True Colours

AFGHANISTAN, 2002

Little Lailuna loved to sing, but singing was forbidden by the Taliban. Afghanis had kept caged birds from time immemorial but they were now banned, for the beauty of their song and of their plumage was considered too distracting for those whose lives should be devoted to the serious study of the Quran. The flying of kites, which had always drawn watching crowds as they swooped and soared against the backdrop of the azure sky and the snow-capped peaks of the Hindu Kush, was also outlawed, as were films, magazines containing pictures, and music, singing and dancing.

Little Lailuna didn’t know that as she sang for her classmates. She was only five years old, and she loved to sing. She didn’t know that Taliban patrols attacked and beat women and even girls as young as nine years old for not wearing the chadri – the Afghan burqa. Nor did she know that high-heeled shoes were also forbidden as ‘no man should hear a woman’s footsteps lest it excite him’. Or that women were forbidden to speak loudly ‘lest a strange man should hear their voice’, and they were banned from leaving their houses unless accompanied by a male blood relative.

She was so lost in her song that Lailuna didn’t hear the Taliban militants pull up outside the school building in a Toyota Landcruiser. Lailuna was singing to her classmates, her back to the dusty street. She saw their smiles fade and she faltered and stopped as she saw them back away from her. She turned around and her eyes widened as she saw the four tall, bearded men in the black robes and turbans of the Taliban glowering at her. They were carrying canes. She shot a glance at her teacher, who was now ghost white and visibly trembling. Still Lailuna did not understand. ‘Shall I finish my song?’ she asked, hesitantly.

One of the Taliban swung back his bamboo cane and began lashing out at her, striking her on the legs and back. She fell to the floor crying, but still the cane whistled down, again and again. She curled up into a ball, still sobbing, and through her tears saw her teacher kicked, punched, dragged away and thrown into the back of the Toyota.

The men returned to herd Lailuna and her classmates out of the building with more kicks and blows. Then they took a can of petrol, splashed it around the classroom and set fire to it, and as the building burned, they told Lailuna and the other girls to go home and never return, that the school was finished. Then the Taliban jumped into the Toyota and drove off with Lailuna’s teacher in the back. The teacher was never seen again. Lailuna ran home and hid in the dark corner beneath the stairs. She was still there when her father, Ahmad Khan, returned several hours later, and it was some time before he was able to persuade her to tell him what had happened. He sat with her throughout the night as she tossed and turned in the grip of nightmares.

Ahmad Khan had been born the son of a poor farmer from Nangahar province in the far east of Afghanistan. The remote and lawless lands straddling the border were ruled by warlords and tribal headmen, and neither the Afghani nor the Pakistani governments had more than minimal control or influence over them. Khan’s father grew opium poppies in the arid, stony soil, the only cash crop that would produce enough income to feed his family. Khan’s father was a devout Muslim, a haji who had scraped and saved for over twenty years to raise the money for his pilgrimage to Mecca, one of the five pillars of his faith that was required of all Muslims at some point in their lives.

Khan had suffered an eye infection as a child which went untreated because there was no doctor in the village and richer men than his father could not afford the cost of the doctor in Jalalabad, fifty miles away. For a while it looked as if he would lose his sight, but in time he recovered, though his left eye, while still functioning, was left with a strange milky-white pupil instead of its previous hazel colour. When they saw him, some of their more superstitious neighbours muttered about ‘the evil eye’, and ushered their children away from him. From then on Khan was something of an outsider even in his own community, feared more than liked.

His two younger brothers worked the fields but Khan’s father had always had greater ambitions for his eldest son. His dream was that Khan would one day become a mullah or imam – a leader of the faith – or a hafiz – devoting himself to memorising the entire Quran. With that in mind, his father had enrolled him in a madrassa across the border in Peshawar. But Khan was more interested fighting than studying, and when he turned nineteen he recrossed the border to join the mujahedin fighting the Russians in the dying days of the war against the Soviets. Most Afghan men were good shots, but Khan was exceptional, a lethal sniper at long range and equally deadly with an AK-47 or an RPG.

Eventually the Soviets withdrew after their final humiliation at the hands of the mujahedin and Khan returned to the family farm and reconciled with his father. He shared the work in the poppy fields and married the wife his father had chosen for him, the young, doe-eyed daughter of a cousin, named Bahara – ‘the bringer of spring’. For a while, Khan remained aloof from the fighting that again engulfed the country as the rival mujahedin factions plunged Afghanistan into civil war.

Time after time, rival warlords either stole his opium crop or demanded tribute for leaving it unmolested. So when Mullah Omar, ‘The Commander of the Faithful’, pledged that his new movement would eliminate corruption and the rule of the warlords, and bring peace and order to Afghanistan, Khan was one of the first to enlist in the cause – known as the Taliban.

He rose rapidly through the ranks and was a commander by the time that the Taliban liberated Kandahar province, and was one of those who hanged the principal warlord from the barrel of one of his own tanks. Herat followed next and within two years Kabul had also fallen to the Taliban, with Mullah Omar taking power and renaming the country ‘the Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan’.

Khan returned home to his wife, but although several years had passed since their marriage, still they had not been blessed with a child. He had almost despaired, believing that Bahara must be barren, but at last she told him she was pregnant, and in time she gave birth to a daughter. Born during the full moon, she was christened Lailuna – bright moonlight. Three years later came a double tragedy. Pregnant again, Bahara died in childbirth and her baby, the son they had both dreamed of, died with her.

That was why Lailuna was everything to him now, all that he had. She was the sun, the moon, the stars in the winter sky, the blossom on the mulberry trees in spring, and when she sang, her voice was as sweet to him as the song of the mountain nightingale, whose beautiful call was always the first, long-awaited harbinger of summer.

Khan’s father grumbled that raising children was women’s work and urged him to marry again, but Khan refused. When he was away, he left Lailuna in the care of his sister, but whenever he was at home, his daughter was at his side. Few Afghan girls were educated, least of all in the frontier territories, but Khan defied his father’s opposition to the idea and sent her to a small school in the nearest town. Funded by foreign charities, it was run by an Afghan emigrée who had returned to her native land after living abroad for twenty years. There Lailuna blossomed. If Khan’s Taliban comrades disapproved of his actions in seeking an education for his daughter, they kept their opinions to themselves, for he was a great warrior, feared and respected by all.

When the Americans invaded the country, Khan again took up arms, fighting shoulder to shoulder with the Taliban against Americans, Britons and the new Afghan army, using the same guerrilla warfare tactics with which the mujahedin had brought the Soviets to their knees.

But the freedoms that Mullah Omar had promised never materialised. A new breed of Taliban commander emerged, hard-eyed fanatics determined to impose their own interpretation of the Prophet’s teachings on the areas they controlled. Khan watched with mounting unease as the soldier-monks of the Taliban clamped down on almost all sources of recreation and pleasure.

Lailuna was never the same after she had been beaten by the Taliban. She would start at any sudden noise and tense at the sound of any approaching vehicle. Her ready smile no longer sprang to her lips, the songs that had gladdened both their hearts had now been silenced and she barely left the house at all. Khan longed for his daughter to change, trying to coax her out of the dark place to which she had retreated, but the old Lailuna now seemed beyond his reach.

Khan’s burning anger at the men who had done this to his daughter remained, hardening into a cold, implacable hatred. He knew now that as long as she remained in Afghanistan there would be reminders of what had happened. As the weeks passed, he decided that he had no choice other than to seek a new life in the West. That was the only way that he and his beloved daughter had any sort of future together. So he cradled her on his lap and made his plans.

Jimmy Sharpe called back two days later. It was early morning and still dark and Shepherd had to grope around to find his vibrating phone. It took him a few seconds to remember that he was in his bedroom in Hereford. He squinted at the screen of the Nokia. It was five o’clock in the morning. ‘Bloody hell, Razor, you’re up early.’

‘Chance’d be a fine thing,’ growled the Scotsman. ‘I’ve just got in and I’m knackered.’

‘The Romanians?’

‘They’re like bloody vampires, they only come out at night. They’re going to be the death of me.’

‘Just don’t let them bite you in the neck.’

Sharpe chuckled. ‘Yeah, well, should be done and dusted in a few days. I met one of the godfathers last night and I’m back to see him later this week. I’ll be going in with a mic so with any luck we’ll be able to hang him out to dry.’ He began to cough and couldn’t speak for a few seconds.

‘Are you OK, Razor?’

‘They smoke like chimneys and it’s doing my lungs in,’ said Sharpe. ‘Isn’t there something about smoking being illegal in a place of work? I should sue the Met for putting my health at risk.’

‘You know what, the way things are you’d probably get a six-figure settlement. You should talk to your Fed rep.’

Sharpe laughed. ‘Yeah, I’ll put in a memo, see what happens. OK, so this Ahmad Khan. Turns out it’s a fairly common name, at least out in that part of the world. There’s a dozen or so on the PNC but none match the age range of the guy you’re looking at. Half of them were born here, two are in the nick and the others, like I said, just aren’t your guy.’

‘That’s a pity.’

‘Yeah, well, nothing in life is ever easy, is it? Now, I’ve got a pal in the Border Force and he ran the name for me and there have only been eight Ahmad Khans who have arrived in this country in the past three years. Now two of those match the approximate age of your guy, but they both left before their visas expired.’

‘That’s a bugger,’ said Shepherd.

‘Yeah, it means that if he is here he’s here as an illegal or he’s here under an assumed name. You know how it works, they get on a plane to the UK using whatever passport they can, then they destroy it en route and claim asylum when they land. He could have claimed to be an Iraqi or Iranian or a bloody Syrian. The checks are minimal once they’ve said the magic word “asylum”. And the only name and date of birth on file are the ones they give the immigration officer. My mate was telling me that every week they get grown men, clearly twenty-up, arriving at Heathrow without any paperwork claiming to be unaccompanied minors from Somalia. It’s as plain as the nose on their face that they’re not kids, but there’s nothing they can do. They know that so-called orphans get fast-tracked to a passport. Once they’ve got that they magically discover their families and they come over too. And my guy reckons that half the so-called Afghans who get asylum here are actually Pakistanis. Can you believe that? They throw away any ID they’ve got when they get here and we can’t even tell what country they’re from.’

