for Joshua’s mention of Abu Qartoob. He knew that Wais had tried to protect him and had even intervened to save his life up on the mountainside when Piruz was a heartbeat from killing him, but when it came down to a choice of his own life or Wais’s, there was only ever going to be one outcome. His fellow agent’s reward for saving Khan’s life had been to die in his place.

  ‘What now, Ahmad Khan?’ Ghulam asked him later.

  ‘Now?’ Khan said, loud enough for the other Taliban to hear. ‘I shall go home to my daughter, sleep – for it has been two days and nights since I last closed my eyes – and give my wounds time to heal, and then I shall return to again put myself at the service of Mullah Omar and his lieutenant, Fahad the Lynx.’ He made a small bow as he said it, which Fahad acknowledged, but his expression showed that while Khan might have been partly rehabilitated, he was still far from trusted.

  As he made his slow way back to his home he reflected on how lucky he had been and knew that time was running out for him. Piruz and Fahad had not been convinced. They would watch and wait, and another slip, however small, would be his downfall. He had to get out. Any lingering doubts that might have remained were removed as soon as he saw his daughter. The dark shadows under her eyes and the way she started as a log shifted in the hearth showed that she still lived in fear.

  ‘We may go on a journey soon, Lailuna,’ he said. ‘Somewhere far from the men who frightened you. Would you like that?’

  She flinched as if she had been struck, but she nodded and then hugged him with such force that he winced at the pain from his wounds. ‘Yes, Father, I would like that,’ she whispered into his chest. ‘I would like that a lot.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said McIntyre as the gate pulled back to reveal the massive mansion. ‘How the other half lives, huh?’

  Shepherd waved at Gunter and drove towards the garage. ‘That’s less than half of it,’ he said. ‘It’s like an iceberg, most of it is underground.’

  ‘How much do you think a place like this would go for?’

  ‘A hundred million, give or take,’ said Shepherd.

  McIntyre whistled softly.

  ‘So, I’ll introduce you to Dmitry and get you sorted with a transceiver and fitted up for the thumb sensor. How’s your Russian, by the way?’ The garage doors rolled up and Shepherd drove slowly down to the first basement level.

  ‘All those hours in the Regiment’s language lab paid off,’ said McIntyre. ‘But my Serbian’s better. Why?’

  ‘Don’t let on that you can speak the language. See if you can pick up anything useful.’

  They drove down into the car park and Shepherd took McIntyre over to the security centre.

  Dudko was sitting in front of the CCTV monitors and Popov was in the briefing room with Ulyashin. Ulyashin’s crutches were leaning against one wall.

  Shepherd introduced McIntyre as Alastair McEwan, a former soldier who had been bodyguarding for more than ten years. The three Russians shook hands with McIntyre and Shepherd could see them all weighing him up. McIntyre grinned amiably as he shook hands.

  ‘Can someone fix Alastair up with one of the rooms?’ said Shepherd. ‘And get him fixed up with a security code and a transceiver?’

  ‘He’s staying here?’ asked Popov.
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  ‘Most of the time,’ said Shepherd. ‘You can use him in the house but he’s up to speed on mobile security.’

  ‘But not armed?’

  ‘Not sure we’d trust him with live rounds,’ said Shepherd. He grinned when he saw the look of confusion on their faces. ‘Just a joke,’ he said. ‘Alastair isn’t a police officer so he’s not licensed to carry a weapon.’ Shepherd’s phone rang. It was Button. He went outside to the car parking area to take the call.

  ‘I’m having problems getting information on the bodyguarding teams who were looking after Zakharov and Czernik,’ she said. ‘We’ve spoken to the men’s companies but they’re point blank refusing to help. Their head offices are overseas so there’s not much pressure I can bring to bear.’

  ‘You want me to run it by Grechko?’

  ‘You read my mind,’ said Button. ‘But be tactful, obviously.’

  ‘Tactful is my middle name, you know that.’

