True Colours

AFGHANISTAN 2002

Ahmad Khan left Lailuna with his sister and went to meet his Taliban comrades. He knew that many of them were privately as unhappy as him with the extremism of some of their leaders. Sitting around a campfire sipping cups of hot sweet tea, he told them what he proposed to do, knowing that he was putting his life in their hands.

‘You all know me,’ he said. ‘We have fought together side by side, some of us for many years. We have defended our country and our faith. We have fought the Russians, the Americans, the British, and we have crossed the border to fight the Pakistanis when they attacked our brothers there and, when there were no faranji to fight, we have fought among ourselves. But now I am growing weary of war. Have I, have we all, not earned the right to live in peace? Soon it will be time to go home, cultivate our land, raise our families and live our lives.’

There were nods and murmurs of agreement from his men. And when it came time to leave the campfire, his men had agreed to his plan. He left them and made off as if heading for his home, but after nightfall he made his way down from the mountains, walking westwards throughout the night and the day that followed. A few miles outside Jalalabad he stopped and lay up in the cover of some trees, observing an American Forward Operating Base. He knew its location because he and his comrades had mortared it on several occasions. He watched and waited, less concerned by the comings and goings of military patrols than the whereabouts of Afghan civilians. Among them, he knew, were Taliban spies and informers, and he could not afford to be seen by them. In late afternoon, he saw his chance. The road leading to the base was largely deserted and a convoy of American vehicles returning from patrol had created a cloud of dust that hung in the air like fog.

Holding his AK-74 rifle by the end of the barrel, and with both arms spread wide to show he posed no threat, he walked slowly towards the gates, calling out that he wanted to speak to an officer. The guards ordered him to stop and open his jacket to prove he was not wearing a suicide vest and he had to lie flat in the dirt while they searched him and took his weapon. When they were satisfied that he wasn’t a threat he was allowed into the base under guard and taken to see the commanding officer.

The officer heard him out in silence, asked a few less than penetrating questions and then left the room to confer over a secure link with his superiors at Bagram. Through the half-open door, Khan could hear the murmur of the officer’s voice and then his returning footsteps. The officer tossed him a can of Coke, cool from the fridge, winked and said, ‘Welcome aboard.’

Khan was given back his AK-74, though the magazines and spare ammunition were kept in a locked box carried by his American escort. He was flown to Bagram by helicopter that night, and debriefed by an African-American intelligence officer with the Defense Intelligence Agency. ‘Salaam alaikum, Khan,’ the officer said, touching his hand to his heart in the Afghan way, as Khan was shown into his office. ‘I’m Joshua.’ Khan suspected that it was not his real name, but the officer seemed open and honest, he met Khan’s gaze when he spoke to him, and he treated him with respect.

Khan first laid out his terms. ‘I’m willing to come over to your side,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you everything I know, the names of my comrades and the senior Taliban commanders I know, the tactics they use, the places where their weapons and explosives are hidden, the locations of their safe houses, and how they’re financed. I can tell you about the money house across the border in Pakistan where the money from drug smuggling, protection rackets and the stolen bribes you pay to buy the loyalties of warlords is stored and distributed to Taliban fighters and their allies. I can tell you the names of a few of the spies and sleepers within the Afghan regular army and I’ll even spy for you if you want.’

‘And what’s your angle?’ Joshua said. ‘What do you want in return for all of this?’

‘Do you have children?’ Khan said.

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Because if you have children, you will understand. I want a new life for my daughter in the West. Afghanistan is not safe for her. The Taliban have beaten her and I fear that one day they will return to kill her.’

‘And presumably you want to go to the West with her?’

‘Insh’allah, yes. But you must promise me that even if I am killed, you will still arrange for my daughter to leave this country.’

He waited in silence as Joshua weighed his words. ‘Deal,’ he said at last, and held out his hand. ‘Shake on it.’

For the next forty-eight hours, Khan told and retold his story, as Joshua interrogated him, probing and cross-examining him like a courtroom lawyer, never satisfied until he had teased out the last detail of everything Khan said, and, where possible, had cross-checked it against other information that he already possessed. He also brought in a succession of his colleagues for whom Khan had to repeat his story over and over again.

When Joshua at last pronounced himself satisfied, Khan added one final piece of information. ‘I think my men are also ready to come over,’ he said. ‘They are disenchanted with some of our leaders and tired of the endless fighting. There’s been no peace in Afghanistan for thirty years. They’re proud men and they won’t surrender to you, but if you give them a way to save face and hold out the prospect of peace to them, if not immediately, then at least soon, I think they will take it.’

He explained his planned rendezvous with his comrades and showed Joshua the place on a map. ‘The Brits are responsible for that area,’ Joshua said, ‘and they’ve an FOB a few miles from there. I’ll introduce you to a British contact and he can make the arrangements to bring your guys in.’

Khan was unconvinced by Joshua’s insistence on involving the British. He realised that Joshua didn’t completely trust Khan so he was letting the British handle the surrender. That way, if anything went wrong, it would be the British and not the Americans who would take the blame.

‘One other thing,’ Joshua said. ‘There is another agent in the same area. I don’t know his identity but he’s being run by the Brits, and if his own cover is threatened and he has any inkling that you are also an agent, he might betray you to save himself.’

‘Is there nothing else you can tell me about him?’

‘There is one thing. I’ve heard the Brits talk about him when we’ve been exchanging intelligence, and they used a code name for him that apparently he chose himself: “Abu Qartoob”. Do you know what it means?’

‘It means Father of the Earlobe,’ said Khan. ‘Afghans and Arabs don’t always see eye to eye, but we do have our sense of humour in common, and it is quite strange and very dark. You have heard of Abu Hamza, for instance? Well, his name translates as “Father of the Five”. Know why?’

Joshua shook his head.

‘It’s because he blew off one of his hands in an explosion, so he now has only five fingers.’ He studied Joshua for a moment. ‘I told you our sense of humour was strange.’

‘So this Abu Qartoob is likely to have a physical distinguishing mark too: big earlobes, or no earlobes at all, or something?’

‘Possibly. I shall watch out for such a man.’

Joshua completed briefing Khan on codes, systems for contacting Joshua or another American agent-handler, dead drops in which messages could be left, and emergency procedures, and then stood up. ‘Give me a few moments to brief the Brit guy,’ he said, ‘and then I’ll introduce you.’

‘Who is he?’

‘Captain Harry Todd. He’s a British Army officer serving a three-year tour with the SAS, but he’s been detached from his SAS squadron to the Intelligence Clearing Centre, where we collect and evaluate all the intelligence from human and electronic sources.’ While Joshua went in search of Todd, another American handler entered the room and began chatting to Khan.

Joshua returned half an hour later with the English officer. Todd’s long, floppy blond hair and pink, fresh-faced complexion gave him an air of boyish innocence. ‘I’m Harry,’ Todd said, extending his hand. ‘It sounds like you have an interesting story to tell.’

‘Salaam alaikum, Harry, I hope you’ll find it worthwhile,’ Khan said. He repeated his account to Todd, noting to himself that the Englishman asked far fewer questions about it than Joshua, and those that he did ask were less perceptive and incisive. After they had talked for some time, Todd nodded slowly. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘I’m convinced, let’s go and get them.’ He glanced at Joshua. ‘If you’ve finished with Khan, I’ll take him back to our section and arrange for some transport up to our FOB.’

Joshua reached into a desk drawer and handed a bundle of dollars to Khan.

‘What’s this?’ Khan said.

‘Payment.’

Khan shook his head. ‘I don’t need your money. That’s not why I’m doing this.’

Joshua spread his hands wide. ‘I understand that,’ he said. ‘But everyone needs money. Take it for your daughter, if not for yourself.’

Khan hesitated, then shrugged, took the dollars and stuffed them into the money belt that he wore around his waist. Most men in Afghanistan kept their cash and valuables in money belts, pockets were not to be trusted.

Khan followed Todd out of the American section of the base and into the British area. The British section appeared chaotic compared with the order and efficiency of the American operation, with its banks of computers, new-looking desks and equipment. Todd’s desk was covered with stacks of papers and files and there were more piled on top of the filing cabinet behind him, and a row of Post-it notes stuck to the edge of his desk heightened the impression of disorganisation. ‘I hope you take better care of your informants than you do of your documents,’ Khan said with a smile that belied his unease.

‘Don’t worry,’ Todd said. ‘Every document is locked away before I leave this office and every room is checked by the guards during the night. If there’s so much as a scrap of paper on show when they do so, I’ll be up on a charge.’ He smiled confidently. ‘You’re in safe hands, I promise you.’

His words would have been more reassuring, Khan thought to himself, had Todd not left all his documents on open display while he’d been spending more than an hour talking to him in the American section. But Khan knew that he had no choice other than to trust the British officer. Todd and Joshua were Khan’s only hope of escaping Afghanistan with his daughter.

The Bentley pulled up in front of the West Stand of Stamford Bridge stadium, home to Chelsea Football Club. It was just after ten o’clock in the morning and the street was pretty much deserted. They were well away from the main entrances where every match day more than forty thousand fans would pour in to cheer on their team. Popov gestured at a blue door, from which led a small flight of stairs to the left, and to the right a concrete wheelchair ramp. ‘That leads to the lift that goes straight up to Mr Abramovich’s private box.’ Two CCTV cameras covered the door and there was an intercom set into the wall to the left of the door.

‘It doesn’t look very VIP,’ said Shepherd. He was sitting in the back of the Bentley, directly behind Popov. Ulyashin was sitting next to him with his aluminium crutches between his legs, and Serov was squashed up against the other door, behind the driver. Shepherd could feel the transceiver pressing against the small of his back and he was having trouble getting used to the Bluetooth earpiece.

‘It’s not advertised,’ said Popov. ‘But it means high-profile visitors can get in and out without being snapped by the paparazzi.’

‘But it’s generally known that Mr Grechko would use it?’

Popov nodded. ‘More for convenience than because he wants to avoid publicity. Mrs Grechko likes to have her photograph taken.’

‘I bet she does,’ said Shepherd. ‘And this was where the car was parked, when it happened?’

‘For sure,’ said Popov. He said something to Chayka in Russian and the driver grunted and nodded. ‘Absolutely sure,’ said Popov.

‘And you came out of the door, with Mr Grechko?’

‘Me and Leo and Mikhail were with him in the box. We came down in the lift together after I confirmed that the cars were here.’

‘Cars?

‘The Bentley and one of the SUVs. Alexei and Boris were in the SUV with Nikolay driving.’

‘So there were two cars?’

Popov nodded.

‘Dmitry, I said I wanted everything to be the same.’

Popov frowned, not understanding the point Shepherd was making.

Shepherd sighed and reached for the door handle. ‘OK, run through it with me.’ He climbed out and then helped Ulyashin out with his crutches. His leg had a plastic protector around the dressing which reached from his ankle up to his knee and he had put an old sock over his foot. Popov got out of the front passenger seat and slammed the door behind him.

Popov, Tarasov and Shepherd walked up the steps to the door. Ulyashin looked at the steps, thought better of it and walked around and up the wheelchair ramp.

‘So in what order did you come out of the door?’ asked Shepherd.

‘I came out first,’ said Popov. ‘I had a quick look around to check that we were clear and then Leo joined me. Once we were in place Leo moved down the steps and Mr Grechko came out.’

‘Show me,’ said Shepherd. ‘Let’s pretend I’m Mr Grechko.’

Tarasov walked slowly down the steps, his arms swinging by his side. ‘So at this point I’m at the door, you’re to my left and Leo is in front of me,’ said Shepherd. ‘Then what?’

‘Then Mikhail came out.’

‘And did what? Stayed behind me?’

Popov nodded.

‘And what about the men in the SUV? Alexei and Boris?’

‘They stayed there. Watching from the car.’