‘Yeah, the system’s flawed,’ said Shepherd.

‘Flawed? It’s broken to bits, totally unfit for purpose, as the politicians love to say. The thing is, your Ahmad Khan could have got here without any paperwork at all and provided he’s played the system right he could be living here with his family under a totally different name with a British passport that’s as real as yours and mine.’

‘Thanks for checking, anyway, Razor.’

‘You know what you might think of trying,’ said Sharpe. ‘Facial recognition. He’s side-on pretty much in that picture but the facial recognition systems are getting more sophisticated every year. If he did go through the system he’ll have been photographed and fingerprinted. You should be able to run his picture through their database. My mate says he can’t do it, he’s just a foot soldier, but he says it can be done. Might be worth thinking about.’

‘Cheers, Razor.’

‘And your mate the Para. Alex Harper. Not much on him, either. Drugs aren’t aware of him but he’s in the frame for a few armed robberies, 2007 and 2008, but the only case against him was dropped when a witness recanted her evidence. They did a building society in Leicester and escaped on bikes, one of them smashed into a bus and ended up doing six years, he’s only just been released. He was a Para too and they tried everything to get him to turn over his mates but he kept quiet and did his time.’

‘Six years doesn’t seem long for armed robbery?’

‘He was firing blanks,’ said Sharpe. ‘To be fair, he didn’t fire at all. They didn’t have to, they went in mob-handed brandishing AK-47s and the staff and customers pissed themselves, and not in a good way. Anyway, when they examined the gun of the guy they caught they discovered there were only blanks in the clip. The judge still gave him ten years but he was as good as gold behind bars so they let him out early this year.’

‘And what was the story about Harper?’

‘Different robbery. Birmingham. About three months prior to the Leicester job. Harper was wearing a balaclava but one of the cashiers said she’d never forget his eyes. And she remembered a mole on his nose. The MO was the same as the Leicester job, motorbikes and AK-47s, so a very enterprising detective got hold of the arrested guy’s service record and ran the pictures of the guys in his unit past the cashier. She picked out Alex Harper. By then he’d scarpered. But then the cashier contacted the cops and said that she wasn’t sure after all. It was about that time that she started driving a new car and all her credit card bills were paid off. Cops couldn’t prove anything, but that was the last time Harper appeared in the system. He’s never been fingerprinted and his DNA isn’t in the system. Far as intel goes, looks like he’s in Spain now, on the Costa del Crime. But he’s not wanted. You said he was in Thailand, but that intel’s not in the system.’

‘Thanks, Razor. I owe you.’

‘Yes, you do. But you can do me a favour.’

‘Sure.’

‘Watch yourself with this Harper character. He’s obviously not your run-of-the-mill crim, I’ll give you that, but the job you’re in now, you’ve got to be careful who you associate with.’

‘I hear you.’

‘I can tell my advice is going in one ear and out of the other,’ said Sharpe. ‘Anyway, I’m off to bed. You got anything interesting on?’

‘Just my boxers.’

‘I meant job-wise, idiot.’

‘Yeah, there’s something on, Charlie has summoned me to Thames House later today.’

‘Give her my love.’

‘I’ll definitely do that,’ said Shepherd, and ended the call. He put the phone down on the bedside table before rolling over and trying unsuccessfully to get back to sleep. His mind kept racing, filled with jerky images of his time in Afghanistan: the searing heat, the foul smells, the firefights, the explosions, the mortar fire, the rattle of Kalashnikov fire, the adrenalin rush of being under fire. He tossed and turned for more than an hour, then he rolled out of bed, pulled on a tracksuit and went downstairs. His boots and his rucksack were in the cupboard under the stairs. Shepherd always ran with the rucksack, which he had filled with house bricks wrapped in newspapers. He laced up his boots, swung the rucksack on to his back and let himself out of the kitchen door.

He ran for the best part of an hour, most of that time at full pelt, and he was bathed in sweat by the time he got back to the house. His au pair, Katra, was in the kitchen making coffee. She was wearing a grey sweatshirt a couple of sizes too big for her and jeans that seemed to be a couple of sizes too small. She had her blond hair tied back in a ponytail and the sleeves of her sweatshirt pulled up to her elbows. ‘You’re up early,’ she said.

‘Couldn’t sleep,’ he said. ‘I’m heading to London after breakfast,’ he added, tossing the rucksack back under the stairs and slipping off his muddy boots. ‘I’m not sure when I’ll be back, I think they have a job for me.’

‘You know Liam’s back for half term in two weeks?’ she asked, giving him a mug of coffee.

‘I’d forgotten,’ he said. ‘I’ll Skype him this evening. I’m going to go by train, so I’ll need a lift to the station.’

‘Egg and bacon? And toast?’

‘You read my mind,’ said Shepherd, taking his coffee with him upstairs.

He sat on his bed and phoned Lex Harper on the Samsung phone that he’d given him. ‘Just wanted to update you on my progress,’ said Shepherd.

‘Which is zero, right?’

‘How did you know?’ asked Shepherd.

‘I can hear it in your voice. I knew it wasn’t going to be easy.’

‘Yeah, well, I’ve tried the obvious things and drawn a blank, so it looks as if he’s here under a different name.’

‘Mate, I bet he’s here as an illegal. Probably got asylum under that different name.’ Harper cursed. ‘So near and so bloody far,’ he said. ‘Looks like I’ll just have to keep pounding the streets of West London looking for him. Not much of a plan, is it?’

‘I’m in the office later today,’ said Shepherd. ‘There’s a guy there I can ask, he’ll do some digging for me on the QT. What about you, are you OK hanging around?’

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ said Harper. ‘I’m staying right here until we get this bastard.’

Thames House had been the home of MI5 since 1994. It was an imposing grey Portland stone edifice on the south side of Horseferry Road, with statues of St George and Britannia on the frontage glaring across the road at Nobel House, the former headquarters of ICI, which was built at the same time and to virtually the same design. A flag fluttered on the roof of the building with MI5’s crest and motto – Regnum Defende, Defend the Realm. As well as being home to the Security Service, Thames House also contained the Northern Ireland Office and the Joint Terrorism Analysis Centre. Because of the undercover nature of his work, Shepherd rarely visited the building, but Charlotte Button had asked him in for a meeting first thing on Monday morning. Security was tight and Shepherd had to show his MI5 ID, press his right thumb against a fingerprint detector and pass through a metal detector before he was allowed to use the lift to the fourth floor.

Button was waiting for him in a windowless meeting room. There was a pine table with six high-backed leather chairs around it, and the wall opposite the door was filled with a whiteboard. There were a dozen or so photographs and notes written in black and red ink on the whiteboard and a pale green file and a large manila envelope on the table.

‘Spider, punctual as always,’ said Button. She was wearing a dark blue linen jacket over a cream dress and had her chestnut hair clipped up at the back. She air-kissed him and patted him on the left arm, just above the elbow. He caught the fragrance of her perfume, floral with a hint of orange. ‘I’ve got you a coffee,’ she said, pointing at a white mug next to a plate of chocolate biscuits.

Shepherd grinned. ‘Good to see that the cutbacks haven’t hit the catering budget,’ he said, sitting down.

‘A few years ago I would have been able to offer you Kit Kats,’ she said. She sat down opposite him and reached for a cup and saucer. She stirred her tea and smiled at him. ‘No lasting effects from the taser?’ she asked.

‘A couple of burn marks,’ he said. ‘But it could have been a lot worse. I could have gone up like a Roman candle.’

‘Ready to get back in the saddle?’

Shepherd looked over at the whiteboard, wondering what she had planned for him. ‘Sure.’

Button opened the file and took out a photograph of a large, heavy-set man in a dark suit. He was in his late fifties with a squarish, unsmiling face and receding hair cut close to the scalp. ‘Peter Grechko,’ she said. ‘One of the Russian oligarchs who now makes London his home. He’s one of the world’s richest men, up there with Roman Abramovich, Boris Berezovsky and Abram Reznikov.’

Shepherd nodded and took the photograph from her. ‘I’ve heard of him. He tried to buy Liverpool but missed out and now he’s hoping to buy Manchester City, right?’

‘Among other things,’ said Button. ‘Did you hear about the attempt on his life? A sniper took a shot at him two days ago as he was leaving Stamford Bridge. He’d been watching Chelsea play. A bodyguard was wounded but Grechko was unscathed.’

Shepherd frowned. ‘That’s news to me.’

‘Hardly surprising,’ said Button. ‘He owns a chain of provincial newspapers and several news magazines and is close to the owners of several national newspapers. Skis with the younger Murdochs and lives down the road from the owner of the Daily Express.’

‘Who needs a D notice when you’ve got friends in high places?’ said Shepherd, handing back the photograph.

‘His friends go higher than that,’ said Button. ‘He’s very close to the prime minister. He’s been on Grechko’s yacht, several times. As have several members of the cabinet and half a dozen peers, Labour and Conservative. Mr Grechko is on the board of several charities patronised by the PM’s wife and made a substantial donation to his old college.’

‘I think I can see where this is going,’ said Shepherd.

‘I’m sure you can,’ said Button. ‘The PM’s office has asked us to make sure that nothing happens to Mr Grechko while he is on British soil. He has his own security team, of course, but I need you to go in and oversee it.’

‘I’m sure they’re thrilled about that idea.’

‘It’s not up to them,’ said Button. ‘The PM’s office wants Mr Grechko looked after and that’s what’s going to happen.’

‘And Mr Grechko’s happy with that?’