  ‘I thought Spider was your middle name.’ She laughed, and ended the call. Shepherd put the phone away and went back into the control centre.

  ‘Where is Mr Grechko?’ he asked Dudko.

  ‘Pool,’ said the bodyguard, flicking through a magazine filled with photographs of classic cars. ‘What do you think about the E-Type Jaguar? A good car, right?’

  ‘A penis on wheels,’ said Shepherd.

  Dudko frowned. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s a substitute for a small penis,’ said Shepherd. ‘I wouldn’t get one, if I were you.’

  ‘But it’s a classic, no?’

  ‘It’s a classic, but trust me, anyone seeing you in one will think you’ve got something to hide.’

  Dudko frowned. ‘You think I have a small penis?’

  Considering that Dudko’s physique clearly owed more to steroids than it did to exercise, Shepherd figured that the man probably did have problems in that area but he just smiled and shook his head. ‘Girls might, though.’

  ‘You drive a BMW, right?’

  ‘An X5. SUV. Can’t fault it.’

  Dudko grinned mischievously. ‘What does that say about your penis?’

  ‘That I look after it,’ said Shepherd, patting him on the shoulder. He took the stairs down to the third underground level.

  Grigory Sokolov was standing by the doors. Despite the fact they were indoors and underground he was still wearing his Oakley sunglasses. ‘Grigory, I need a private word with Mr Grechko,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘He doesn’t like being disturbed while he’s swimming.’

  ‘I know that, but this is important.’ Shepherd pressed his thumb against the scanner and tapped in his code before pushing the doors open. Sokolov started to follow Shepherd but Shepherd put a hand on his chest. ‘A private word,’ he said.

  ‘Dmitry says I’m not to allow strangers alone with Mr Grechko.’

  ‘I’m not a stranger,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘You are to me,’ said Sokolov, folding his arms.

  ‘Call Dmitry, he’ll tell you it’s OK,’ said Shepherd.

  Sokolov put his hand up to his Bluetooth earpiece as Shepherd went into the pool room. It had been built in the style of a Roman bath with stone columns and carved figures of naked Roman gods. At one end was a huge stone lion with a plume of water cascading from between its open jaws. Grechko was in the water, swimming lengths with a lot of splashing and grunting. Shepherd realised that the Russian wasn’t wearing trunks; there was a white stripe of untanned skin across his backside.

  Grechko was an uncoordinated swimmer, his legs and arms thrashing in the water with an irregular beat, but he was a powerful man and moved at quite a speed. His turns at either end were ungainly and involved him slapping the poolside with his hand before twisting around with a loud grunt and powering himself forward by pushing with his feet. He would keep his face down in the water until he lost momentum and then he would began thrashing and splashing again.

  The Russian swam a further ten lengths before climbing out of the pool at the far end. He picked up a towel, slung it over his shoulder, and walked towards Shepherd with a wide grin on his face. ‘You swim naked, Tony?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m not much of a swimmer,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m more of a runner.’

  ‘Then you should run naked. All exercise should be done without clothes, the way God intended.’ He began towelling himself dry.

  ‘There’s something I need to ask you,’ said Shepherd. ‘Miss Button is trying to identify the bodyguards who were working for Zakharov and Czernik before they were killed.’

  Grechko stopped towelling himself. ‘She suspects their bodyguards?’

  ‘It’s too early to say,’ said Shepherd. ‘She’s been in touch with the people at both men’s companies but they’re not being helpful.’

  ‘And you want me to ask them?’

  ‘I think you’ll probably have more luck than she’s having. Could you approach them and ask them to cooperate with her?’

  Grechko nodded. ‘No problem. But why?’

  ‘We’re starting to think that the assassinations might have been an inside job,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘One of their bodyguards killed them?’ Grechko wrapped the towel around his waist and stood with his hands on his hips.

  ‘It’s possible.’

  Grechko jutted his chin up and looked down his nose at Shepherd. ‘This is not good,’ he said.