Shepherd was about to point out that a bodyguard’s place was next to his principal, not sitting in a car watching what was going on, but he bit his tongue. He had meant what he’d said about not embarrassing the man in front of his colleagues. ‘OK, and what was the plan? Leo’s on the step, you’re on my left and Mikhail is behind me.’

‘Leo moves down to the car and opens the rear door. I go down and stand to the front of the car, next to Leo. You – Mr Grechko – walks down the stairs and gets into the car. Mikhail covers his rear, Leo gets in next to you, I get in the front and Mikhail goes back to the SUV.’

The SUV which isn’t there, thought Shepherd, but again he didn’t say anything. Nor did he point out that in a situation like Stamford Bridge there was safety in numbers and the safest option would have been to have brought Grechko out of one of the main exits. The isolated VIP entrance was a gift to any attacker.

Shepherd looked around. A good sniper, a really good one, could make a near-guaranteed kill shot at a mile or more, but that would be exceptional. Shepherd had honed his sniping skills in the deserts of Afghanistan, which is where an Australian sniper had a GPS-confirmed shot of more than three thousand yards and where Craig Harrison, a corporal with the Blues and Royals, shot and killed two Taliban machine-gunners at a range of two thousand seven hundred yards. But such distances really were the exception, and most snipers weren’t comfortable beyond half a mile. And at anything above half a mile the wind made a big difference, and calculating the distance the round would fall became crucial. The problem was that the stadium was in a built-up area of West London and was overlooked by all manner of residential and office buildings. From where he was standing Shepherd could see at least a dozen vantage points that would be perfect for a sniper, from open windows to office block roofs to cranes high above building projects.

‘Did the police do this with you?’ Shepherd asked Popov. ‘Did they do a run-through like this?’

Popov shook his head. ‘Mr Grechko didn’t want to talk to the police,’ he said. ‘He said the British police are useless when it comes to things like this. He said the British police couldn’t find their own arses if they used both hands.’ He laughed, and then repeated what he’d said in Russian for the benefit of Tarasov and Ulyashin.

‘Yeah, he might be right,’ said Shepherd. ‘Which direction did the shot come from?’

‘Difficult to say,’ said Popov. ‘We didn’t hear the shot.’

‘It was a single shot?’

‘The only round that we know about is the one that struck Mikhail.’

‘But it’s possible that there were more?’

Popov shrugged. ‘Like I said, we didn’t hear the sound of a shot.’

Shepherd nodded. That meant that the sniper was too far away to be heard or used a suppressor. Spider wasn’t a big fan of suppressors, because while they cut down on the noise they also affected the performance of the round.

‘OK, walk me through it,’ said Shepherd.

Popov spoke to Tarasov in Russian and the big man moved down the steps, his legs swinging from side to side. As he headed for the rear door of the Bentley, Popov moved down the steps. Shepherd stood where he was and looked around. With the two bodyguards at the bottom of the steps, he was totally exposed. If the sniper was going to take the shot, the obvious time would have been when the target was on the steps, not when he was getting into the car.

Tarasov opened the rear door of the Bentley and turned to look at Shepherd. He was standing on the wrong side, Shepherd knew, he should have been standing at the rear of the car and not close to the front passenger door. Popov was standing behind Tarasov, watching Shepherd as he walked down the stairs. The fact that the two men were at the front of the car meant that Shepherd was vulnerable to an attack from the rear.

Behind him, Ulyashin cursed as his crutch skidded across the concrete. ‘And the guys in the SUV stayed where they were?’ asked Shepherd.

Popov nodded. Again Shepherd bit his tongue. Grechko had been at his most vulnerable when he moved down the steps and at that point he should have been surrounded by his team. As he moved down the steps, Ulyashin continued to have problems using the crutches and he cursed again, in Russian.

Shepherd reached the door of the Bentley and turned to look at Ulyashin, who had only just reached the bottom of the steps.

‘So when did he get hit?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Just as Mr Grechko got to the car. Where you are standing now.’

‘And Mikhail?’

‘He was moving back to the SUV.’

‘Mikhail, where did the bullet hit you?’

Ulyashin frowned. ‘The leg.’ He said something to Popov in Russian. Popov didn’t reply, he just waved away whatever Ulyashin had said.

‘The front of the leg or the back?’

‘The back,’ said Ulyashin.

‘The calf,’ said Popov. ‘The bullet went in the back and blew a chunk out of the front.’

Shepherd nodded thoughtfully. The fact that the round hadn’t taken off the man’s leg suggested that it was fired from far away, possibly a mile, so that by the time it reached its target it had lost most of its momentum. ‘Mikhail, think carefully, where exactly were you standing when the round hit?’

Ulyashin frowned. ‘Round?’ he repeated.

‘Bullet,’ said Shepherd.

‘Pulya,’ translated Popov.

‘Ah, pulya.’ Ulyashin nodded and stood with his legs apart at the rear of the Bentley, facing towards Shepherd.

‘See that?’ said Shepherd. ‘If he was standing there, he’d have been shielded by the SUV, right? So the sniper can only have been down there.’ He pointed down the road. In the distance was a crane and beyond it an apartment block and several office towers. ‘There are plenty of buildings he could have taken a shot from. Or he could have done it from a vehicle.’

Popov nodded slowly. ‘Mr Grechko was lucky.’

‘Yes, he was, wasn’t he? OK, I’ve seen enough, you guys can head back to the house.’

‘You’re not coming with us?’

‘I’ll catch a black cab,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ve got something to do but I’ll be back at the house in a few hours. Mr Grechko’s not going anywhere, is he?’

‘There’s nothing on the schedule – you know that.’

‘Exactly. If anything changes then call me ASAP, otherwise I’ll see you back at the house.’

‘Is there a problem?’

Shepherd shook his head. ‘It’s all good, Dmitry,’ he said.

Shepherd caught a black cab and had it drop him outside the Whiteley’s shopping centre in Queensway. He paid the driver, went inside and walked along to Costa Coffee, where he bought himself a cappuccino and found a quiet seat by the window before using the Samsung mobile to phone Harper. ‘Are you ready for a spot of cleaning?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Sure,’ said Harper. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘You’re close to Queensway, right?’

‘Just around the corner.’

‘OK, here’s the deal. I know you hate tube stations but I need you to go to Queensway tube station. Keep your head down and your hood up and the CCTV cameras won’t get your face. Buy yourself a one-day travel card from a machine. Don’t worry, the machines don’t have CCTV. The only line that uses Queensway is the Central Line. Go straight down the escalator to the eastbound platform. Wait for the first train and look as if you’re going to get on, then take a seat on the platform. Don’t make a thing about looking around but be aware if anyone does the same.’

‘Got you,’ said Harper.

‘Then get up and make a thing about looking at the map. Put on a bit of a show as if you’ve realised that you’re on the wrong platform and walk across to the westbound. Do the same there. Make it look as if you’re getting on the next train and then change your mind and sit down.’

‘So I’ll spot if there’s a tail.’

‘Either that or they’ll get on the train so that they don’t show out. If they do board, they’ll call in a watcher at the entrance. The thing is, don’t make it too obvious. Just act a bit confused, as if you’re not sure what you’re doing. Then look at your watch as if you’re late for something, and head back up the escalator and out into the street.’

‘Then what?’

‘I’ll have watched you go in and out. If you’ve been tailed I should have spotted it. I’ll phone you as soon as you’re back in the street.’

‘Sounds like a plan,’ said Harper.

‘Now this is important, Lex. Don’t look for me, but if you do see me just blank me. No reaction at all. And don’t look for a tail. Even on the tube platform. No looking around. If someone stays on the platform you’ll see them, you don’t need to look at them. That’s how it works on the tube, no one makes eye contact.’

‘I’ll be keeping my head down, that’s for sure. When are we going to do this?’

Shepherd looked at his watch. It was just after eleven o’clock in the morning. ‘The sooner the better.’

‘I can be at the tube station in twenty minutes.’

‘Perfect.’ Shepherd ended the call and spent ten minutes drinking his coffee before walking back down Queensway. He arrived opposite the tube station at 11.15 and spent the last few minutes window-shopping. He spotted Harper walking from the direction of Hyde Park, his hands in his parka and his head down. Shepherd took his mobile and started speaking into it as he walked slowly along the pavement. There didn’t seem to be anyone interested in what Harper was doing, but if MI5 were watching him that was to be expected. The surveillance teams of the Security Service were among the best in the world. They had honed their skills during the Cold War and against the IRA and were at any one time following hundreds of potential Islamic terrorists.

As Harper disappeared inside the station, Shepherd continued to pretend to talk on his phone as he watched to see who else went inside. A man in a grey suit with a briefcase, two students with backpacks and beanie hats, an old lady in a cheap coat with what looked like a dead fox around her neck, a woman with a pushchair, a very fat man in an anorak and stretch pants, a girl with a Hello Kitty suitcase, three Japanese teenagers with spiky hair and chains hanging off their tight jeans, a curly-haired man in a London Underground jacket, a Sikh man with a blue turban and a violin case.

Shepherd took his phone away from his ear but kept it in his hand as he walked slowly along the pavement. If the followers were good they’d have left one watcher in the ticket hall, just in case Harper did what Shepherd had suggested and doubled back. Sending Harper into the tube station would also have confused any vehicles or cyclists being used as part of a surveillance team. Normal protocol would be to send any vehicles to the next stations along the line or to put them on stand-by. Queensway was a busy road with no places to stop. A black cab disgorged a businessman with a leather briefcase and then it went on its way, its yellow light on. A white van went by. There were two men in it, one of them eating a Cornish pasty and reading a copy of the Sun.

A bike courier, a woman in black spandex leggings and a tight fluorescent jacket, had stopped outside the station and was talking into a mobile phone clipped to her collar. She wheeled her bike along the pavement and then padlocked it and went inside a money exchange shop. An ambulance turned into Queensway from the Hyde Park end and its siren kicked into life as it sped down towards Whiteley’s. Heads turned to watch it go. Shepherd ignored it and concentrated on any passers-by who were more interested in the tube station. Two pensioners, a man and a woman, walked arm in arm into the ticket hall, wearing matching raincoats. The woman with the pushchair reappeared, looking flustered, but then she looked around and saw a man in a long leather jacket walking down the road towards her, waving. She kissed him on the cheek and they walked back into the ticket hall together. The bike courier reappeared from the currency exchange shop, unlocked her bike and rode off towards Hyde Park.

Harper emerged from the tube station. Shepherd called him on his mobile. ‘Looking good,’ he said. ‘Turn left and head down Queensway to Whiteley’s. On the way stop at a shop window, any one, it doesn’t matter. Walk past, stop, then walk back and stare in the window for about thirty seconds.’

‘Got you,’ said Harper, and he began to walk down the busy road, his parka hood still up.

‘Go into Whiteley’s, there’s an escalator up to the first floor,’ continued Shepherd. ‘Take it but then come straight back down on the down escalator. Then just head up to Hyde Park and I’ll see you there. Don’t look around, you don’t have to worry about spotting a tail, that’s down to me.’

Harper put his phone into his pocket and slouched off down the road. Shepherd was standing on the opposite side of the road, looking into the window of a shop that sold London souvenirs and T-shirts. He turned, his phone still held against his ear as he carried out an imaginary conversation. If Harper was being followed, a professional would almost certainly be on the opposite side of the road, though if there were multiple followers they would use both sides. If the surveillance was top notch, they might even have someone ahead of Harper. The fact that Harper had gone into the tube station meant that there were unlikely to be vehicles or cyclists in the area as they would have moved towards the next stations on the Central Line.

Shepherd continued to talk into his phone as he watched Harper head down Queensway. He waited until Harper was about a hundred yards away before he started walking after him. Harper did his U-turn in front of a Chinese restaurant with a dozen dark-brown ducks hanging from their feet in the window. Shepherd didn’t see anyone falter on either side of the street. When Harper began walking again, no one stopped to allow him to get ahead, which was a good sign.