‘It was his idea, apparently,’ said Button. ‘He was at Chequers over the weekend and asked for help then.’ She stood up and walked over to the whiteboard. She beckoned Shepherd to join him. ‘This is Grechko’s security team,’ she said. At the top of the board was a head-and-shoulders photograph of a man with a squarish face and a thick brow. There was a scar on his left cheek as if a broken bottle had been thrust into the flesh and twisted, and he had a neck so thick that his head seemed to merge seamlessly into his shoulders. Button tapped the photograph with her pen. ‘Dmitry Popov has been Grechko’s head of security for the past eight years,’ she said. ‘He’s a former senior Moscow police officer and his previous job was on Putin’s security team.’

‘The Putin? The Russian president?’

‘The very same. But Putin regularly shuffles his protection teams to keep them on their toes and when Popov found himself demoted, Grechko moved in and made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.’

‘What’s with the scar?’

‘It happened during his military service, apparently,’ said Button. ‘Make no mistake, Spider, his nose is going to be well out of joint when he hears that you’ll be overseeing Grechko’s security. He’s bound to see it as a slap in the face, so watch him.’

‘Understood,’ said Shepherd. ‘What’s he being told?’

‘The truth, pretty much. That Grechko has asked the government for help and that you’re being assigned to oversee Grechko’s security while he’s in the UK.’

‘And who am I?’

‘The legend we’ve put together has you as Tony Ryan, part of the Met’s SO1 Specialist Protection Unit. You’ve heard of them?’

‘Sure,’ said Shepherd. ‘They look after the PM and former PMs and anyone considered to be under threat from terrorists in the UK and overseas. They look after foreign dignitaries, too. And the likes of Salman Rushdie.’

‘Got it in one,’ said Button. ‘Grechko has been told by the PM’s office to expect you. We’re keeping Five’s involvement out of it. I’ll be liaising with Grechko but I’ll be doing it as Charlotte Button of the Home Office.’

‘And I’ll be a career cop?’

‘We think that’s best,’ said Button. She nodded at the table. ‘There’s a file there with the complete legend but it’s pretty straightforward, a few years on the beat, ten years with SO19 as a firearms officer and five years with SO1.’

‘Did I guard Tony Blair?’

‘Did you want to?’

Shepherd laughed. ‘That’s one man I definitely wouldn’t take a bullet for. What’s the position over weapons?’

‘Grechko’s men aren’t permitted to carry guns on British soil. We suspect that they do, and the word from the PM’s office is that if you do see them with arms, turn a blind eye.’

‘And what’s my position?’

‘As an SO1 officer you’re authorised to carry a concealed weapon, and the Russians will know that. That’s how it’ll be sold to Popov and the rest of the team, they need you there because you’re licensed to bear arms. I’ll talk to the armourer and get the paperwork done today. Someone can bring it out to you tomorrow. Any preferences?’

‘A regular Glock’ll be fine.’

‘Holster?’

‘Shoulder, nothing fancy. It’s not as if I’ll be entering any quick-draw contests.’

Below the photograph of the head of security were photographs of eight men, most of them shaven headed and all of them with hard faces, set like stone as they stared at the camera.

‘These are the core of Grechko’s personal security team,’ said Button. ‘Alexei Dudko, Boris Volkov, Grigory Sokolov, Ivan Koshechkin, Vlad Molchanov, Konstantin Serov, Leo Tarasov and Mikhail Ulyashin.’ She tapped the final photograph. ‘Ulyashin is the one hit by the sniper. He’s out of hospital and will be returning to the team later this week.’

‘Two teams of four working twelve-hour shifts? That’s tight.’

‘I think they were on three-man teams plus a driver,’ said Button. There were three more photographs at the side of the board. ‘These are the drivers. Roman Khorkov, Yulian Chayka and Nikolay Eristov. They’re all former Russian police drivers, they joined with Popov.’ Along the bottom of the whiteboard were another six photographs. ‘Since the sniping attack, Grechko has increased his security staff, hiring these six men. Well, five men and a woman as it happens.’

‘All Russian?’

‘Three of the new intake are Ukrainian,’ said Button. ‘Max Barsky, Thomas Lisko and the one woman on the team, Alina Podolski. I’ve got CVs of all the members of the team in the file.’

‘And what’s my brief, Charlie?’

‘Your brief is to make sure that nothing happens to Peter Grechko while he’s in the UK,’ said Button. ‘You do that by sticking close to him whenever he’s in a vulnerable situation, and by doing whatever you deem necessary to beef up his security.’

‘And presumably you’re working on tracking down the sniper?’

‘The Met’s on that case,’ said Button. ‘It’s being treated as a police matter.’

‘Good luck with that,’ said Shepherd. He walked over to the table, sat down and picked up the file. ‘What do you think?’ he asked. ‘Who do you think took a pot shot at Grechko?’

‘There are actually two questions there,’ said Button, joining him at the table. ‘The man who pulled the trigger was almost certainly paid to do it, so we’re looking for a professional. And the way the world works, he could be from anywhere. Just because Grechko’s a Russian, it doesn’t mean the sniper is. He could be home grown, he could be American – hell, he could be Chinese.’ She picked up her cup and sipped her tea. ‘The bigger question is who paid for the hit. And the answer to that probably does lie in Russia.’

‘A business dispute?’

Button shook her head. ‘Grechko says not. He thinks the government’s behind it.’

‘The Russian government?’

‘That’s what he thinks. And there have been a number of high-profile Russians murdered in the UK over the last few years. Some make the papers, and some don’t. Alexander Perepilichniy collapsed outside his home in Weybridge. He was only forty-four and toxicology reports were inconclusive, but it looks like he was poisoned. He was linked to an investigation into corrupt tax officials in Russia. We had another Russian businessman narrowly escape death when he was gunned down in broad daylight in Canary Wharf. Guy called Gorbuntsov. Shot six times by a man we think is a Romanian hitman. Gorbuntsov is convinced that Kremlin insiders ordered the hit. And of course we’re all too familiar with Alexander Litvinenko, the former KGB officer who died in a London hospital not long after being poisoned with radioactive material.’

‘Polonium 210,’ said Shepherd.

‘Exactly. And almost certainly administered by a KGB officer who then fled to Moscow. Litvinenko publicly accused Putin of being responsible for his death. And there’s plenty of evidence to suggest that the Russian government has been the prime mover in a lot more Russian deaths in the UK.’

‘Killing their own citizens? Nice.’

‘They’re not the only country doing that, unfortunately. The Iraqis did it during Saddam’s era, the Libyans have been doing it for years, ditto the Chinese.’

Shepherd smiled thinly. ‘And let’s not forget our dear cousins across the pond. The Americans lead the world in assassinations at the moment.’

‘Well, to be fair, pretty much all the American killings take place on enemy territory,’ said Button. ‘And they tend to use the military, which at least gives it some degree of legality. What’s been happening with the Russians is far more sinister. Another oligarch, Boris Berezovsky, was found dead in his bathroom in Ascot and we still don’t know exactly what killed him. But we do know he was one of Putin’s fiercest critics and he was supposed to be a key witness at Litvinenko’s inquest. He had a full complement of bodyguards but they still got to him.’

His eyes narrowed as he looked at Button. ‘What about us, Charlie?’

‘Us?’

‘Us Brits. Do we have an assassination policy?’

‘The UK’s policy is that we don’t carry out assassinations,’ said Button.

‘I know that’s the official policy, but is there a section somewhere within MI5 or MI6 that kills people, in the way that the Yanks do it?’

‘If there is, I’m not aware of it,’ said Button levelly.

‘That’s a politician’s answer,’ said Shepherd.

‘No, it’s a truthful answer. But you have to bear in mind that if there was such a section and I was aware of it, I wouldn’t be able to tell you.’

Shepherd grinned. ‘Yeah, I’d realised that.’

‘Let me ask you a question, Spider.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘Suppose there was a section that did carry out judicial killings. Would you be prepared to work for it?’

‘Are we talking hypothetically, Charlie?’

She studied him with unblinking eyes. ‘Of course.’

Shepherd looked back at her, trying to work out whether she was making him a serious offer or whether the conversation was, as she said, hypothetical. ‘It would depend,’ he said eventually.

‘On what?’

‘On the nature of the targets,’ he said.

‘I’m not sure that if there was such a section its operatives would be given the freedom to pick and choose their assignments,’ she said.

‘That’s the problem,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ve killed, of course I have. That goes with the turf when you’re in the SAS, but that was mainly in war zones and it was kill or be killed. Assassination is a whole different thing. It takes a particular kind of mindset to kill a human being who isn’t a clear threat.’

Button sipped her tea. ‘You were a sniper, weren’t you?’

‘That was one of my areas of expertise,’ he said. ‘And I had my fair share of kills in Afghanistan. But again that was a war zone. Could I shoot targets solely because some politician had decided that they deserve to die? I’m not sure that I could.’

‘Because?’

‘Because I don’t trust politicians, of any persuasion. I don’t trust their judgement and I don’t trust their motivation. If an officer identified a target, I’d take that target out without questioning the order. But if a politician told me to assassinate someone, I’d want to know why and if there wasn’t a bloody good reason then I’d tell them to go stuff themselves.’

‘I can understand that,’ she said. ‘But as I said, you wouldn’t get the choice.’

‘We are still talking hypothetically?’ said Shepherd.

Button laughed. ‘Of course. So this sniper, the man who tried to kill Grechko. What sort of person would he be?’

‘Like you said, a professional. Almost certainly former military. Of course, if it was a government-sanctioned operation he might still be in the army. So he’d either be doing it because it was his job, or because he was being paid a lot of money.’

‘Could you kill for money?’

Shepherd frowned. ‘Of course not.’

‘Because?’

‘Because I’ve got a conscience. Because I’ve got a moral compass. Taking a life is no small thing, Charlie. And no matter what the circumstances, it stays with you for ever.’

Button nodded slowly. ‘So we’re looking for a what? A sociopath? Someone with no feelings, no emotions?’

‘Or someone who’s used to obeying orders. I thought the Met was looking for the sniper?’