  ‘It’s just a theory.’

  ‘And we could have an inside man on our team? He could be in the house right now?’

  ‘It’s unlikely,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ve been through the CV of every man on your team, especially the new arrivals. And everyone checks out.’

  ‘People lie on their CVs.’

  ‘That’s true. I’m in the process of checking all references, and calling them myself. If I spot any discrepancies, I’ll act immediately.’

  The Russian rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘You know what a Judas goat is?’

  ‘I know,’ said Shepherd. ‘The bait in a trap. But that’s not what’s going on here, Mr Grechko.’

  Grechko stared at Shepherd for several seconds, then he nodded slowly. ‘I trust you, Tony. I’m not sure why I do, but I trust you.’

  ‘I won’t let you down, Mr Grechko.’

  Shepherd spent most of the day in the control centre, reading through the files on the various members of the bodyguarding team. He made more than two dozen calls around the world, checking on references, and found nothing untoward. He decided to go for a run on the Heath and spent an hour and a half running and doing press-ups and sit-ups before running back to the house to shower and change. He was heading to the kitchen to pick up some sandwiches when his mobile rang. It was Button. ‘Bad news, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘I’ve checked all the bodyguards for both men and there’s no common dominator,’ she said.

  ‘No offence but you did check photographs and not just names?’ said Shepherd.

  ‘No offence taken, Spider, and yes, I had the HR departments send over photographs. There are no matches. I’ll email you all the pictures now so you can check them against your team there. But if there’s no match between Zakharov and Czernik it’s doubtful that there’ll be a match with the men there.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Shepherd, running a hand through his hair as he paced up and down the corridor. ‘So we’re no farther forward?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘But that doesn’t make any sense. If the sniper wasn’t shooting bodyguards to insert himself into the close protection teams, what was he doing it for?’

  ‘That’s a good question,’ she said. ‘I wish I had an answer.’

  ‘It can’t be a coincidence,’ said Shepherd. He stopped pacing. ‘What if it’s not about inserting himself into the team, but getting an intel source in place?’

  ‘Someone to feed him information?’

  Shepherd’s heart was starting to pound. ‘That’s it. He’s got someone on the inside feeding him information on the target. He puts a body
guard out of commission and when the target boosts his security the killer gets his own man on board. But it’s a different man each time.’

  ‘That makes sense,’ said Button. ‘So we’re looking for a connection between the new arrivals, some common denominator.’

  ‘The common denominator is the killer, because he’s paying them, presumably,’ said Shepherd. ‘But he can’t be pulling their names out of a hat. They must be people that he trusts, which means he’s known them for a long time, worked with them perhaps.’

  ‘And the killer is a sniper, which suggests military training. The bodyguards are pretty much all Russian, or at least former Soviet Union, so that suggests that the killer is too.’

  ‘So what you need to do is to compare the work histories of the new arrivals on all three teams and find a common point.’

  ‘I’m on it,’ she said, and ended the call.

  Sheena the chef had prepared a selection of sandwiches and cakes and Shepherd took them back to the control centre.

  McIntyre was there on his own when Shepherd opened the door and his eyes sparkled when he saw the food. ‘I could get used to this,’ he said. He took a bite out of one of the sandwiches, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve. ‘I might have something useful for you,’ he said.

  ‘I’m all ears.’

  ‘Last night the guys were talking about another Russian oligarch who was killed a while back. Name of Buryakov. Know him?’

  Shepherd shook his head.

  ‘According to the guys, he had a heart attack or something. But two months before he died, someone tried to shoot him. A sniper.’

  ‘Where was this?’

  ‘Somewhere in Germany, I forget where.’ He grinned. ‘I don’t have your photographic memory, remember?’

  ‘So a sniper took a shot and missed?’

  ‘Yeah, just like with Grechko. And just as in Grechko’s case, a bodyguard took a bullet. In the arm.’

  Shepherd nodded thoughtfully. ‘That’s interesting.’