Shepherd walked quickly, jogged across the road, and by the time Harper walked into the Whiteley’s shopping centre, Shepherd was only twenty feet behind him. As Harper walked towards the escalator, Shepherd turned towards a shop selling leather jackets and used the reflection to watch Harper go up the escalator. Shepherd’s photographic memory enabled him to effortlessly remember every person who followed Harper up the escalator, and not one of them followed him back down when he made the downward journey a few seconds later. Nor did anyone follow Harper out of the shopping centre.

Shepherd crossed Queensway and followed Harper back up to Hyde Park. As Harper entered the park Shepherd stayed on the pavement, pretending to make a call on his mobile. Over the next five minutes a dozen or so people walked into the park, but it was clear that none was involved in surveillance. Shepherd put his phone away and walked over to the bench where Harper was sitting and smoking a cigarette. ‘Clean as a whistle,’ said Shepherd, sitting down next to him.

‘I’ve never understood what that meant,’ said Harper. ‘People are always blowing in whistles so they’re not especially clean, are they?’

‘I think it goes back to the days of steam engines,’ said Shepherd. ‘They were made of brass and were always well polished.’

Harper grinned. ‘You and your trick memory,’ he said.

‘Yeah, but just because I remember it doesn’t mean it’s true,’ said Shepherd. ‘Anyway, there’s no one following you. Not today, anyway.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You could be marked for occasional surveillance. If they’ve nothing else on. High-priority targets are followed twenty-four-seven but there are plenty of low-priority targets who get followed as and when.’

‘Shit. So we have to go through this every day?’

Shepherd shook his head. ‘I think you’re OK. If they had spotted you at a mosque they’d be all over you for the first few days just in case you were an imminent threat. But from now on, no more hanging around outside mosques.’

‘But walking around Fulham and Hammersmith is OK, right?’

Shepherd shrugged. ‘I don’t see why not.’

‘Thought I might visit a few of the Asian shops, check out the restaurants from that part of the world.’

‘Afghan cuisine?’

‘You’d be surprised, mate,’ said Harper.

‘Seriously, Lex, keep your head down. Let my guy do his thing first. Let’s work the databases before we start prowling the streets.’

Harper flicked ash on to the grass. ‘You’re right,’ he said.

‘I know I’m right. It’s what I do for a living.’

Harper shivered. ‘Why’s it so bloody cold?’ he asked.

‘The weather’s been funny all year,’ said Shepherd. ‘We had snow right through March.’

‘So much for global warming.’

‘They call it climate change now,’ said Shepherd. ‘And there’s no doubt that there’s something funny going on with our weather.’

‘Yeah, well, I’ll be glad to get back to Thailand.’ He winked at Shepherd. ‘You should come.’

‘Yeah, maybe. How is it these days?’

‘Full of Brits,’ Harper said. ‘And the Russians are moving in big-time. They pretty much run Phuket already and they’re taking over Pattaya.’

‘How so?’

‘Russian mafia, mate. They’re vicious bastards. They’ve even got clubs with Russian go-go dancers and the cops just let them get on with it.’ He grinned. ‘The best police force money can buy. But they’re moving into property, big-time. Drugs. Counterfeit medicines, counterfeit anything. The Thais are terrified of them. Get into an argument with a Russkie and …’ He made a gun with his hand. ‘Bang, bang.’

‘But not a problem for you, right?’

‘I get on with everyone, mate. You know that. But it’s changed a lot since you were there.’

‘Everything changes,’ said Shepherd. ‘The weather, people, places. Nothing stays the same.’

‘More’s the pity.’

Shepherd nodded. ‘Life does seem to get more complicated, doesn’t it? Back in Afghanistan, everything was black and white, pretty much. We were the good guys, the Taliban were the bad guys. They tried to kill us and we tried to kill them. You knew where you stood. Now we’ve got a Taliban killer living in London and I’m protecting a Russian mobster from a professional hitman.’

Harper turned to look at him. ‘Seriously?’

‘Can’t talk about it,’ said Shepherd. ‘Well, I can, but then I’d have to kill you.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got to go. Duty calls.’

Shepherd got back to his Hampstead flat at just after eight o’clock in the evening. He put the kettle on and had a quick shower while it boiled. Grechko was staying in all night and it was clear that security was tight at the mansion so there was nothing to be gained by Shepherd sleeping on the premises. He changed into a clean polo short and chinos, made himself a coffee and then called Charlotte Button. He apologised for calling so late but she cut him short. ‘I’m always on duty, you know that,’ she said. ‘And I guess it’s difficult to call when his security team are around.’

‘I wanted a chat about the attack on Grechko,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t investigated by the cops, was it?’

‘They weren’t informed until well after the event,’ said Button. ‘They drove the bodyguard who was hit to a private hospital and Grechko called the PM before the police were informed. To be honest it wouldn’t have made any difference, the sniper was a pro so he would have been long gone.’

‘Yeah, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about,’ said Shepherd. ‘I was out there for a look-see with his security team.’

‘And?’

‘And there’s something not right. If as you said the guy is a pro, then I don’t see how he could have missed Grechko. As he came out of the stadium, he was a sitting duck.’

‘Snipers sometimes miss,’ said Button. ‘You must know that, what with your sniping experience and all that.’

‘Except he didn’t miss, he hit a bodyguard in the leg. The bullet wasn’t recovered, was it?’

‘The bullet went in and out. There was a search of the area carried out, but it was two days after and it didn’t turn up.’

‘That’s a pity. It might have given us a better idea of the type of weapon used. I’m not sure if it was a long-distance shot or not. There were plenty of vantage points within a mile, but it could have been done from a parked vehicle and that would have been a much closer shot.’

‘Why do you think that?’

‘The bodyguards didn’t hear a shot so that suggests that the gun was some distance away. But it could have had a suppressor on it, and then I started thinking about that sniper in Baltimore, the one who made his shots from the boot of a car.’

‘Why does it matter where he was?’ asked Button.

‘If he was a mile away then it’s understandable that he might have missed. There’d be big variations on air speed from high up to low down, plus updraughts from the stadium. It’d be a complicated shot so a miss wouldn’t be unexpected. But the thing is, professional killers don’t usually make shots when there’s a chance they might miss. Makes them look less than professional. But if he was closer then he shouldn’t have missed.’

‘Where are you going with this?’ asked Button.

‘The stadium was behind them and there were two cars in the road. The bullet hit the bodyguard in the back of the leg, so the cars being where they were, the sniper could only have fired from one direction. When he fired, Grechko was getting into the car and the bodyguard was in the way.’

‘So it was an accident. Grechko was lucky.’

‘If the sniper had made the shot earlier, the bodyguard wouldn’t have been in the way.’

‘What are you saying?’

Shepherd sighed. ‘I’m not sure. There’s just something not right about this. He hit the bodyguard in the leg. Are we supposed to believe that he was trying for a kill shot at Grechko and he missed by, what, five or six feet? And why did he wait until the bodyguard was between him and the target when if he’d fired earlier, he’d have had a clear shot?’

‘Are you saying that the sniper deliberately missed?’

‘Either that or he wanted to shoot the bodyguard. He hit the target he was aiming for.’

‘For what reason?’

‘That’s the question, isn’t it? And I’m afraid I don’t have the answer. But what’s the alternative, the world’s worst sniper is on Grechko’s case?’

‘What do his security team think?’

‘To be honest, I don’t think thinking is in their skill set. They’re not the brightest and I’m having to put a lot of work into getting them up to speed on the personal protection front. Look, how do we move forward on this? Presumably someone is trying to catch the sniper, right?’

‘We’re liaising with the Russian intelligence services and cross-referencing names with the immigration people,’ said Button. ‘We’re on the case.’

‘Because I really don’t want to spend the rest of my life babysitting a Russian oligarch,’ he said.

‘You won’t, I promise,’ said Button, and she ended the call.

Shepherd finished his coffee and then picked up his laptop and placed it on the coffee table. He booted it up and launched Skype. He smiled when he saw that Liam was online. He started a call and after a few rings Liam answered and his face filled the screen. ‘Hi, Dad,’ he said. He was growing his hair long and he flicked it out of his eyes.

‘Hey. Please tell me you’re doing homework on the computer and not playing around on Facebook or Twitter or whatever.’

‘Sure, if that’ll make you happy,’ said Liam. He grinned. ‘Only joking, Dad. We do a lot of our maths homework online now, I was just finishing it.’

‘Good lad. Everything OK?’

‘Sure. I’ve got a match on Saturday against a team from Rugby. That’s ironic, isn’t it? Football against Rugby?’

‘Good luck with it.’

‘Is there any chance you could get to see it?’ asked Liam.

‘I’d love to, Liam, but I’ve got a job in London. I’ve got to be there every day.’

Shepherd’s stomach lurched when he saw the look of disappointment on Liam’s face. ‘Soon as the job’s done, I’ll come and see you.’

‘It’s OK, Dad. No problem.’

‘I’ve got to be here twenty-four-seven pretty much,’ said Shepherd.

‘Really, it’s OK. Hey, there’s something I want to ask you.’

‘Sure. Go ahead.’

‘What would you think if I wanted to join the army?’

Shepherd laughed. ‘You’re only sixteen.’

Liam raised his eyebrows and looked at him with the withering contempt that had become a feature over the past year or so. ‘I know that,’ he said. ‘I meant when I finish school.’

‘I was sort of hoping you’d go to university.’

‘You didn’t go.’

‘I went. I just didn’t finish.’

‘You studied economics at Manchester University. But you never sat your finals because you joined the army.’

Shepherd couldn’t help but smile. Liam would make a great interrogator. ‘Things were different when I was a teenager,’ said Shepherd. ‘These days employers expect you to have a degree.’

‘OK, I could sign up after I go to university. In fact the army will pay for me to get my degree.’ He looked excited and he was nodding as he spoke, trying to encourage Shepherd to agree with him.

‘What’s brought this on?’ said Shepherd. ‘You’ve never mentioned this before.’

‘We had a careers talk today from a captain in the Royal Marines and it got me thinking, that’s all.’

‘Why was a Royal Marines captain talking at your school?’

‘He’s an old boy. But he was there as part of our careers talks. We’ve had all sorts of people in, trying to persuade us that they’ve got the best job in the world.’

‘You know that the Marines are part of the navy, not the army.’

Liam rolled his eyes again. ‘Yes, Dad, I’m not a complete moron.’

‘No, I’m just saying, a military career is one way to go, but you need to give some thought to what branch of the service you want to go into. But it’s a tough life, Liam. It’s bloody hard work.’

‘But it’s fun, right? And you get to travel.’

‘Most of the travel these days is to Afghanistan and Iraq,’ said Shepherd. ‘And trust me, there’s not much fun in those places.’

‘But what else am I going to do, Dad? Sit in an office? Or more likely sit on the dole. At least in the army I get to have a career.’

‘It’s not as secure as it used to be. They’re letting a lot of people go.’

Liam pulled a face. ‘I thought you’d be more enthusiastic.’

‘Like I said, you’re only sixteen. You’ve plenty of time ahead of you.’

‘Not that much time, Dad. I have to start deciding about university next year. And the more I think about it, the more I like the idea of being in the army. Maybe flying helicopters.’

‘Again, they’re cutting back on the number of helicopters.’

‘God, you’re being so negative.’ Liam threw up his hands and sat back. ‘I knew it’d be a waste of time talking to you.’

Shepherd took a deep breath. He always found it difficult talking to his son over Skype. ‘I’m not trying to be negative,’ he said. ‘I just don’t think you want to rush into something like this.’

‘I’m not rushing, I’m considering my options. That’s what the careers teacher says we should be doing. Dad, you were a soldier. Why are you so against me doing the same?’

‘I think you need to go to university. It was different when I was a kid, not everyone went. It wasn’t unusual to start work at eighteen. Hell, some of my friends started work at sixteen. But these days a degree is the norm and you’ll be left behind if you don’t have one.’

‘But having a degree doesn’t mean you’ll get a job. There are plenty of graduates on the dole.’