‘They are. But we’ve got better lines of communication with the FSB so we’ll make use of them. We’ve put in a request for information of snipers, military and freelance.’

The Moscow-based Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation was Russia’s main domestic security agency, the equivalent of MI5 and the successor to the KGB. Like MI5, it was responsible for counter-intelligence, internal and border security, counter-terrorism, and surveillance. ‘Are they likely to help if it is the Russian government who’s behind it?’ asked Shepherd.

She smiled. ‘Good point,’ she said. ‘In a way it’s a test. We’ll see just how cooperative they are. Or aren’t.’

Shepherd sipped his coffee. ‘If it is the Russian government that tried to kill Grechko, why would they use a sniper? It’s very in your face.’ He grinned. ‘No pun intended. I mean, don’t they usually use more subterfuge? Remember the Bulgarians with that poisoned umbrella thing? And they got that Alexander Litvinenko guy by putting Polonium-210 in his food.’

‘Litvinenko was working for MI5 at the time,’ said Button. ‘He’d been given political asylum and he was active in Russian politics, helping dissident factions. I don’t think there’s any doubt that it was a political assassination.’

‘So why not try something like that with Grechko? Why use a sniper?’

‘Because Grechko has always been well protected,’ said Button. ‘Strangers don’t get near him, his food is tasted, his rooms and vehicles are constantly checked. With a man like Grechko, it would have to be done at a distance. You’re going to have to bear that in mind when you’re with him. The sniper tried once and he’s still out there. He could well try again.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘At his house in The Bishops Avenue. Near Hampstead. He’s staying there until we get his security arrangements sorted out. But I warn you, he’s intent on doing a fair bit of travelling over the next few months. I’m hoping that you’ll be able to dissuade him from that, at least until we’ve identified and apprehended the sniper.’ She pushed a manila envelope across the table to him. ‘That’s the details of your legend. Also the keys to the flat you used in Hampstead, when you were using the John Whitehill legend last year. The flat is pretty much as it was, though it’s been used a couple of times since you were there. It’s already been dressed but it’s doubtful that you’ll be taking anyone back there.’ She pointed at the envelope. ‘There’s a passport, driving licence and warrant card in the name of Tony Ryan, plus credit cards and an organ donor card, which is a nice touch. Plus keys to the flat. And a SIM card on a Met account, so put that in any phone you want.’

‘What about a vehicle?’ asked Shepherd, slipping the envelope into his pocket.

‘Talk to the car pool. Something in character but bearing in mind the case I’d feel happier if you were in something with ballistic protection.’

‘You think I might be a target?’

‘Better safe than sorry,’ said Button. ‘And I want you in a vest at all times. Since the sniper, all Grechko’s bodyguards have been wearing vests and I want you in one, too.’ Shepherd sipped his coffee and grimaced. ‘Is the coffee not great or is it the job you’re not happy with?’ asked Button.

Shepherd put down his mug. ‘The coffee’s fine.’

‘But you’re not happy about the job?’

‘If you think this is the best use of my talents then who am I to argue,’ he said.

‘But?’ said Button. ‘I’m sensing a definite but here.’

‘He’s a Russian, Charlie. If he was a Russian journalist or a political exile then maybe I’d have some sympathy or empathy or whatever, but he’s a bloody oligarch and you don’t get to make a billion dollars from scratch without treading on a few toes.’

‘He deserves to be shot, is that what you’re saying?’

‘Of course not,’ said Shepherd, brusquely. ‘But this isn’t his country for a start. He chose to be here. If he’s worried about his safety here then he’s perfectly capable of going somewhere else.’

‘Which would be an admission that we can’t protect him.’

‘But why are we protecting him, that’s the question, isn’t it? Because he’s a friend of the PM’s. How much do you think he’s given them in political donations?’

Button smiled and nodded to concede the point. ‘Actually, he’s an equal opportunity donor,’ she said. ‘He gave a million pounds to all three political parties.’

‘Hedging his bets? So no matter who runs the country, they’re beholden to him?’ Shepherd sighed. ‘Don’t you feel sometimes that we’re behaving like a Third World banana republic, selling ourselves to the highest bidder?’

‘I hear what you’re saying, Spider, but you have to realise that men like Peter Grechko are now world citizens. The normal rules don’t apply to them. And wherever they settle, there’s a trickle-down factor that only benefits their host country. If they start to believe that the UK isn’t a safe place for them, we stand to lose billions. And let’s not forget that a killer is a killer, no matter who his target is.’

Shepherd held up his hand. ‘You’re right, of course. But if the sniper is a hired hand, even if we do catch him, there’s no reason to think that’ll be the end of it. Whoever is footing the bill can just find someone else.’

‘Let’s worry about that down the line,’ said Button. She finished her tea and flashed him an encouraging smile. ‘First let’s make sure that Peter Grechko has whatever protection he needs. And don’t forget, I want you wearing a vest at all times.’

‘When do I start?’

‘No time like the present,’ she said. ‘Assuming you can pick up the gun and the car tomorrow, you might as well go around and introduce yourself and get the lie of the land.’

‘And this is full-time, right?’

‘Pretty much,’ said Button. ‘Certainly I want you by his side whenever he leaves the house. My understanding is that his home is secure, so providing he’s there you can take a break. We can’t afford anything to go wrong, Spider. If anything happens to Grechko on our watch, our lives won’t be worth living.’

Shepherd said goodbye to Button, but when he reached the lifts he went up and not down. He got out on the sixth floor and walked along to the office of Amar Singh. Singh was in his early thirties and one of MI5’s top technical experts. Shepherd had worked with him at the Serious Organised Crime Agency and they had both moved with Charlotte Button to MI5.

Singh grinned when he saw Shepherd at his door. He hurried from around his desk and hugged him hard. ‘Long time no see, Spider,’ he said. He was in his mid-thirties, wearing an expensive Hugo Boss suit. Shepherd could never work out how Singh managed to spend so much on his clothes when he was the father of three young children. ‘Didn’t expect to see you here.’

‘Special occasion,’ said Shepherd, dropping down on to a chair. There was a framed photograph of Singh and his family on the desk – his arms protectively around his pretty long-haired wife Mishti and equally gorgeous daughters. The youngest was just over a year old but already had her mother’s smouldering eyes, of a brown so dark that they were almost black. ‘Charlie wanted to brief me in situ. So what’s the latest in ballistic protection?’

‘Human or vehicle?’

‘Both,’ said Shepherd.

‘We’ve got some new lightweight vests that are the bee’s knees,’ said Singh. ‘We’ve got them from a company in Israel. They use fabrics infused with nanoparticles, putting them in multiple layers with the weaves in different directions. They stay soft and pliable until the moment of impact, at which point they go harder than Kevlar. The material is so soft the vest can be extended down the upper arms and down to the groin area. They actually look like a thick T-shirt and are as easy to put on and take off.’

‘Sounds perfect,’ said Shepherd. ‘Do they come in blue?’

Singh laughed and scribbled on his notepad. ‘White only,’ he said. ‘They’re not for general release just yet but I’ll get you a couple. What are you, a thirty-eight?’

‘Closer to forty these days,’ said Shepherd. ‘They do work, right?’

Singh laughed again. ‘It’s the high cost that’s holding them back,’ he said. ‘They’re ten times the price of a Kevlar vest at the moment. Our purchasing department is waiting for the cost to come down before placing a major order. What I have is a few samples. I’ve seen them in operation, and they’re really something. They’ll stop any handgun round at any range, and they’ll stop a round from an AK-47 at about fifty feet up. That’s not to say you won’t get bruised, but the round won’t penetrate. As soon as the round hits the fibres they harden, almost instantaneously. But with a high-powered round that means the vest will impact a couple of inches. The skin won’t be broken but it’ll hurt like hell. They have the facility of adding ceramic plates, if you want, of course.’

‘The vest will be fine,’ said Shepherd. ‘And Button wants me to have a bulletproof car.’

‘Of course she does,’ said Singh. ‘You’re one of our most valued employees. What’s the legend?’

‘Police, close protection squad. I’m thinking a four-by-four.’

‘What do you drive these days? BMW X5?’

‘Yeah. But mine’s back in Hereford.’

‘We’ve got several in the pool and I’m pretty sure that one of them is already fully armoured.’

‘Not sure that I need bomb-proofing,’ said Shepherd. ‘Just the glass and ballistic protection in the doors.’

‘When do you need it by?’

‘Today?’

Singh chuckled. ‘Tomorrow morning?’

‘Can you have it dropped off? I’ll be in Hampstead.’

‘Should be able to do that,’ said Singh. ‘Are you on your old mobile?’

‘Yeah, but I’ll be picking up a new one for this job. The legend is Tony Ryan.’

Singh made a note on his pad. Shepherd gave him the address of the Hampstead flat and Singh wrote that down, too.

‘What about the car? Registered to Tony Ryan?’

‘Better make it a Met car,’ said Shepherd. ‘As far as anyone knows I’m on secondment from the Met so that’ll add to the legend.’

‘Not a problem,’ said Singh. ‘Might cut down on the parking tickets, too.’

‘Good point. Can you get a resident’s permit for the car, too, I’ll have to leave it on the street when I’m in Hampstead.’

Singh made another note on his pad.

‘And I need a favour,’ said Shepherd. He reached into his jacket and pulled out the newspaper cutting that Harper had given him. He gave it to Singh and then sat quietly as he read it through. When Singh looked up again, Shepherd leaned across and tapped the face of the man he was sure was Ahmad Khan. ‘I need to identify this man.’

Singh frowned as he reread the story and caption. ‘He’s not mentioned in the article.’

‘He’s not mentioned anywhere,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m fairly certain his name is Ahmad Khan and he’s from Afghanistan. But he could be in the UK under any name or nationality.’ He gestured at the cutting. ‘That was blind luck, he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Though as he’s walking along the pavement, it could well be that he lives in that area of London.’

‘If he’s hiding, he could be long gone by now.’