Shepherd nodded. His son was right, of course. But with all that was happening to the country’s armed forces, he didn’t think a military career would be a smart move for Liam. And like any father, he didn’t like the idea of his son being in the firing line. ‘This captain, what did he say that made it sound so attractive?’

Liam wrinkled his nose. ‘He said it was a worthwhile career. That you were doing something for the country. Something to be proud of. Most people work for themselves, they do a boring nine-to-five job just to have money. But if you’re serving your country you’re doing something important.’

‘Well, that’s certainly true,’ said Shepherd.

‘He said that every day was different, that you never got into a routine. That the job challenged you and stretched you.’

‘Again, that’s true. But there’s a lot of waiting around. But he’s right, every day is different.’

‘And you get to travel.’

‘You don’t need to be in the army to travel,’ said Shepherd. ‘But OK, if you’re really interested then I can put you in touch with people in different branches of the services. And next time we’re in Hereford you can come into Stirling Lines and talk to some of the guys there.’

‘I don’t want to be in the SAS, Dad.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘I don’t think I’d be good enough.’

‘Rubbish,’ said Shepherd. ‘If you want to be a soldier I’ll make sure you’re the best darn soldier there is.’

Liam laughed. ‘I’m not running around with a rucksack full of bricks on my back,’ he said.

‘It builds stamina,’ said Shepherd. ‘But seriously, if you’re thinking about it then let’s go and talk to some people, see what your options are. But I want you going to university first. That way if the army thing doesn’t work out you’ve got something to fall back on.’

‘That’s cool,’ said Liam. He looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got to go, Dad. I’ve got to finish this maths.’

‘You take care,’ said Shepherd. ‘And good luck with the match.’

He ended the call and closed his laptop. He lay back on the sofa, picked up the television remote and flicked through the channels, looking for something to watch. Part of him was pleased that Liam wanted to follow in his footsteps, but he was very aware of what his mother would have said if she had been alive. Sue had been no great fan of the army and there was no way that she would have agreed to Liam signing up. The Royal Marines captain had been right about military service – it was worthwhile and it was exciting, and Shepherd had relished the buzz he’d always had in combat, the knowledge that it was kill or be killed and that every breath could be your last. But it was one thing to experience the adrenalin rush for yourself and quite another to know that your child was in mortal danger. Shepherd wasn’t sure how he’d be able to cope with the knowledge that his son was in a combat zone and that at any moment there could be a knock on his door and two men in uniform would be there to break the bad news. He shuddered. For the first time in his life he had an inkling of what it must have been like for Sue when he was away. Time and time again she’d begged him to quit the SAS and get a job where he’d be closer to home and where she wouldn’t be lying awake at night fearing the worst. He’d told her that it was just a job and that it was no more dangerous than driving a cab or stocking shelves in a supermarket. That had been a lie, of course, and she’d known it. Shepherd had loved being in the SAS, though it was only once he’d left that he was able to admit to himself that he had been addicted to the adrenalin rush of putting his life on the line. He closed his eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Sue,’ he whispered.

In Monte Carlo on the weekend of the Monaco Grand Prix even the super-rich sometimes struggled to find a berth for their yachts in Port Hercules, the tiny principality’s main harbour. First priority was notionally given to citizens and permanent residents of Monaco, and there were such long waiting lists that applications from non-residents were supposedly not even considered, yet somehow Russian oligarchs and other billionaires always found a way to secure a berth for their yachts, while the eye-watering cost of such rentals, like the revenues from the casino, disappeared into the capacious pockets of officials serving ‘His Serene Highness, the Prince of Monaco’.

The marinas were packed with scores of super-yachts, moored at right angles to the quayside. The multi-millionaire and billionaire owners and their privileged friends and guests had watched the race from the decks in the afternoon and now, as night was falling, the after-race parties were beginning on almost all of them. Like Hollywood stars at Oscar night parties, the grand prix drivers could pick and choose from dozens of invitations, and their diminutive figures, head and shoulders shorter than the tall, willowy models clustered around them, strolled the decks of many of the super-yachts like deities. On others there were gangsters, money launderers and traffickers in everything from guns and drugs to women rubbing shoulders with an array of fixers, wheelers, dealers, tax exiles, princes and titled paupers, descendants of obscure European royal houses. Monaco had not changed an iota since the 1920s, when Somerset Maugham witheringly dismissed it as ‘a sunny place for shady people’.

One of the largest yachts of all, its name picked out in Cyrillic script, was moored to a small pontoon covered with an awning and separating the yacht from the quay. The yacht was decked out with bunting, flags and lights, Eurotrash music was playing and beautiful young women and rather older and less beautiful men were drinking, dancing and partying. Others paired up and disappeared together below decks.

There was a small marquee at the quay end of the jetty and inside it, a security team was very carefully screening the invitations of the guests – most of them yet more beautiful young women – as they arrived, and confiscating any cameras or mobile phones. Those would not be returned to the guests until they left. The owner valued his privacy and could afford to ensure that it was maintained. The covered walkway had its own security system, and as the guests walked through it, they were scanned by concealed machines to ensure that they were not carrying anything that the security guards had missed. Cocaine or ecstasy were fine, but knives, guns or other weapons were not. The yacht owner, Oleg Zakharov, was a Russian oligarch and billionaire, and like most of his kind he had attracted more than his fair share of enemies over the years.

Those monitoring the security system could see the guests’ bodies under their clothes – one of the perks of the job for the two men monitoring the screens, who got to see some of the most beautiful women they’d ever come across stark naked. As usual, Zakharov himself had joined them, moistening his lips with his tongue as he leaned over the screen, seeing what would be available for his pleasure later that night.

The man they called Monotok had already been to Genoa to visit the shipyard where Zakharov’s yacht was built. Posing as the fixer and right-hand man of yet another Russian billionaire looking for a super-yacht, he was given a tour of the yard and shown a model of Zakharov’s yacht. The Genoese boat-builders were so proud of it that they even showed him the plans. If not quite the biggest yacht in the world – an American software billionaire had one a few feet longer, they said, grinding their teeth – it was ‘definitely the most beautiful and luxurious’. Monotok had smiled and nodded sympathetically, keeping them talking, and then sending them off in search of more information while he memorised the lay-out of the yacht and took a few discreet photographs with his iPhone while they were distracted.

Getting the yacht’s schedule had been harder, but he had that and a copy of Zakharov’s diary showing him when he’d be on board. Even as he toured the boatyard he had decided that Monte Carlo was the place to strike. After he left the boatyard, he went to a workshop, once a manufacturer of beautifully crafted sextants but now specialising in making one-off gadgets for rich men. Monotok commissioned an extending climbing-pole, sketching what he wanted on a piece of paper. He told the technician who took his order that he was going rock and ice climbing in the Alps and would be using the pole to bridge crevasses and ‘unclimbable’ sections of rock face. The device was a telescoping aluminium tube made up of six sections, four inches at its widest and tapering down to half that in the final section. Pressing a lever broke the seal on a small gas bottle and the released gas caused the pole to extend swiftly and silently to its full length. A four-pronged grapple covered with sprayed-on rubber was fixed to the top, and when extended, each section also had a couple of narrow footholds along its sides that sprang out as it extended and retracted when it was collapsed again.

From a diving shop he bought a neoprene scuba drysuit that clamped tight around his neck, wrists and ankles, giving a watertight seal, but leaving his hands, feet and face exposed. In the prolonged immersion in the sea that he was planning, they would get very cold, so he also bought gloves, boots and a hood, as well as a spear gun and a diving knife.

On the night of the grand prix, he waited for nightfall and then made his way down through the Japanese Gardens, near Larvotto Beach, a mile east of the marina. He climbed down the short, rocky cliff and slipped into the sea, then swam and finned his way along to the marina, using a slow but powerful stroke. He moved along the lines of yachts, a dark shape barely distinguishable from the darkness of the sea itself, and eventually slipped under the pontoon, next to Zakharov’s super-yacht.

He watched and waited for several hours while the party was still in full swing on the yacht. All the security was focused on those walking on to the yacht from the jetty, and there was only the most cursory surveillance of the yacht itself and even less of its seaward side. Eventually, in the early hours, the music and noise from the yacht died down and the cabin lights were extinguished one by one. There were still two bored security men standing on the quayside, but the yacht itself was quiet.

He finned his way across to the seaward side of the yacht. He popped the seal on the gas bottle to extend the climbing pole and hooked the rubber grapple over the deck rail of the yacht, then removed his fins, attached them to his belt with a karabiner, and then began to climb the pole. Monotok’s heart was not even beating fast as he swung himself over the rail and began to pad silently along the deck, the spear gun on a strap over his shoulder and the knife held ready in his hand. The spear gun made little noise but it could not be guaranteed to kill instantly, and it would be a last resort, to be used only if a target was too far from him to be dealt with by a swift, silent kill with the knife. But the spear gun and the knife were there only in case something went wrong and he was discovered. If all went to plan only one man would die, and that would be Zakharov. And Monotok wouldn’t be using the spear or the knife to take the oligarch’s life.

As he reached the midpoint of the deck in the shadow of the main mast, he heard a noise from the far side of the yacht. He froze and turned to look down the deck. One of the beautiful young women, out of her head on cocaine and alcohol and barely aware of what was happening, had been pinned to the deck and was being screwed by one of the crewmen, while a line of four or five others waited their turn, all eyes fixed on her naked body, oblivious to the black-clad figure ghosting between the shadows on the other side of the yacht.

As Monotok watched, the crewman got up, wiped himself down with the woman’s torn and discarded designer silk blouse and was at once replaced by the next man in the queue. As the crewman lowered himself on to the woman, her head rolled sideways, her blond hair matted and her vacant, drugged eyes staring straight at Monotok. She looked no more than sixteen or seventeen, but Monotok merely made certain that she had not registered his presence before moving on along the deck. He was coldly indifferent to what was happening to her, and even grateful for the distraction she was providing for the crew and security men awaiting their turn.

The lay-out of the yacht imprinted on his mind, he moved along the deck until he reached an open hatch, and then went down the companionway. Below decks, he made his way to the main stateroom in the stern. After listening for a couple of minutes, he eased open the door. It wasn’t locked; on his own yacht, surrounded by his security team, Zakharov obviously felt he had nothing to fear. The room was littered with empty champagne bottles and discarded clothes. Lines of cocaine were still laid out on the glass-topped dressing table, with a bag of the white powder spilling across the glass, and there seemed to be powdery traces of cocaine on every flat surface.

Zakharov had passed out and lay snoring, naked on the silk sheets of the super-king-size bed while three naked young women lay around the cabin, two on the bed, the other sprawled across the floor. Monotok knew that Zakharov always plied his women with gamma-hydroxybutyrate, GHB, the date rape drug. That way they neither remembered nor complained about whatever he did to them. They were close to unconsciousness and would be feeling no pain.

Monotok leaned his spear gun by the door and slid his knife back into its scabbard. He reached for a waterproof pouch on his belt and quietly popped it open. He took out a syringe, eased off the cap and bent down over the woman on the floor. He didn’t bother looking for a vein, the liquid Valium was just as effective when it was injected into muscle. With this combined with the GHB already in their bloodstream, the girls would be out for hours. He put the empty syringe back into the pouch and repeated the process with the two girls on the bed before lifting them up and placing them on the floor.

He took four lengths of cord from the pouch and used it to carefully tie Zakharov’s wrists and ankles to the bed, then took out a roll of duct tape and used his teeth to bite off a piece. He climbed on to the bed and straddled Zakharov, shoving the tape over his mouth and winding it around his face several times. Only then did Zakharov start to wake up, but it was too late. He was bound and gagged. As the oligarch struggled, Monotok walked slowly around the bed, tightening the cords, until Zakharov was spreadeagled like a stranded starfish.

Monotok sat down on the edge of the bed and stared down at Zakharov. ‘Do you know me, Oleg?’ he asked in Russian. ‘Do you have any idea who I am?’