‘I doubt that he’d be reading the local paper,’ said Shepherd. ‘But the problem is, I have no idea what name he’s using. So here’s my question, starting with what I’ve got – which is that – how do I identify him?’

‘You’ve checked the name you have?’

Shepherd nodded. ‘He’s not on the PNC and he wasn’t issued a visa. Of course, he could be in the country completely illegally and not using any paperwork at all.’

Singh nodded thoughtfully. ‘That’s doubtful,’ he said. ‘Even illegals try to get something, a driving licence or an NHS number, something that they can show to the cops.’

‘The thing is, this guy being who he is, I think he’ll be better organised.’

‘What do you think he is?’

Shepherd flashed him a tight smile. ‘I think he’s al-Qaeda,’ he said.

Singh held up the cutting. ‘Then put this in the system and red-flag it, put everyone on it.’

‘It’s not as simple as that.’

‘It never is with you.’

‘At this stage, all I want to do is to confirm my suspicions. I haven’t seen this guy face to face for more than ten years. The eye’s a giveaway, but I’m sure he’s not the only Afghan with a dodgy eye. And I don’t want to be responsible for ruining someone’s life on a hunch.’

Singh put down the cutting and sat back in his chair, his eyes fixed on Shepherd’s face. ‘Why do I get the feeling there’s something you’re not telling me?’ he said quietly.

‘That’s why this comes under the heading of a favour,’ said Shepherd.

‘He’s definitely al-Qaeda?’

‘The last time I saw him was in Pakistan, outside of an al-Qaeda money house. And he shot me. He killed a young SAS captain.’

Singh whistled softly. ‘I’m starting to wish I hadn’t asked.’

‘Maybe we could both forget we had this conversation,’ said Shepherd. He leaned forward to grab the cutting but Singh held it out of his reach. ‘I’m serious, Amar, I shouldn’t have asked you.’

‘What else are friends for?’ said Singh. ‘You want to know if it’s definitely him, right?’

‘Exactly.’

‘OK. That I can probably help you with. But as to what happens after that, I definitely don’t want to know.’

‘That’d probably be best,’ said Shepherd.

‘And it goes without saying that mum’s the word.’

‘My lips are sealed,’ said Shepherd.

Singh grinned. ‘Then let’s have a go,’ he said. ‘Did you run the photograph through the Border Force’s computer?’

‘No. Just the name.’

‘They’ve started taking photographs and fingerprints of anyone applying for a visa, so I’ll run the picture through their database.’ He wrinkled his nose as he studied the cutting. ‘What I’ll do is scan the picture first and see if we can clean it up, improve the resolution. I can also run a cross-check with the DVLC database and the Identity and Passport Service which will ID him if he has a British passport or driving licence. Don’t suppose you’ve got a photograph or a date of birth?’

Shepherd shook his head. ‘That picture is all I’ve got.’

‘I can pass it through the PNC, which will flag him if he’s ever been arrested here, and there’s our own naughty-boys database. And the facial recognition systems at all the airports, of course. Assuming he flew into the country.’

‘Any idea how long it’ll take?’

Singh wrinkled his nose. ‘Increasing the resolution will take the best part of a day. That’s computerised, there’s no way of speeding that up. The cross-checking should be a few hours at most for the databases – the airports will take longer because it involves CCTV. Are you in a hurry?’

‘The sooner the better, obviously. I really appreciate this, Amar.’

Singh held up his hand. ‘It’s no biggie,’ he said. ‘It’ll be a useful test of our facial recognition systems, anyway. We’re always looking for ways to tweak it.’ He looked at his watch. ‘OK, you need to let me get started on your car. I’ll have it and the vests at your place tomorrow.’

‘Maybe liaise with the armoury, they’re giving me a Glock.’

‘Two birds with one stone.’

Shepherd woke early, and it took a few seconds lying in the darkness before he remembered where he was. And who he was. He was Tony Ryan, a Metropolitan Police firearms officer, and he was lying in his one-bedroom flat in Hampstead. As flats went it was just about OK, with a bedroom just large enough to take a double bed, a sitting room with a sofa, an armchair, a coffee table and a thirty-two-inch television. The last time he’d used the flat he’d been a journalist and they’d given him the full Sky package, and he was pleased to see that hadn’t changed. When he’d been passing himself off as freelance journalist John Whitehill the flat had been full of art books and news magazines. Whoever had dressed the flat for his Tony Ryan legend had gone much more butch, with photographs of Shepherd with various weapons on the walls and military books lining the shelves. The contents of the wardrobe had changed; Whitehill’s corduroy jackets and check shirts had gone, replaced with dark suits, white shirts and ties for work, and polo shirts and chinos for casual wear. There was no bath in the bathroom, but there was a power shower which more than made up for it, and he wasn’t in the least inconvenienced by the tiny kitchen as cooking was never high up on his agenda.

The one really good thing about the flat was its proximity to Hampstead Heath. Its near-800 acres of woods and hills were the perfect setting for a run. He’d left his rucksack and boots in Hereford but there were still some of his old clothes from the last time he’d stayed in the flat, tucked away in carrier bags at the bottom of the wardrobe. He found an old pair of trainers, baggy tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt that had once been white but was now a shabby grey. He pulled them on, let himself out of the flat and went for a run, arriving at the Heath just as dawn broke. There were already plenty of other joggers around, and a fair number of dog-walkers. Shepherd ran a mile at a medium pace to loosen up, then stepped up a gear and ran close to his maximum pace for another mile. He had soon worked up a sweat despite the chill in the air. He dropped to the ground and did fifty sit-ups and fifty press-ups before resuming his run, another two miles at full speed. The lack of a rucksack full of newspaper-wrapped bricks and his old army boots meant that he could run faster than usual. He overtook a tight group of young runners in spandex shorts, tight vests and headbands, then ran up a long slope, maintaining the same pace, enjoying the feel of his muscles starting to burn. At the top of the slope he dropped and did another set of sit-ups and press-ups, and then he headed home.

He arrived back at the flat an hour after he’d left. He shaved and showered and changed into one of the dark blue suits that the dresser had left, along with a white shirt and a tie of red and dark blue stripes. There was a choice of three pairs of shoes, all black and all with laces, and he choose the pair that looked most comfortable. He had just made himself a bacon sandwich when his Tony Ryan mobile phone rang. It was Mark Whitehouse, one of the MI5 armourers. ‘Delivery for Mr Ryan,’ said the armourer. ‘And I have a very nice X5 for you.’

‘Where are you?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Just turning into your street,’ said Whitehouse. ‘Where do you want it?’

‘Anywhere you can find a spot,’ said Shepherd. ‘Parking’s tight here at the best of times.’

Shepherd managed to bolt down his bacon sandwich before his door entryphone buzzed. He pressed the button to open the door downstairs. Whitehouse was with one of the men from the car pool. He introduced himself as Ian McAdam and handed Shepherd the keys to the X5 and asked him to sign a form on a clipboard. ‘All yours,’ said McAdam. ‘There’s a number in the glove compartment to call if you have any problems but she’s only got twenty thousand miles on the clock and we’ve never had any problems with her.’ He was in his twenties, with gelled hair and a small gold earring in his left ear. He nodded at Whitehouse. ‘I’ll wait down with the car – I saw a traffic warden down the road.’

McAdam headed down the stairs. ‘I’m running him back to Thames House,’ said Whitehouse. He was in his sixties, a former soldier who had been wounded in the Falklands War and who had gone on to serve as one of MI5’s armourers for almost twenty years. He had thinning grey hair and a shabby brown suit. Shepherd realised that he wasn’t wearing his trademark thick-lensed glasses. ‘You lost the spectacles, Mark?’

Whitehouse grinned. ‘Just had them lasered,’ he said. ‘Brilliant, it is. I can read a book without glasses for the first time in I don’t know how long, and driving is so much easier.’ He was carrying a metal case and he swung it on to Shepherd’s coffee table.

‘It’s a fourth-generation Glock 17, but there’s not much I can tell you that you don’t know already,’ he said. He checked the barrel was clear and handed the gun butt-first to Shepherd. Shepherd checked the action and nodded his approval. ‘Three clips, they hold seventeen rounds as you know, but I’ve put fifteen in each to keep the pressure off the spring.’ Shepherd took one of the clips and slotted it home. ‘Miss Button said we didn’t need to go heavy on the ammo, is forty-five rounds enough?’

‘More than enough,’ said Shepherd.

‘And she said a shoulder holster. You prefer leather to nylon, right?’

‘You know me too well,’ said Shepherd. Whitehouse grinned and handed Shepherd a dark brown leather shoulder holster. The leather had been recently oiled and it glistened as Shepherd stroked the leather. Whitehouse handed over two leather holsters designed to hold the clips. ‘If you want the spares on your belt,’ he said. He reached into the case and brought out two plastic-wrapped vests. ‘And these are courtesy of Mr Singh,’ he said.

Shepherd took the packages and ripped one open. He held out a white vest, about the thickness of a pullover. It had sleeves that reached to just above the elbows. He held it against his chest and smiled at the look of contempt on the armourer’s face. ‘You’re not convinced?’ he said.

‘Mr Singh swears by them,’ said Whitehouse.

‘But you’re not convinced?’

‘You know where you are with Kevlar and ceramic plates.’ He reached over and rubbed the vest that Shepherd was holding. ‘This feels like wool.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘I just don’t get it.’

‘He says it changes its structure when the bullet hits,’ said Shepherd. ‘Nanotechnology.’

‘I’ll believe it when I see it,’ said Whitehouse.

‘I could put it on now and you could take a shot at me.’ He grinned at the look of surprise on the armourer’s face. ‘Joke,’ he said.

‘I’m glad to hear that,’ said Whitehouse. ‘But I have to say I’d feel a lot happier if I’d had the chance to run a few tests myself. I look at them and I ask myself if they would really stop a bullet.’

‘According to Amar they’ll stop any handgun at close range and an AK-47 from fifty feet,’ said Shepherd. ‘But like you, I’ll believe it when I see it.’ He grinned. ‘Hopefully it won’t come to that.’

‘And let’s not forget that if the person who’s shooting at you knows what they’re doing, they’ll probably go for a head shot anyway.’

Shepherd laughed. ‘Yeah, that’s the truth.’ He put the vest down and picked up the Glock again. ‘You took a bullet, in the Falklands?’

‘Two,’ said the armourer. ‘One in the calf, one grazed my head. According to the lads the second one didn’t count, it was just a flesh wound. But an inch to the left and I wouldn’t be here now.’

‘What happened?’

‘I’m not a great one for war stories, Spider.’

Shepherd rubbed his shoulder. ‘I’ve just been thinking about the time I got shot, that’s all. You never forget it, right?’

‘Every time I get into the shower I see the scar,’ said Whitehouse. ‘The scar in my head is hidden by my hair, but you can see that the hair around it is greyer than the rest. But yeah, you never forget.’

‘How bad was it?’

‘The wounds? Not too bad. There were plenty that got worse – two hundred and fifty-five of our guys didn’t come back. But the Falklands was nothing like what you went through in Afghanistan. We didn’t have IEDs or ambushes or men pretending to be women, or suicide bombers. At least we were fighting soldiers, even if a lot of them were kids.’

‘Do you know who shot you?’

Whitehouse shrugged. ‘Could have been any one of half a dozen,’ he said. ‘We were coming down this hill towards where the Argies were dug in. It was all about speed, back then, they knew we had to retake the Islands within weeks or we never would. There was no wait and see, it was full steam ahead, lads, and to hell with the bullets. This was the second hill we’d taken and it went pretty much the same way. Their lads were dug in and firing up the hill, we came charging down with as much firepower as we could muster. Then once we got to within about fifty yards of their position they’d just throw down their weapons and surrender. It was weird, Spider. They knew the Geneva Convention meant that you can’t shoot an unarmed man. So as soon as they knew they were beaten they threw their guns down. So you had the ridiculous situation where they would shoot the guy next to you, killing him stone dead, but then they’d drop their gun and you can’t fire back. Bloody stupid, if you ask me. Anyway, I got hit in the leg but that didn’t stop me. Then a round went under my helmet, grazed my head and exited at the back. Hurt like hell but no real damage. There was a lad next to me, only just turned twenty, took a bullet in the face. Just blew his face away. Will Dunbar, his name was. I’d given him some smokes the night before and we’d had a bit of a chinwag. I saw the guy who shot him. He was a young lad, probably a teenager. As soon as Will went down the lad chucked his rifle and put up his hands.’ Whitehouse held up his hand, the thumb and first finger half an inch apart. ‘I came this close to slotting him, I swear to God. I had a bead on his chest, my finger was tightening on the trigger, there was blood trickling down my neck and I had the full adrenalin rush. Then my sarge starts screaming at me to lower my weapon, that it was over. I was still going to fire but the sarge pushed the barrel down. I tell you, it was the hardest thing I’ve had to do because that kid deserved to die. No question. He shot Will in the face and because it was war that was OK. Then he drops his gun and I have to round him up with the rest of them and he’s now back in Argentina probably with a bloody medal.’

‘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 foot 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.

‘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 at 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 you 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.

‘Wait a minute,’ said Shepherd, holding up his hand. ‘What are you doing?

Tarasov let go and dropped down on the floor. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘That wasn’t a pull-up. That was a chin-up.’

Tarasov looked over at Popov. Popov nodded. ‘He’s right,’ he said. ‘With a pull-up, you have the palms facing away as you do the lift. Your palms were facing you. That’s a chin-up.’ Tarasov still didn’t understand so Popov explained again in Russian and demonstrated the different grips with his hands.

Tarasov looked a little less confident now. With the palms facing away, pull-ups were more to do with using the back muscles than the biceps. He took several deep breaths and psyched himself up with a few deep grunts, then he stood under the overhead grips, jumped up and grabbed them. He began lifting himself. In a smooth motion until his chin was just above the bar. He grinned and let himself down in another smooth motion. He had a steady rhythm, and grunted at the top of each lift. He pumped the first five quickly but then began to slow down. By the time he’d reached eight his face was red and he was bathed in sweat. The muscles in his arms were pumped up and he was gripping the bars so tightly his knuckles had turned white. After the tenth pull-up he hung for several seconds before starting the eleventh. Shepherd knew that meant he didn’t have many left in him. Once you lost the rhythm the muscles became much less efficient. Tarasov’s grunts had become more like bellows and his whole body shook as he strained to lift his body weight. He made the eleventh, but on the twelfth barely managed to get his chin above the bar. He dropped down too quickly and grunted in pain as he stressed his elbows. He growled as he strained to make a thirteenth lift but all his strength had gone. His growl turned into a howl of rage and then he let go and dropped back to the floor, his chest heaving.

‘Twelve,’ said Popov.

‘I can do more than twelve,’ sneered Tarasov.

‘Not today you can’t,’ said Popov.

Tarasov ran his right hand up and down his left bicep and glared at it as if it had failed him.

‘Your turn,’ Popov said to Shepherd.

Shepherd took off his jacket and draped it over a bench. He took his gun out of its holster and placed it on a bench, then rolled up his shirtsleeves and took off his shoes. He tucked his tie into his shirt, flexed his fingers, took a couple of slow, deep breaths, then stood under the bar, rotating his shoulders. Pull-ups were about muscle strength, but they were also about stamina and determination. Once the muscles started to burn the brain instinctively tried to get the body to stop what it was doing so that it wouldn’t get damaged. The trick was to override the brain’s instructions and to keep on going. Shepherd smiled to himself, knowing that was easier said than done.

He took another deep breath and then jumped up to grab the bar, making sure that his grip locked it in close to his fingers. He crossed his legs at the ankles, took a big breath, squeezed his glutes and pulled himself up in one smooth motion, leading with his chest and keeping his shoulders back. He kept his eyes fixed on the bar, ignoring the pain in his arms and back. As soon as his chin crested the bar he began to exhale, and kept breathing all the way down.

As soon as his arms were fully extended he took another deep breath and hauled himself up. He stayed focused on the bar but he could feel Popov, Tarasov and Serov watching his every move. He ignored them and concentrated on maintaining his rhythm. Up. Down. Up. Down. He did the first five in exactly five seconds. The muscles in his back and shoulders were burning but he ignored the pain. Up. Down. Up. Down. Breathing in at the bottom, breathing out at the top. The second five were a little slower than the first, but he still had a comfortable rhythm. His brain was telling him to stop but he kept his rhythm and powered through another five.

Shepherd heard Popov laugh. ‘Fifteen!’ he said. Shepherd stayed focused. He was tired now and his biceps felt as if they were on fire but he ignored the pain. It was the brain trying to fool him, he knew that. His muscles still had maybe half their energy reserves left but the brain was trying to get him to pack it in before he did himself serious damage. It was the same with running – if you ran hard and fast you hit a wall where you thought you couldn’t go any farther but if you forced yourself on your brain would eventually realise that it wasn’t fooling anyone and stop complaining. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. His arms felt like lead but he knew he had more left, it was just a question of forcing his brain to issue the necessary instructions. He took a deep breath, squeezed his glutes hard to lock his legs and forced himself up, staring at the bar all the time. His chin crested the bar and he exhaled.

‘Nineteen!’ said Popov.

Someone grunted contemptuously, probably Tarasov, but all Shepherd’s energy was focused on the bar. He lowered himself down. Every fibre of his being wanted to let go of the bar and drop to the floor but he was determined to do at least another one. It wasn’t about beating Tarasov – he’d already done that – it was about proving to himself that he could do twenty. He took two deep breaths, ignored the burning pain in his arms and back and forced himself up. He began to groan through gritted teeth and almost stopped short of the bar but then he kicked out with his legs and managed to gain another couple of inches. He held his chin above the bar for a full two seconds and then dropped down.

Popov clapped him on the back. ‘Twenty!’ he said. ‘You’re the man.’

Serov patted Shepherd on the shoulder and even Tarasov flashed him a thumbs-up. ‘I’ll pay you later,’ said Tarasov.

Popov pointed at him. ‘Sixty pounds,’ he said. ‘Don’t you forget.’

‘I won’t,’ said Tarasov. He turned and walked over to a set of free weights and picked up two twenty-kilo dumbbells. And began pumping them into the air.

Shepherd pulled out his tie, put on his shoes and rolled down his shirtsleeves before holstering his Glock and pulling on his jacket. Popov was still chuckling and he put his arm around Shepherd’s shoulder as he guided him out of the gym. ‘You’re stronger than you look,’ said the Russian.

‘I’ve been told that before,’ said Shepherd. He pointed at an unmarked door. ‘What’s in there?’

‘The gun range.’

‘The gun range? You’ve got guns?’

‘Airguns,’ said Popov. ‘Mr Grechko’s children used to like playing with them.’

‘But you’re not armed, are you?’

Popov looked offended. ‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘Handguns are illegal in this country.’

‘I just thought maybe you’d been given special permission.’

Popov shook his head. ‘I think Mr Grechko asked but permission was refused.’ He pushed open the door. The room was about fifteen feet wide and sixty feet long. The walls and ceiling were soundproofed and there was a wall of sandbags at the far end, reaching from the floor to the ceiling. There were three targets in front of the sandbags, figures of terrorists holding AK-47s. By the door was a bench from where the guns could be fired, and there was a wire system that allowed the targets to be run back and forth.

‘This is pretty elaborate for airguns,’ said Shepherd.

Popov walked over to a metal cabinet with a keypad on the door. He tapped out a four-digit code and pressed his thumb against a sensor. The door opened and Popov stepped to the side to show Shepherd a dozen air rifles and half a dozen pistols of various shapes and sizes. All of them seemed to be air-operated. The bigger ones would provide quite a kick but you would have to be very lucky – or unlucky, depending on your point of view – to kill anyone with them. Popov closed the door of the cabinet.