Zakharov tried to speak but the duct tape made it impossible.

Monotok smiled and patted him on the cheek. ‘You don’t need to say anything, my fat little friend,’ he said. ‘In fact, I don’t want you to say anything. There is nothing you can say that will be of any interest to me. And you will only embarrass yourself by threatening me or offering me money or begging me to spare your life. All I need you to do is to nod or shake your head.’ His massive hand reached for Zakharov’s throat and gave it a little squeeze. ‘Now, do you understand me?’

Monotok released his grip on the man’s throat and he nodded, quickly. Monotok smiled and patted him on the cheek again. ‘That’s a good little fat man,’ he said. ‘So, do you recognise me?’

Zakharov shook his head.

‘And does the name Kirill Luchenko mean anything to you?’

Zakharov shook his head again.

‘Well, by the time I have finished that name will mean something to you. What about my father? Mark Luchenko?’

Another shake of his head. More frantic this time.

‘Or my mother? Misha?’

Zakharov stared fearfully at Monotok, and then shook his head.

Monotok smiled sadly. ‘How quickly you forget,’ he said. ‘That’s what I don’t understand. I’ve killed a lot of people and in most cases I never got to know their names. I was in Chechnya, killing for our masters. And there wasn’t time to ask for names. But when I did know their names, I remembered. I still remember. I don’t see how you can take a life and not show the respect to at least remember the life you have taken.’ He patted Zakharov on the cheek again. ‘You will remember me, my little fat friend. But not for long. I’m going to explain to you who my parents were and who I am and how what you did made me the man I am. You will understand who I am and why I am going to kill you. Then I will take your life. But at least I will do you the courtesy of remembering your name. So now, let’s get started. I’m going to tell you a story, about a nine-year-old boy.’

Monotok spoke for the next ten minutes, his voice barely above a whisper. From time to time he patted Zakharov’s face and once he gripped his cheek tightly between his thumb and forefinger. As he spoke, Zakharov struggled to free himself, but his efforts were futile. Eventually he gave up and tears rolled down his cheeks. When Monotok finished talking and pulled out the syringe, Zakharov’s bowels emptied and he soiled the bed.

Monotok reached over with his left hand and squeezed the oligarch’s throat until his face went purple and his heels were drumming on the mattress. When Zakharov’s veins were fully engorged, Monotok plunged the needle into the carotid artery and injected the entire contents of the syringe, then released his grip on Zakharov’s throat. The girls had been injected with concentrated Valium, ensuring a deep dreamless sleep. But the syringe Monotok used on Zakharov contained a concentrated cocaine solution. Zakharov died quickly, but painfully, his eyes filled with a mixture of fear and hatred.

Once Zakharov had stopped breathing, Monotok pulled off the duct tape and undid the cords around his wrists and ankles. He picked up his spear gun, slipped out of the cabin and moved back along the deck, silently passing the point where the crewmen were still taking turns with the now unconscious young woman. He climbed back down to the water, collapsed the pole and swam away into the night.

Shepherd arrived at Grechko’s house at 6.30. He wound down the window of his X5 and waved at the CCTV camera and the metal gate immediately rolled back. Max Barsky, the young Ukrainian, was in the gatehouse, and he waved through the window as Shepherd drove by.

The doors to the garage were already up and Shepherd drove down to the car parking area. He left the X5 next to Grechko’s Bentley, which they would be using to drive to Northolt airfield. He took with him a kitbag containing his running gear – most of his day was spent in the control centre and he had decided that he was going to start exercising every day. The gym was available twenty-four hours a day but he had never been a fan of exercise equipment or weights.

He walked over to the control centre, pressed his thumb against the sensor and tapped in his four-digit code before pushing the door open. Mikhail Ulyashin was sitting in front of the screens, his aluminium crutches next to him on the floor. Ulyashin nodded and pointed at the connecting door. Shepherd pushed it open. Alina Podolski was making coffee and she looked over at Shepherd and raised one eyebrow. ‘Splash of milk and no sugar,’ he said in answer to her unspoken question. He dropped his bag by the wall and sat down at the end of the table, facing Popov. Alexei Dudko, Boris Volkov and Grigory Sokolov were already seated. Dudko was munching on a banana and Sokolov was eating a yoghurt with a plastic spoon.

Podolski put mugs down in front of Popov and Shepherd and then went back to the coffee maker for her own cup. She sat down. Like the rest of the bodyguards she had a small notepad and a pen in front of her.

‘Right,’ said Popov, removing his Oakleys. ‘We might as well get started. We’re looking at wheels up at three o’clock this afternoon, a flight time of just under five hours, wheels down in Cyprus at nine p.m. Mr Grechko will be staying at the villa of his friend, Georgy Malykhin. Mr Malykhin’s car will be at the airport to meet us, along with two other vehicles.’

Shepherd raised his hand. ‘This is the first I’ve heard of this,’ he said. ‘I thought Mr Grechko was staying with his ex-wife.’

Popov shook his head. ‘Mr Grechko never stays with Mrs Grechko,’ he said. ‘He will be visiting her and the children tomorrow. But tonight he stays with Mr Malykhin.’

‘He’s stayed there before?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Many times,’ said Popov. ‘There is no reason to worry, Tony. Mr Malykhin’s security arrangements are on a par with ours. His villa is secluded and has full CCTV and alarms, and he has a security team of twelve.’

‘I need CVs of all the team this morning.’

‘You shall have them,’ said Popov.

‘And the transport arrangements? We’ll be using his vehicles?’

‘He has armoured Mercs,’ said Popov. ‘Everything will be fine, we have done this many times.’

Shepherd was about to argue but he remembered his promise not to embarrass Popov in front of his team so he sat back, folded his arms and said nothing. Popov continued his security briefing and his team made copious notes.

Shepherd waited until the briefing was over and the team had left before taking his coffee over to Popov and sitting down next to him. ‘I should have mentioned the sleeping arrangements to you earlier,’ said the Russian. ‘My apologies.’

‘No problem, Dmitry,’ said Shepherd. ‘Just make sure I get the CVs. Now what about the pilot?’

‘He’s been with Mr Grechko for eight years. As his co-pilot. Both are former Russian Air Force pilots.’

‘And who else will be on board?’

‘Two stewardesses. They have been with us for three years. I personally checked both of them out when we hired them.’

‘And the plane has stayed at RAF Northolt?’

Popov nodded. ‘I sent Leo out last night to check the plane out and he will stay with it until we arrive.’

‘And it will be just the six of us flying out with him?’

‘Six will be enough. We will have Mr Malykhin’s people with us at all times in Cyprus and the driver who will be in Mr Grechko’s car is one we have used many times before.’

Shepherd nodded, impressed. It sounded as if Popov had covered all the bases. ‘Just one more thing,’ he said. ‘Can we vary the route this time? Travel a route that we haven’t used before?’

‘Of course,’ said Popov.

Shepherd went for a run at ten o’clock in the morning. He changed into his sweatshirt, tracksuit bottoms and trainers and did a couple of laps of the grounds. It felt strange running without his usual rucksack of bricks and army boots and he barely worked up a sweat. Running on the flat in running shoes was no challenge at all. He jogged towards the gates and waved at Barsky. Barsky waved back and the gate opened. He headed south down The Bishops Avenue and waited for a gap in the traffic on Hampstead Lane before jogging across to the Heath. He spent the next hour alternating between running full pelt across the grass and doing fast press-ups and sit-ups. It was a far more efficient cardiovascular workout than he would ever get in the gym, and his sweatshirt had earned its name by the time he jogged back through the gate.

He showered and changed back into his suit and tie before heading to the kitchen, where an amiable chef – a portly Italian lady – made him a chicken salad sandwich and coffee. Popov joined him just as Shepherd was tucking into the second half of his sandwich. The chef made a big fuss of Popov and insisted that he try a seafood spaghetti dish that she was planning to serve when they returned from Cyprus. She busied herself over the stove as Popov went through the CVs of the security team they would be working with in Cyprus. Most were Russian but there were two Latvians and a Ukrainian. All had worked with Malykhin for at least a year.

They were interrupted by the chef serving Popov a plate piled high with spaghetti, lobster, oysters, prawns and squid in a steaming spicy spaghetti sauce. She saw Shepherd’s eyes light up and gave him a small helping too. It was pretty much the best pasta Shepherd had ever tasted. ‘Maria used to work with Raymond Blanc until Mr Grechko doubled her salary,’ said Popov. ‘It’s the best thing he ever did.’ He patted his stomach. ‘I’ve put on five kilos since she came to work here.’

‘You have not,’ laughed the chef, flicking a tea towel at him, her eyes sparkling with amusement. She nodded. ‘What do you think? Mr Grechko will be having guests for lunch and they like seafood. It’s not too spicy?’

‘It’s heavenly, Maria,’ said Popov, twisting his fork around in the spaghetti. ‘To die for.’

The chef blushed with pleasure. Popov finished his briefing in between mouthfuls of seafood and pasta.

‘What about this Mr Malykhin?’ asked Shepherd. ‘Has anyone ever tried to hurt him?’

‘He’s very low profile and has always backed the right horses in the Kremlin,’ said Popov. ‘He’s clever, is Mr Malykhin. He never badmouths Putin. Never badmouths anyone, in fact. And he’s in Moscow as much as he is in Cyprus. What causes resentment is when they relocate to London or New York as if they are too good for Mother Russia.’

‘Is that what Mr Grechko has done?’ asked Shepherd, lowering his voice so that Maria wouldn’t hear him. ‘Caused resentment?’

Popov shrugged but didn’t answer.

‘Dmitry, I’m here to help,’ said Shepherd. ‘I can only do that if I have all the facts.’

‘It’s not for me to say,’ said the Russian.

‘You’re not talking out of school, it’s information I need to do my job properly,’ said Shepherd. ‘Someone tried to kill your boss. We need to know if the attack was political, personal, or connected to his business.’

‘Personal?’

‘It’s not unknown for wives to see killing as an alternative to divorce,’ said Shepherd.

Popov looked shocked, but then a smile spread slowly across his face. ‘Mrs Grechko? You think Mrs Grechko would want Mr Grechko dead?’ He shook his head. ‘He is the father of her children and he is very generous to her.’

‘What about the new Mrs Grechko? Does she have a pre-nup?’

Popov’s smile widened. ‘Mr Grechko loves her. She gets whatever she wants. Believe me, she would gain nothing if he were to die.’

‘So you think it’s political?’

‘I’m not a detective, Tony. I’m a bodyguard. I prevent crimes, I don’t solve them.’

Shepherd nodded. ‘Fair point.’

The Russian leaned over towards Shepherd. ‘But there’s an expression I heard. Tall poppies. Have you heard that?’

‘Sure. It’s the tall poppies that get cut down,’

‘Well, Mr Grechko is a tall poppy, that’s all I’ll say.’ He shoved the last forkful of pasta into his mouth. ‘One of the tallest.’

They left the house at just after one o’clock. There were three vehicles; Grechko was in his Bentley with Shepherd and Popov, with Dudko and Volkov in a Range Rover in front and Sokolov and Podolski bringing up the rear in a BMW.

RAF Northolt was just six miles north of Heathrow Airport, but whereas Heathrow was one of the world’s busiest airports, Northolt was a lot more selective. It had a single runway which was used only by the RAF and by wealthy individuals who were able to pay the exorbitant landing and handling fees.

Security was as tight as would be expected at a military airport. Their vehicles and IDs were carefully checked at the gate before they were allowed in. They drove over to a hangar where Leo Tarasov was waiting beside a gleaming Gulfstream G550, which Shepherd figured had cost somewhere between sixty and seventy million dollars. It was a sleek, white hawk with two massive Rolls-Royce turbofan engines by the tail and it looked brand new. The captain, who seemed to be barely out of his twenties, was standing at the top of the stairs wearing a white short-sleeved shirt with black and gold epaulettes and he saluted Grechko before disappearing into the cockpit. Two very pretty stewardesses gave Grechko beaming smiles and led him into the plane.

Popov spoke to Tarasov in Russian and slapped him on the back. Tarasov climbed into the Range Rover and all three vehicles drove away from the hangar.

The bodyguards filed up the steps into the plane. As he stepped inside, Shepherd’s estimate of the value of the plane went up another five million dollars. The interior had been panelled in white oak and the seats were of the finest leather. The carpet was plush with a warm, golden glow, and the seats were so far apart that the cabin felt airy and spacious.

Grechko flopped down into a large beige armchair in the centre of the cabin, and before his backside hit the leather the stewardesses were at his side, one offering him a glass of champagne and the other a hot towel.

Podolski and Dudko sat immediately behind Grechko. Volkov made himself comfortable on a black leather sofa that ran along one side of the fuselage while Sokolov strapped himself into a seat opposite a computer workstation.

Popov took Shepherd to the rear of the plane where there was a separate seating area with two large beige seats the size of armchairs either side of a walnut coffee table. The seats could be swung around 360 degrees, and when side-on to the table could be lowered into flat beds.

‘Do you travel much in jets, Tony?’ asked Popov.

‘Usually sat in the back, in economy,’ said Shepherd. ‘This is another world, isn’t it?’

‘This is nothing,’ said Popov. ‘He’s having a bigger one fitted out at the moment. Mrs Grechko found out that Abramovich has a Boeing A340 with a gym, Turkish bath and Jacuzzi. Two hundred million dollars.’

‘So she wants one?’

Popov grinned. ‘No, she’s insisting that Mr Grechko buys her something bigger. And has it outfitted exactly the way she wants it. The price tag is looking to be two hundred and twenty-five million dollars.’

Shepherd shook his head as he tried to work out how many lifetimes he would have to work to be able to afford his own jet.

‘She is getting him to commission a bigger yacht too. It has to be at least ten feet longer than Abramovich’s. They get very competitive, the wives.’

One of the stewardesses asked them whether they wanted tea or coffee. Popov asked for a black tea and Shepherd a cappuccino. The drinks arrived just as the captain announced that they were ready to leave.

Grechko spent most of the flight studying share prices and currency movements on a forty-two-inch screen that somehow managed to fold out from the ceiling. Most of the bodyguards catnapped but Sokolov watched movie after movie at the workstation.

Popov stretched out his legs and sighed. ‘It’s hard to go back to commercial flights after this,’ he said.

‘I bet,’ said Shepherd. ‘Was it like this with Putin?’

Popov sat up quickly as if he’d been stung, then a smile slowly spread across his face. ‘Of course, you would have been briefed on me,’ he said.

‘Just the bare minimum,’ said Shepherd. ‘That your last job was with the Russian president, that’s all.’

‘Three years,’ said Popov, relaxing back into his seat. ‘But I was one of hundreds, and I was never in the inner circle. He has a group of a dozen that he’s known since his KGB days, and then another fifty or so trusted men who have all been with him for at least ten years. The rest are brought in for a few years, three at most. It keeps them on their toes. You never know how long you’re going to be there, and mistakes aren’t tolerated.’

‘Hard work?’

Popov chuckled. ‘The man has a lot of enemies.’

‘Can’t have been an easy job.’

The Russian shrugged. ‘No, but it looks good on the CV. It’s the equivalent of being a butler to your Queen. Once that’s on your CV you can work anywhere.’

‘Mr Grechko seems to think that it might be someone in the Kremlin who wants him dead.’

Popov shrugged but didn’t say anything.

Shepherd lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘What do you think, Dmitry?’

For several seconds Popov didn’t say anything and Shepherd was starting to think that the Russian was deliberately ignoring him, but then Popov leaned towards Shepherd. ‘I saw your face when we were outside the stadium, looking at the angles the sniper could have used. And I could see that you were thinking the same as me.’

‘Which was?’

‘Which was that any decent sniper would have made that shot. Certainly a sniper in the pay of the Kremlin would not have missed.’

‘Which means what, Dmitry?’

Popov shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘Let’s just say that the fact that Mr Grechko has been targeted for assassination will probably help his application for a British passport, don’t you think? You Brits do love to welcome asylum seekers, don’t you?’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Mr Grechko is a very clever man. Cunning, you might say.’

There were more than two dozen private jets parked at the general aviation terminal at Larnaca International Airport, many of them with Russian registrations. They came to a halt next to a Learjet and the pilot switched off the engines. The steps were folded down and a few minutes later two uniformed officials entered the cabin. One went to talk to the captain in the cockpit. Popov approached the second official and handed him the passports of everyone on board.

The official sat down and took a metal stamp from his pocket, and an inkpad. He opened the inkpad, removed a pen from his pocket and put on a pair of wire-framed reading glasses. One of the stewardesses handed Grechko a glass of champagne as the immigration officer methodically worked his way through the passports, checking the details against a printed list and carefully stamping them and then scribbling a signature over the stamp.

The first official came out of the cockpit and walked around the cabin, opening several cupboards before disappearing into the toilet for several minutes. Shepherd figured he was a customs officer but his search appeared cursory at best.

It took the immigration officer fifteen minutes to deal with the passports, after which he handed them to Popov, nodded unsmilingly at Grechko, and left the plane with the customs officer in tow.

Grechko stood up, stretched, and waited for Popov and Shepherd to go ahead of him. Popov went down the steps first, scanning the immediate area for possible threats before checking out the buildings overlooking the plane. Shepherd did the same as the two men walked down the steps to a line of waiting cars. There were two Mercedes SUVs either side of a pale blue Rolls-Royce, which from the way it was so low on its suspension was clearly heavily armoured. It was a clear night, the sky overhead full of stars, the moon a pale sliver off to their right.

Malykhin’s bodyguards were all out of their vehicles and standing around the convoy. Only two, the ones by the Rolls-Royce, were looking at the plane, the rest were checking out the surroundings. Shepherd noted their professionalism and began to relax a little.

Popov walked across the tarmac and hugged one of the bodyguards, a tall sandy-haired bruiser of a man with mirrored sunglasses. He introduced him to Shepherd as Vassi Kozlov, Malykhin’s head of security. Shepherd and Kozlov shook hands as Popov turned back to the plane. ‘You speak Russian?’ asked Kozlov in heavily accented English.

‘Sadly not.’

Kozlov said something in Russian to Popov and both men laughed.

‘I hope that wasn’t about my mother,’ said Shepherd.

‘He said you’ve got the eyes of a killer,’ said Popov. ‘And he’s not wrong.’

Podolski came out behind Grechko and they moved down the steps together, sticking close until Grechko had slid into the back seat of the Rolls-Royce. The two stewardesses came down the steps carrying Grechko’s Louis Vuitton luggage, which they loaded into the boot of the Rolls-Royce.

One of the bodyguards was already in the front passenger seat and Shepherd could see that three of them weren’t going to sit in the back of the Rolls-Royce so he looked at Popov expectantly. ‘Why don’t you ride up front with Vassi?’ said Popov. Shepherd saw Dudko and Volkov head up the stairs and back into the plane.

Shepherd walked with Kozlov to the Mercedes at the front of the convoy. One of the bodyguards was already sitting next to the driver. Kozlov opened the door and motioned for Shepherd to get in. As he slid inside another bodyguard opened the rear door on the other side and climbed in, leaving Shepherd in the middle. Kozlov got in and slammed the door. He and the other bodyguard were both big shouldered, and despite the size of the SUV Shepherd had very little room to move.

As the doors slammed shut, Shepherd looked back at the plane. Dudko and Volkov were coming down the steps, each carrying two heavy aluminium suitcases. They took them to the Mercedes at the rear of the convoy and loaded them into the boot before getting into the back. Shepherd frowned. He hadn’t seen them on the plane, nor had he seen them being taken on board at Northolt.

They drove out of the airport and on to the main road. The drivers were clearly professional, staying close enough so that no cars could infiltrate the convoy but leaving enough room to manoeuvre if there was a problem. There was little traffic around so everyone was relaxed.

‘So, Dmitry says you are a policeman, Tony,’ said Kozlov in almost impenetrable accented English.

Shepherd nodded. ‘Executive protection,’ he said. ‘My unit looks after diplomats and visiting dignitaries as well as local politicians.’

‘And you have a gun?’

Shepherd thought that his Glock had remained hidden in its shoulder holster but Kozlov had obviously spotted it. ‘Cleared through Europol,’ he said.

‘But before you were a policeman you were a soldier, correct? Special forces?’

Shepherd frowned. ‘Why do you say that?’

Kozlov patted him on the knee. ‘Do not worry, Tony. Your secret is safe with me.’

‘I’m a policeman,’ said Shepherd, sticking with his legend. ‘Always have been. I’ve done some training with the SAS, but that’s it.’

The Russian winked and patted him on the knee again. ‘There are many former SAS on the island, did you know that, Tony?’

‘I didn’t.’

‘Men like Mr Grechko and Malykhin, they prefer to have Russian security. For some, there is nothing better than a SAS man. Many of them work on the island. I know many Russian special forces men and they are giants. Big men with big muscles.’ He grinned and tapped his finger against his temple. ‘Not so smart, but big and strong. But the SAS, they’re not giants. They are not big men, nor do they have big muscles. How tall are you, Tony? Five ten?’

‘Five eleven,’ said Shepherd.

Kozlov nodded. ‘Five eleven,’ he repeated. ‘Now the Spetsnaz, that’s what they call their special forces, are all well over six feet. Six six. Six seven. If you tried to join the Spetsnaz, they would laugh at you.’ He put his lips close to Shepherd’s ear. ‘But the SAS men I know, they are all five ten, five eleven. And they look ordinary. Nothing special. But they are fit, as fit as thieves.’

Shepherd tried not to smile but he failed. ‘It’s as thick as thieves,’ he said.

The Russian frowned. ‘That doesn’t make any sense at all,’ he said. ‘Why would thieves be thick? A thief needs to be fit.’

‘I guess they do, but it means that thieves stick close together.’

Kozlov shook his head. ‘That still doesn’t make sense. But you know what I mean, Tony? You look like the SAS men that I see in Cyprus. Hard bodies but not big, cold eyes but not crazy, and there’s a calmness about you.’

‘A calmness?’

‘I don’t explain myself well,’ said Kozlov. ‘My English is not so good. But the men of the Spetsnaz they are not calm. They always look as if they are about to start killing, they just need an excuse.’ He patted him on the leg again. ‘So come on, we are friends. You can tell me. You are SAS?’

Shepherd shook his head. ‘Just a policeman.’

‘But a British policeman with a gun?’

‘A lot of British policemen have guns,’ said Shepherd.

‘Yes, I hear that London is a very dangerous city these days,’ said Kozlov. ‘Especially if you are Russian.’ He laughed and slapped Shepherd’s leg. ‘But don’t worry, here in Cyprus you will be safe.’

Malykhin’s villa was a forty-five-minute drive from the airport. It was perched on a rocky outcrop overlooking the Mediterranean and the last mile was a narrow two-lane road that for much of the time had a sheer drop to the sea below. Off in the distance navigation lights bobbed up and down and high overhead another jet was heading to the airport. There was a ten-foot-high stone wall running around the estate, dotted with CCTV cameras, and two metal gates that swung open as the convoy approached. There was a watchtower to the right of the gates where a man was talking into a walkie-talkie. The entire wall was illuminated with spotlights and Shepherd could see that it was topped with decorative ironwork that also functioned as effectively as razor wire.

The villa was almost as large as Grechko’s mansion but was far less symmetrical, as if it had been added to over the years with little thought given to its overall style. The central part had the look of a Greek temple with columns and architraves, but a wing had been added on to the left which had floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking an infinity pool, and there was another wing to the right that appeared to be Spanish, with verandas and a terrace overlooking the sea. There were lanterns hung around the verandas and cast-iron street lamps around the edge of the terrace. The entire villa was illuminated with spotlights buried in the gardens.