‘So what’s the story with the kids?’ asked Shepherd.

‘They spend most of their time with Mrs Grechko, when they’re not at school,’ said Popov. ‘The first Mrs Grechko. She has a Cypriot passport. So does Mr Grechko and the children. He invested a lot of money in Cyprus many years ago and they were all given passports.’

‘And they’re on good terms?’

Popov frowned, not understanding. ‘Good terms?’

‘The divorce was amicable? Friendly? They’re not fighting?’

‘Mr Grechko is a very generous man,’ he said. ‘Mrs Grechko wants for nothing. They both love their sons. They have nothing to fight about.’ He walked out of the gun range with Shepherd and pushed open another door marked fire exit. It led to a concrete stairwell. ‘This is one of the three stairways that serve as emergency exits in the event of a fire. Also covered by CCTV. There are no locks or keypads on the doors on the outside for obvious reasons, but every inch is covered by CCTV. Once inside the stairwell, you need a thumbprint and code to exit at any level other than the ground floor. So again, we know who is where at any point just by tracking what doors they’ve opened.’

He walked down the stairs and pushed open a door that led to the second basement level. They stepped into a wood-panelled corridor with recessed lighting. ‘This is where the family comes for fun,’ said Popov. He showed Shepherd a full-size bowling alley with two lanes, a billiards room with two tables, a games room packed with video arcade games, pinball machines and two pool tables. He pushed open red double doors that opened into a plush red-velvet-lined cinema with twenty large La-Z-Boy reclining chairs and sofas facing a screen as big as Shepherd had ever seen. ‘Now this I like,’ said Shepherd.

‘Mr Grechko likes to watch movies,’ said Popov. ‘He gets to see a lot of them before they are released. He owns a movie studio in Los Angeles.’

He closed the doors to the cinema and pushed open another door that led to the concrete stairwell. They went down to the third basement level.

Popov nodded at a pair of teak double doors with the omnipresent keypad. ‘That’s Mr Grechko’s gym,’ he said. ‘He has two personal trainers and a Thai man who teaches him Muay Thai. You can box, Tony?’

‘Not really,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m more of a lover than a fighter.’

‘Pity, if you were any good we could have a bet as to whether you could beat our Thai boxer.’

‘Is he good?’

‘Hard as nails,’ said Popov. ‘Half my size but I wouldn’t go into the ring with him.’

‘How often do the trainers come?’

‘Monday and Thursday. They take it in turns. The boxer is here on Saturdays if Mr Grechko is home.’ From the other side of the doors they heard a loud grunt. Popov grinned. ‘That’s Mr Grechko,’ he said. ‘He’s doing weight training today. He can bench-press more than Leo.’

Popov gestured at frosted double doors at the far end of a tiled corridor. ‘And that’s the pool. That’s out of bounds when Mrs Grechko and the kids are here, but when she’s away Mr Grechko allows us to use the pool. Absolutely no smoking or drinking.’

‘No problem, Dmitry, I won’t be doing either.’ He looked up at the ceiling and caught their reflection in yet another black plastic dome. ‘You’re constantly monitoring the CCTV?’

‘In the security centre on Basement One,’ said Popov. ‘We’ll go there now.’ He took Shepherd along to a lift and they went up two floors. Popov pressed his thumb against the scanner and tapped in his four-digit code on the keypad outside the security centre. The lock clicked and he pushed open the door. There was a large room with three high-backed chairs facing a dozen large LCD screens. Each of the screens was filled with nine camera views from around the mansion and the grounds.

Only one of the chairs was occupied, by a thin man in his twenties who was trying in vain to disguise a receding hairline with a waxed comb-over. Shepherd recognised him from his file picture but said nothing as Popov introduced him as Vlad Molchanov. Molchanov was holding an iPad and he switched it off and placed it on a desk as Popov walked over to the screens. ‘As you can see we have eleven screens each with nine cameras,’ he said. ‘Ninety-nine in all.’ He pointed at the largest of the screens, which showed a view of the main gate. ‘This screen we use for anything of interest, to get a better view. The screens on the left are pre-programmed with the cameras we want to be watching all the time. The grounds, the corridors, the garage. The screens on the right take feeds from the rest of the cameras in a pre-programmed order but that can be overridden if any movement is spotted. The motion detectors take precedence over the timer so if something moves, we see it on one of these screens straight away.’

‘What about recordings?’

‘It all goes straight on to hard discs, but the discs are recycled every seven days,’ said Popov.

‘OK, as of today let’s stop doing any recycling. Keep everything.’ There was a row of transceivers in charging docks on a table against one wall. ‘How does the communication system work?’ he asked.

‘We all speak on the same channel. Channel One. If I need a personal chat we move to another frequency.’

‘Are the conversations recorded?’ Popov shook his head. ‘And you allow conversations in Russian?’

‘Of course.’

‘OK, well, from now on I want all chatter to be in English. All of it. I have to know what’s going on at all times.’

‘I’ll make sure that happens,’ said the Russian. He waved Shepherd to a chair and they both sat down. ‘This is Vlad Molchanov, he’s usually in here.’

Molchanov leaned over and shook hands with Shepherd. His grip was weak and clammy and Shepherd had to resist the urge to wipe his hand on his trousers.

Popov opened a door to reveal a larger room with a table surrounded by a dozen high-backed chairs. In one corner there was a kitchen area.

‘What time can I see Mr Grechko?’

There was a bank of clocks up on the wall above the screens showing the time in six different cities, from Los Angeles to Sydney. ‘He’s in the gym for another half-hour, then he has a massage and then he will shower and rest. He is eating at six and can see you for half an hour before that.’

‘Very good of him,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’ll give me time to do a walk-around outside. Now, what’s happening with the guy who was shot? Ulyashin?’

‘Mikhail’s coming back tomorrow,’ said Popov. ‘He’s using crutches but we can put him in here, he’ll be fine.’

‘If it’s OK with you I’d like to take a run out to where the shooting happened. You can talk me through it.’

‘No problem,’ said Popov. ‘Mr Grechko is here all day tomorrow.’

‘Can you fix it so that everything is pretty much the same as when you were shot at? Same guys, same car.’

‘We can do that,’ said Popov. ‘But why?’

‘I want to get a feel for what happened,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’ll give me an idea of what we’re up against.’

Shepherd and Popov walked around the outside of the house and then around the extensive grounds, which included an orchard, a large terrace and barbecue pit, a basketball court and a kennels where three large Dobermans watched Shepherd with suspicion through a chain-link fence. ‘We let the dogs out at night,’ said Popov. ‘Be careful when they are around, their bites are much worse than their bark.’ One of the dogs bared its teeth at Shepherd as if to prove his point. ‘They are trained in German,’ said Popov, ‘but they won’t obey strangers.’

‘No problem,’ said Shepherd. ‘I have my gun.’

Popov turned to look at him and then he smiled when he realised that Shepherd was joking. ‘English humour,’ said the Russian.

‘I hope so,’ said Shepherd. He had a Bluetooth earpiece in his left ear and a transceiver clipped to his belt in the small of his back. Popov had also scanned the thumb of his right hand and had him set up his own four-digit security code for the keypads.

Popov showed Shepherd several sensors in the ground that picked up vibrations and sound. ‘We had these installed after the sniping incident,’ Popov explained. ‘They are fed to a console in the security centre but at the moment they’re oversensitive and of course the dogs keep setting them off.’

‘You’d be better off with movement-activated security lights,’ said Shepherd. ‘Though again the dogs will set them off. What about your people? Do they patrol?’

Popov nodded. ‘We make that random,’ he said. ‘But there’s always at least one of us somewhere in the grounds. Day and night.’ He looked at his watch, a rugged stainless-steel Omega. ‘Mr Grechko will be ready for you now.’ He took Shepherd in through one of the back entrances. Again it took a thumbprint and a four-digit code for them to gain access before they headed along a hallway to the library. Grechko was already sitting behind a large desk. He stood up and walked towards Shepherd, his arm outstretched. He was a big man with hair so black that it could only have been dyed, with a square chin, a snub nose and thick eyebrows that had grown together so that they formed a single line across his forehead. ‘Welcome to my home,’ he said, offering a big hand with manicured nails, a diamond-encrusted Chopard watch on his wrist. He was wearing black trousers and a white silk shirt open to reveal a thick gold chain around his neck and greying chest hair that seemed to confirm that the hair on his head was indeed dyed.

There were two sofas at the far end of the library and he headed for them. As they sat down facing each other across a coffee table piled high with glossy books about antiques, Dmitry slipped out, pulling the double doors closed behind him. The walls were lined with books, thousands of them pristine and, by the look of it, unopened. There were stepladders on rails that ran the length of the walls, allowing access to the top shelves, and there were leather-bound books in display cases that were probably first editions. Grechko didn’t look like a reader, though. He sat with his arms outstretched along the back of the sofa and crossed his legs. The soles of his shoes were totally unmarked, as if he only ever wore them indoors. ‘So what do you think of my security?’ asked the Russian.

Shepherd wasn’t sure whether he meant the people on his team or the physical security arrangements, but either way he had no intention of badmouthing Popov to his boss. ‘Everything’s professional,’ he said.

‘Do I need more people?’ asked Grechko. ‘I can bring in extra staff if necessary.’

‘I think manpower-wise you’re probably OK,’ Shepherd said. ‘And you’ve done everything that needs to be done here. But I’d like to make some changes to the way you move around away from the house.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The fact that a sniper was able to get you in his sights shows that you are predictable,’ said Shepherd. ‘Getting a sniper into position takes a lot of planning. You have to know where the target will be at a particular time, and that can only happen if the target is following a set timetable. You should never use the same route consecutively, you should vary entrances and exits when you visit a location, and you shouldn’t have any regular meetings. For instance, Dmitry tells me that on the first Friday of every month you go to The Ivy.’

Grechko nodded. ‘There are six of us. Good friends. If we are in London, we meet. Is that a problem?’