In front of the main entrance was a massive fountain depicting three dolphins frolicking in the surf, with plumes of water spouting from their blowholes. Two bodyguards in dark suits and sunglasses were waiting when the convoy pulled up next to the fountain. Shepherd had to smile at the bodyguards wearing their ubiquitous shades. They might look good but in the dark the eyes needed as much light as they could get for night vision to function efficiently.

Popov got out of the Rolls-Royce and hurried around to open the passenger door for Grechko. Kozlov and Shepherd joined him as Grechko climbed out.

The front door of the villa opened and Georgy Malykhin hurried out, wearing a gleaming white suit and white patent leather shoes. He was a short, squat man, a bald Danny de Vito, who barely reached Grechko’s shoulder. He hugged the bigger man, said something in Russian, and then hugged him again before standing on tiptoe and kissing him on both cheeks. The two men walked into the villa. Shepherd looked at Popov. ‘Now what?’ Two liveried maids hurried over to the Rolls-Royce to retrieve Grechko’s luggage.

‘They’re in for the night,’ said Popov. ‘Mr Malykhin has a Michelin-starred chef and one of the best wine cellars in the world.’ He looked at his watch. ‘And the entertainment will be arriving in an hour or so.’

‘The entertainment?’

Popov grinned. ‘Mr Malykhin has an eye for the ladies. And Mr Grechko isn’t one to turn down the hospitality of a friend.’ The two maids disappeared inside with Grechko’s bags and the door slammed shut.

‘You’re talking hookers?’ said Shepherd. ‘Are you serious?’

‘I think high-class ladies of the night would be more the way they would see it, but yes, money will most certainly be changing hands.’

‘Dmitry, have you gone crazy? You’re bringing a group of strangers into a secure location at a time when the principal’s life is under threat.’

‘They are girls, Tony. Young and pretty girls.’ He slapped Shepherd on the back, hard enough to rattle his teeth. ‘If it makes you happier, you can frisk them.’

Malykhin’s security centre was a series of rooms in an annexe at the back of the villa. There was a control room similar to the one in The Bishops Avenue mansion with CCTV screens and a rack of charging transceivers, a room with sofas, easy chairs and a big-screen TV, and a small kitchen and bathroom. There were two men sitting with their feet on a coffee table playing a shoot-’em-up video game. They stopped playing when Popov walked in and there were several minutes of backslapping and Russian banter before Popov introduced Shepherd.

One of the bodyguards made coffee and for the next hour the four men sat talking about weapons, women and sport. Most of the conversation was in Russian but Popov was good at translating most of what was said. Eventually a transceiver crackled and Popov grinned over at Shepherd. ‘The girls are here,’ he said.

The four men went outside as a minibus pulled up, driven by an old man in a flat cap. A side door opened and half a dozen girls tottered out in impossibly high heels and short skirts. Shepherd doubted that any of them were out of their teens but none of them appeared to be under-age. They all had long hair, three were blondes, two were brunettes and one was a natural redhead, and they had the look of catwalk models. One of the blondes lit a joint, took a drag, and passed it to the redhead.

Kozlov opened the front door and waved for the girls to enter. The driver of the minibus slammed the door shut and drove off down the hill. ‘Sure you don’t want to pat them down?’ Popov asked Shepherd.

Shepherd nodded at the skimpy tops and tight skirts the girls were wearing. ‘I guess we know they’re not carrying concealed weapons,’ he said.

Popov laughed and put his arm around Shepherd’s shoulders. ‘My friend, most of them are regulars here. And the first time they come, Vassi has them checked out.’

‘Medically?’

Shepherd was joking but Popov took the question seriously. ‘Full blood work, a criminal record check and details of their ID card or passport.’

The girls disappeared inside and the door closed.

‘Before you ask, the CCTV cameras are shut down in main rooms while the guests are there,’ said Popov.

‘I understand now why he doesn’t stay with his ex-wife,’ said Shepherd. He looked at his watch. ‘Look, I’m going to stay outside for the next couple of hours. What about you?’

‘I’ll get some sleep then I’ll take over from you. I’ll talk to the guys to make sure the rear is covered.’ He patted him on the shoulder. ‘You can relax, Tony, we’re regular visitors here.’

Popov walked away, leaving Shepherd listening to the clicking and whirring of insects around him. He looked up at the hillside above the villa, wishing that he was as confident as the Russian. The problem with the isolated villa was that there were dozens of vantage points where a sniper could get a clear view. For all he knew there could be a scope centred on his chest at that very moment. At that instant his phone vibrated and he jumped, then shook his head at his skittishness. He took out his phone to see that he’d received a text message from Amar Singh. ‘Call me,’ it said. Shepherd figured it could only be good news.

He looked around to check that there was no one in earshot and then called Singh. ‘I’ve got your man,’ said Singh.

‘Are you serious?’

‘I wouldn’t be joking, not after all the time and trouble I’ve been to,’ said Singh. ‘Do you want the name or not?’

‘Amar, I’m gobsmacked,’ said Shepherd.

‘Like I said, it wasn’t easy,’ said Singh. ‘The facial recognition took for ever but once I had a usable picture I was able to get a match through the Passport Agency.’

‘You mean the Border Agency?’

‘I mean the Passport Agency. Your man is a British citizen, has been since 2003. He has a British passport and, as it happens, a UK driving licence.’

‘That can’t be,’ said Shepherd.

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence,’ said Singh.

‘No, I mean the guy’s a Taliban fighter, or at least he was ten years ago. I don’t see how that could possibly have him fast-tracked to a British passport.’

‘Well, it’s happened. His name is Farzad Sajadi.’

‘The driving licence has his address, right?’

‘Sure.’ Singh read out the address, along with the date of birth. ‘That’s strange, I hadn’t noticed that,’ he said.

‘Noticed what?’

‘The passport and the driving licence were issued on the same day. That’s one hell of a coincidence.’

‘That’s practically impossible, right?’ said Shepherd.

‘Unless there’s something funny going on.’

‘Any details about where and when he got citizenship?’

‘Nothing,’ said Singh. ‘Which is also a bit strange. There’s usually a huge paper trail that goes along with asylum applications. But all I’ve got is the passport and driving licence. I can start digging for utilities, mobile phones and credit cards, but for that I’ll need a case file.’

‘We’re not at the case-building stage yet,’ said Shepherd. And he knew that he never would be.

‘So I’ll wait to hear from you?’ said Singh.

‘Amar, I owe you, big-time. If you ever need a favour, just ask.’

Singh laughed. ‘Funny you should offer. I’ve got a nephew who’s crazy about the SAS. Reads everything he can about them, loves the Andy McNab books, plays special forces video games all the time. Is there any chance you get take him to Hereford some time?’

‘It’d be a pleasure, no problem at all,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m back and forth all the time and I’d be more than happy to show him around, let him fire off a few rounds, the works.’

‘That’d be brilliant,’ said Singh.

‘In fact I’m going to be taking my boy around over the next few weeks. He’s thinking about joining the army so I want to let him know what he’s letting himself in for. I could take your nephew along with us. I’ll let you know when we’re going.’ He thanked Singh again and ended the call, then tapped out Jimmy Sharpe’s number.

Sharpe answered the phone with a weary sigh. ‘Another favour?’ he said.

‘I was just going to ask if you fancied a drink one night this week,’ said Shepherd.

‘Don’t mind if I do, especially if you’re paying.’

‘And I wouldn’t mind you checking out another name for me. Farzad Sajadi.’ Shepherd spelled it out for him and gave him the man’s date of birth and the address that Singh had given him.

‘Is this connected to that Khan guy?’

‘I think they might be one and the same,’ said Shepherd. ‘He’s got a passport and a driving licence in that name.’

‘Fake?’

‘Doesn’t look like it, no. But there’s something not right. He was a bloody Taliban fighter, how can he have a British passport?’

Sharpe laughed. ‘You don’t get it, do you? When the Taliban were killing off the Afghanistan population, any Afghan who got into the UK could claim asylum. But once we and the Yanks invaded, the Taliban became the endangered species so they can claim that Afghanistan isn’t safe for them. Any of them that could make it to the UK would be pretty much guaranteed asylum. So we’ve got the crazy situation in London now where in the same street you’ve got a Taliban murderer living a few doors down from a guy whose family was killed by the Taliban. But we treat them exactly the same. The same happened in Iraq. The first wave of asylum seekers were people who’d been persecuted by Saddam Hussein. Then we invaded and the worm turned and all the Iraqis who’d backed Saddam found they were being persecuted so it was their turn to run. It’s Alice in Wonderland.’

‘But I don’t see how they could have given asylum to Khan. He shot an SAS captain. Hell, Razor, he shot me.’

‘Yeah, well, presumably he didn’t tell the immigration tribunal that. It’s much more likely that he told them he was a poor farmer who was threatened with beheading because he didn’t give all his money to the Taliban.’

‘Can you find out, Razor? Run his name and date of birth through the PNC but also see if you can find out anything about his immigration status?’

‘You’re not asking much, are you?’

‘Pretty please.’

Sharpe laughed. ‘Yeah, don’t worry, I’m on it. Now what about that drink? You around tonight?’

‘I’m in Cyprus. Taking care of a Russian guy who as we speak is being taken care of by some of the fittest hookers I’ve seen in a long time.’

‘You get all the best jobs,’ said Sharpe. ‘I’ll call you if I get anything.’ Shepherd cut the connection. As he turned around he was startled to see Podolski walking towards him, holding a pack of cigarettes in one hand and a lighter in the other.

‘Sorry, didn’t mean to alarm you,’ she said, taking out a cigarette and slipping it between her lips. She offered him the pack but he shook his head.

‘I didn’t realise you were a smoker,’ he said.

She lit her cigarette and blew smoke before shrugging. ‘I don’t get the chance, much,’ she said. ‘Can’t smoke in buildings or cars or planes. And when I’m outside I’m usually working.’ She looked at the burning cigarette in her hand. ‘This is my first since last night.’

‘So you’re not addicted?’

She laughed and tossed her hair. ‘I just like smoking. Same as I enjoy a glass of wine or a joint.’ She saw the look of surprise on his face and smiled slyly. ‘I forgot you were a policeman. You won’t arrest me, will you?’

‘We’re in Cyprus,’ said Shepherd. ‘I can’t arrest you here.’

‘But you can carry your gun.’

‘Ah, because Cyprus is in the EU so Europol can arrange it. What about you, Alina? Were you a cop?’ Having seen her file he knew her work history by heart. She had graduated from the Petro Sahaidachny Ground Forces Academy before spending six years with the Ukrainian armed forces. She’d seen action too, with two tours in Iraq, and in 2004 she’d been wounded when Ukraine’s peacekeeping contingent was almost overwhelmed by Mahdi militants.

‘I was a soldier,’ she said. ‘Ukrainian army. But this pays better.’

‘How did you get the job?’

She shrugged. ‘Friend of a friend. I heard they were looking for Russian speakers at short notice and I was between jobs.’ She took a long drag on her cigarette and then carefully blew the smoke away from him. ‘To be honest, I normally get to work with the wives.’

‘Because the wives prefer female bodyguards?’

She flicked the hair away from her eyes. ‘Because the wives don’t want me working with their husbands,’ she said.

‘I can see why you’d be a worry,’ said Shepherd.

‘How sexist is that?’ she said, her eyes flashing. ‘Would anyone assume that you were going to screw Mrs Grechko’s wife just because you’ve got a dick? You’re either professional or you’re not, it’s got nothing to do with what sex you are.’

Shepherd raised his hands. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I was clumsily trying to pay you a compliment.’

She tilted her head on one side, then slowly smiled. ‘OK, I suppose that was a compliment, in a way.’

‘What’s it like, taking care of the wives?’ he asked.

‘There’s a lot of shopping involved,’ she said. ‘And they always insist that I help carry the bags, even when I explain that bodyguards have to keep their hands free.’