‘The problem is that if you are predictable, you are vulnerable. I bet you have the same table each time, right?’

‘Of course. They know us there.’

‘Exactly. You’re known. So suppose I book the same table the day before the first Friday of the month. And suppose I take with me an explosive device. Nothing special, just a few ounces of C4 and some nuts and bolts for shrapnel. And a simple timer, set for twenty-four hours. And I fix the device to the underside of the table.’ He smiled at Grechko. ‘Bang!’ He mimed the explosion with his hands.

Grechko flashed him a tight smile. ‘You realise that every time I go to The Ivy I’m now going to be looking under the table?’

‘If you continue being predictable, that wouldn’t be a bad thing to do,’ said Shepherd. ‘Same goes for your route. When you drive from here to The Ivy, do you go the same way each time?’

Grechko nodded.

‘So I get a car and fill it full of explosives made from ammonium nitrate and fuel oil and I park it on the route. Detonated via a mobile phone. I wait until your car drives by and …’ He mimed an explosion again. ‘Bang!’

‘I understand,’ said Grechko.

‘But it doesn’t have to be as dramatic as that,’ said Shepherd. ‘Do you eat the same food? Drink the same wine?’

‘I am a big fan of their steak. And they have a Château Neuf du Pape that is out of this world.’

‘So I get a job in the kitchen and on the day you’re in I poison the steaks or the wine. It’s not an easy thing to do, but it’s happened in the past. The CIA and Mossad are especially good with poisons.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m not saying that you have to be paranoid, but you have to be careful. The only way that a sniper can take a shot at you is if you are predictable. Instead of meeting at the same restaurant, vary it. And leave it until the day before you decide where to go. I’ll talk to Dmitry about varying your routes. But a lot of it you can do yourself. If you have to meet your lawyer, meet him in a hotel rather than his office. Or have him come to you. If you’re out socialising, vary the location and, if you can, vary your entry and exit.’

‘You talk a lot of sense, Tony.’

‘It’s my job, Mr Grechko.’ Shepherd nodded at a large framed photograph of the Russian with his wife and sons. ‘Do you mind me asking about the security arrangements you have in place for your family while they’re away?’

‘My family?’

‘Your ex-wife and sons are in Cyprus, right?’

‘We have a villa there. The villa has a full staff and I sent a driver and two of Dmitry’s best men with them.’

‘Do you think that’s enough?’

Grechko frowned. ‘You think that someone would hurt my family?’ He smiled and shook his head. ‘You do not understand Russians, Tony. Those dogs in the Kremlin would kill me, they’d lock me in a dungeon and throw away the key, they would steal all my money if they could get their hands on it, but they would not dream of hurting my family. That is not the Russian way, Tony. It never has been and it never will be.’

‘I’ll take your word for that,’ said Shepherd.

‘You can,’ said Grechko. ‘No matter how much I hated someone, I would not attack their family. It’s just not something I would do and nor would any other Russian. Men do not attack women and children, Tony. And if you are worried about my ex-wife’s security you can check it for yourself in two days. I’m flying out there. You should come.’

‘I will do, Mr Grechko. I’ll be with you now whenever you leave the house. And what about the present Mrs Grechko? She is in France?’

‘Nadya has her own security. She will be safer away from me for the time being, that’s what I told her. Who’s to say that she won’t be standing next to me if the sniper should try again.’

Shepherd stood and turned to go. ‘Then I’ll say good evening and go through tomorrow’s schedule with Dmitry.’

‘And you’ll be coming along with my security team?’

‘Every time you leave the building, yes.’

Grechko jutted his chin out. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I can see you are a professional, Tony. I like to work with professionals.’

‘As do I, Mr Grechko.’

Shepherd left Grechko’s house at just after ten o’clock and drove back to his Hampstead flat. On the back seat of his car he had a transceiver and the Bluetooth earpiece was in his jacket pocket. Popov had also taken a print of his thumb and given him a four-digit keypad code for the security system. He phoned Button on hands-free as he drove and updated her on his progress. ‘What do you think?’ she asked.

‘His house is a fortress,’ said Shepherd. ‘I don’t think he’ll have any problems while he’s there. Fully alarmed and with CCTV everywhere, and most of the time he’s underground.’

‘Underground? How does that work?’

‘His house is like the Tardis,’ said Shepherd. ‘I mean, it’s big enough but there’s even more of it below ground. But the house isn’t overlooked anyway so no sniper’s going to get him while he’s at home. The problem is, he does put himself about and while he’s outside he’s vulnerable.’

‘Well, make sure he stays inside as much as possible.’

Shepherd laughed. ‘He’s an oligarch, I don’t think anyone tells him what to do. But I’ll give it my best shot. One thing’s for sure, we’re flying to Cyprus the day after tomorrow.’

‘That doesn’t sound such a great idea,’ said Button.

‘He’s got a private jet so we’re flexible about the take-off time, and his plane is at RAF Northolt so security there is tight.’

‘And what about Cyprus? What’s the story there?’

‘He says it’s not generally known that he’s flying out there, he’ll be taking security with him obviously, and there’s security on the ground. It’ll be OK. Can you speak to Europol and get me cleared to keep my gun while I’m there?’

‘I will, but I’m not happy about this,’ said Button.

‘The gun?’

‘The gun’s fine. It’s Grechko flying around the world while there’s an assassin after him that worries me.’

‘I’m not thrilled about the idea, but he’s probably safer in Cyprus than he is in London. Plus if anything happens to him when he’s there, it’s not really our problem.’

‘I do hope you’re joking.’

‘I am.’

‘Because if anything happens to Grechko while he’s in our care, we’ll be the ones carrying the can. And by “we” I mean “you”, of course.’

‘Message received loud and clear, ma’am,’ said Shepherd, and he ended the call just as he drove into Hampstead High Street. He found a parking space in the road close to his flat. He popped into a corner shop and picked up a bottle of milk, a loaf of bread and a packet of Birds Eye fish fingers before heading for the flat. He did a quick U-turn and looked at a mobile phone shop window display to check that no one was following him, more out of habit than because he seriously thought he was under surveillance, and then he walked home. He let himself in, tapped in the alarm code and went through to the kitchen and switched on the kettle. He’d left Harper’s Samsung phone in the cutlery drawer and he took it out and checked the screen. There had been no texts or calls while he’d been away.

He called Harper’s number and he answered almost immediately. ‘Where are you?’ asked Shepherd. He walked through to the bedroom and sat on his bed.

‘In the hotel,’ said Harper. ‘It’s doing my head in. There’s no hot water after nine and the guy above me is watching some foreign channel with the volume full on. I might look for somewhere else tomorrow. It’s finding a place that’ll take cash that’s the problem.’

‘Why don’t I help?’ said Shepherd, bending down to untie his boots. ‘You can use my credit card to book somewhere.’

‘Yeah, but then if it turns to shit there’s a clear link between you and me,’ said Harper. ‘Also, in a fleapit like this no one looks at me twice.’

‘You really are serious about keeping below the radar.’

‘I have to be, mate,’ said Harper. ‘So what’s happening with Khan?’

‘I’m on the case,’ said Shepherd, slipping off his boots. ‘They can try some face recognition software but it’ll take time. What about you? What are you up to?’

‘I’m staking out the mosques.’

‘You’re what?’

‘I’m checking out the mosques in West London. There aren’t too many and he’s got to be going to one of them, right? He’s a Muslim and Muslims pray five times a day.’

‘Yeah, but they don’t have to pray at mosques. They can do it home, they just need to be facing Mecca.’

‘They’re happier in mosques, you know that. And in that newspaper photograph he was happy enough walking around. I figure he’ll use a mosque fairly close to his home, so assuming he’s living in West London there aren’t too many options.’

‘It could be that he was just passing through when that photograph was taken.’

‘It could be. But he was holding a carrier bag so it looks to me like he’d just popped out for a bit of shopping. I don’t think he was too far from home when that picture was taken.’

‘Be careful, Lex. You’re playing with fire.’

‘Even if he saw me, I doubt he’d recognise me,’ said Harper. ‘I don’t think he ever got a good look at me in Afghanistan. I saw him in the camp but he’s got no reason to remember me.’

‘That’s not what I meant,’ said Shepherd. ‘Most of the mosques are under constant MI5 surveillance. Especially those that are in any way connected with fundamentalism. They’ve got agents inside the mosques but they’ve got people on the outside watching as well.’

‘I’m not going inside,’ said Harper. ‘Give me some credit.’

‘Lex, they’re not just watching for Islamic fundamentalists. They’re also looking for the right-wing nutters who go around leaving pigs’ heads on the doorstep. If you start hanging around outside any mosque, alarm bells will ring.’

Shepherd waited for Harper to reply, but there was only silence.

‘You see what I’m saying?’ said Shepherd eventually.

‘Yeah. I hadn’t thought of that,’ said Harper. ‘I was too busy watching out for Khan to think that someone might have been watching me. Shit. If I have been spotted, what will they be doing?’

‘They’ll have a tail on you, to find out who you are and what you’re up to.’

‘I’m pretty much sure I’ve not been followed.’

‘If they’re good, you wouldn’t see them,’ said Shepherd.

‘It’s not the end of the world,’ said Harper. ‘I’m not registered under my own name and the passport I came in on isn’t in my name either. But you’re right, I need to be careful.’

‘You might be OK,’ said Shepherd. ‘But better safe than sorry. How are you on counter-surveillance?’

‘I look over my shoulder from time to time.’

Shepherd laughed. ‘Yeah, that’ll do it. I tell you what, stay put and I’ll take a look tomorrow. You can take a walk around and I’ll see if there’s anyone on you. I’m free in the afternoon so I’ll fix something up and give you a call. But in the meantime, stay away from the mosques.’

Shepherd ended the call, lay back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. He was as keen as Harper to track down Ahmad Khan, but it had to be done properly. There was no point in finding him if they exposed themselves at the same time. But the question that was troubling Shepherd was what had to be done once they’d found Khan.