‘At least you don’t get the sort of nonsense we’ve got here tonight,’ said Shepherd.

‘Don’t you believe it,’ said Podolski. ‘The wives aren’t stupid. They know what their husbands get up to and what’s sauce for the goose …’ She shrugged. ‘They deserve each other.’

‘You’ve got a pretty low opinion of our principals?’

She looked up at the bedroom windows and scowled. ‘He’s on his second wife and yet he’s up there rutting like a pig,’ she said. ‘And the wives? Have you seen the way they spend? The last woman I was with, when she went to the Louis Vuitton store in Bond Street they would close it for her so she could walk around. If she saw a bag she liked, she’d buy fifty and have them sent to her friends. Never to the staff, of course. We were invisible unless she needed us to fetch and carry. She would buy dresses by the dozen and wear them once.’ She turned back to Shepherd. ‘You’ve seen Mrs Grechko’s dressing rooms? Do you think she’ll ever wear half the shoes that she owns?’ She took a final drag on her cigarette and flicked it away. ‘More money than sense,’ she said. ‘My father would have to work for a year to afford a single pair of her shoes.’

‘Life’s not fair, that’s for sure,’ said Shepherd.

‘You think that woman has worked a day in her life?’ she continued. ‘She opens her legs, that’s all the work she has ever done. And she lives like a princess.’

‘Yeah, but is she happy?’ asked Shepherd.

Podolski opened her mouth to reply and then realised he was joking. She laughed and tossed her head, flicking her hair to the side. ‘I moan too much,’ she said.

Shepherd shrugged. ‘No, I take your point,’ he said. ‘There is something very wrong with a world that allows one man to have so much, when children are dying because they don’t have enough to eat. His house, it’s just …’

‘So big?’

‘So big. And tacky. And unnecessary. Rooms that no one ever uses.’

‘It’s for show,’ said Podolski. ‘All of this is. The houses, the clothes, the yachts, the planes. None of it is really necessary.’ She laughed again. ‘We’re starting to sound like couple of communists, aren’t we?’

‘God forbid,’ said Shepherd.

She looked at her watch. ‘I’m going to get a bite to eat. There’s a chef in the kitchen who’ll cook anything we want, pretty much, Dmitry says. Do you want anything?’

‘I’m good,’ said Shepherd. The stewardesses on the private jet had kept everyone supplied with smoked salmon, caviar and little sandwiches with the crusts cut off throughout the flight, along with endless cups of coffee.

Podolski winked and walked back to the villa. Shepherd was fairly sure that she was swinging her hips for his benefit, and when she looked over her shoulder as she stepped on to the terrace his suspicions were confirmed.

The hookers left at six o’clock in the morning. One of them must have called the driver because he was in front of the villa in his minibus when the front door opened and they tottered out into the early morning light. They all looked the worse for wear with smudged make-up, their clothes in disarray and messy hair. The redhead looked as if she had been crying and they were all suffering from too much drugs or alcohol or both. One of the blondes grinned lopsidedly at Shepherd, waggled her fingers at him then stumbled and fell to her knees. Two of the girls helped her up and on to the minibus.

Shepherd and Popov watched as the girls piled on to the vehicle. ‘Does this happen a lot?’ Shepherd asked.

Popov shrugged. ‘Rich men have appetites,’ he said.

The driver slammed the door shut and climbed back into the driver’s seat.

Shepherd shrugged. ‘Yeah, but this is …’

‘Not how we’d spend our evenings if we were billionaires?’ Popov finished for him. The two men laughed and Popov slapped him on the back. ‘Seriously, Tony, this is nothing compared to what some of them get up to.’

‘I bet,’ said Shepherd.

‘No, really. Rape, assaults, and worse. If you’re in the business for a while you’ll hear some serious horror stories. Especially for the guys doing protection work for the Arabs. Compared with them, Mr Grechko is a pussycat, believe me.’

The minibus drove out through the gates and they began to close. Popov and Shepherd headed back inside the villa. Shepherd had caught a few hours’ sleep on one of the sofas in the bodyguards’ room during the early hours and he managed to grab another hour’s sleep after the girls left. Popov gave him a travel pack with a razor, shaving cream, toothbrush and toothpaste and he shaved and showered before joining Popov and the rest of the team in the kitchen for eggs and steak cooked by a young American chef, a twenty-something Texan with his hair clipped back in a ponytail who made the bodyguards laugh with his attempts to speak Russian. While his Russian skills might have been wanting, there was no mistaking his talent in the kitchen – the steak he cooked was just about the best that Shepherd had ever tasted. ‘Flown in every day from Japan,’ the chef explained to Shepherd after he’d complimented him on the food. ‘It’s Matsusaka beef, which I reckon is better than Kobe because of its intense fat-to-meat ratio. They only raise female cows and they feed them on beer, give them regular massages and play them soothing music.’ The chef had laughed when Shepherd had asked him how much it cost per pound. ‘You really don’t want to know,’ he said.

The cars were lined up outside the villa at nine o’clock in the same order in which they’d arrived the previous evening. Grechko and Malykhin appeared at 9.30 with Kozlov. Grechko had changed into a dark suit and Malykhin was wearing a yellow linen jacket and baggy white linen trousers that rippled in the warm wind blowing in off the sea. As a butler in a black suit put Grechko’s luggage into the back of the Rolls-Royce, Grechko and Malykhin hugged and once again Malykhin stood on tiptoe to kiss his friend on the cheeks.

Shepherd and Popov stood by the Rolls-Royce and watched. ‘Malykhin’s not coming with us?’ asked Shepherd.

‘No, Mrs Grechko isn’t a fan of his, I think she’s heard about his parties. And Mr Grechko wants to keep his business private.’

Kozlov strode over, grinning. He hugged Popov and then put his hands on Shepherd’s shoulders. ‘You be careful, SAS man,’ he said, and then hugged him tightly enough to force the air from his lungs.

‘SAS?’ said Popov as Kozlov walked back to the villa.

‘It’s his little joke.’

‘He thinks you are special forces?’

Shepherd shrugged. ‘Like I said, it’s his joke.’

‘He might be right, I suppose. You did a lot of pull-ups.’

‘It takes more than pull-ups to get into the SAS.’

Popov rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘But I suppose if you were in the SAS, you wouldn’t be able to tell me, would you?’

‘I suppose not,’ said Shepherd.

Popov laughed and slapped him in the middle of the back. ‘Then we shall never know,’ he said. ‘Come on, you and I will ride with Mr Grechko. You can have the front seat.’

Shepherd got into the front of the Rolls-Royce and nodded at the driver. ‘Tony,’ he said, offering his hand.

The driver held out his hand but didn’t smile. ‘Olav,’ he said, and shook.

Podolski and Sokolov got into the front Mercedes SUV and Dudko and Volkov got into the car at the rear. The convoy headed out.

Grechko and Popov talked in Russian as they drove towards Nicosia. Shepherd concentrated on what was going on outside, his eyes constantly flicking to the wing mirrors. Several times they were overtaken by motorcyclists and each time it happened Shepherd tensed, even though Popov had said that the Rolls-Royce was fully armoured.

They drove through the city, which Shepherd knew was the most dangerous part of the journey as the crowded streets gave them little room for manoeuvre. The two men in the back stopped talking and in the rear-view mirror Shepherd could see that Popov was in full attention mode, his head swivelling from side to side, constantly checking with the teams in the front and rear cars. The drivers were good, as good as the ones Grechko had back in London. They drove smoothly and confidently without giving other vehicles the chance to cut in.

Their first visit was to a glass tower block topped with the logo of the Bank of Cyprus. A uniformed security guard waved them through to an underground car park where another guard waved them into three spaces close to a lift. The bodyguards climbed out of the vehicles as soon as they came to a halt. Podolski and Sokolov moved to either side of the Rolls-Royce while Dudko and Volkov stayed by their car, their eyes scanning the car park from behind their sunglasses.

When Popov was satisfied that the area was secure he opened the rear passenger door of the Rolls-Royce so that Grechko could get out. As Grechko strode over to the lift, Dudko and Volkov went around to the boot of their car and took out two of the aluminium suitcases. They followed Grechko to the lift, where a grey-haired man in a suit was waiting. He shook hands with Grechko and ushered him into the lift. Dudko and Volkov followed him with their suitcases. Shepherd moved to step into the lift but Popov stopped him. ‘Mr Grechko would prefer to keep his business private,’ he said.

‘I have to know that he’s secure,’ said Shepherd.

Popov shook his head. ‘This is Cyprus,’ he said. ‘It’s not your problem.’

‘Dmitry …’

Popov shook his head again. ‘No arguments, Tony. I’m sorry.’ He nodded at the grey-haired man, who pressed the button to close the doors. Shepherd gritted his teeth in frustration but realised there was nothing he could do.

‘Was it something you said?’ asked Podolski. She had come up behind him, as silent as a cat. Shepherd shrugged but didn’t say anything. She laughed and patted him on the shoulder. ‘Don’t take it personally,’ she said, and walked back to the cars.

After half an hour Shepherd heard Popov in his earpiece, asking whether the area was secure.

‘Secure,’ said Shepherd.

A few minutes later the lift door opened and Popov stepped out. Grechko stayed in the lift with Dudko and Volkov until Popov had checked the area, then they all moved to the cars. Dudko and Volkov were still carrying their suitcases but Shepherd got the feeling that they were heavier.

Grechko got back into the Rolls-Royce while Dudko and Volkov took the cases over to their SUV.

Shepherd and Popov climbed into the car with Grechko and the convoy moved off. They visited two more banks and the procedure was pretty much the same as it had been with the Bank of Cyprus.

At the second bank, Grechko went inside with Popov, though only Volkov accompanied them, carrying a single suitcase. After half an hour they reappeared, and this time there was no doubt that the suitcase had gained weight.

They spent even less time inside the third bank, and when they reappeared Volkov was carrying the suitcase and a small attaché case.

‘That’s the work part done,’ Popov said to Shepherd as Grechko climbed into the back of the Rolls-Royce. Volkov put the suitcase and attaché case into the SUV and climbed into the back. ‘Now it’s family time and then back to the airport.’

They drove out of Nicosia and through the countryside. The sun was blindingly bright and the sky a perfect blue, a far cry from the leaden skies they had left behind in London. They headed inland, towards a line of hills covered in stunted trees, driving through villages that looked as if they had remained unchanged for hundreds of years. Shepherd saw stone houses with flat roofs, shaded by olive trees, with old men sitting on wooden benches, smoking cigarettes and gossiping. They drove by farms with dust-covered farm equipment and cars with mud-splattered windscreens and balding tyres but saw no one working in the fields. There was hardly any traffic on the roads, but three times huge modern double-height coaches powered past them, brightly painted and covered in Cyrillic script. ‘Russian holidaymakers,’ said Grechko after the third one went by. ‘It’s a big holiday place for us now.’

‘Even after what they did to the banks?’ asked Shepherd.

‘More so,’ said Grechko. ‘The prices of land and houses are tumbling, and a lot of Russians are buying now. They’ll never trust their money to a European bank again but they’ll buy property.’ He looked over at Popov. ‘You should buy something here, Dmitry. All that money I pay you.’

Popov laughed but said nothing.

They reached Mrs Grechko’s estate, a sprawling winery in the foothills of a mountain range. There was a fresh breeze that took some of the heat out of the sun, but Shepherd still had to shade his eyes with his hand as he peered through the car window. They drove through a stone arch and along a single-track road that cut through acres of tended vines. The house was smaller than Shepherd had expected, a two-storey grey stone farmhouse with a black roof and white shutters on the windows. There was a barn to the left built of matching stone and more buildings behind the house.

As the cars approached the house, two men in casual dress appeared at the door. The dark glasses and the way they stood with their arms folded gave away their profession. The two SUVs peeled off and parked next to a double garage to the right of the house while the Rolls-Royce pulled up in front of the house. Shepherd and Popov were out as soon as the car stopped, but even a cursory look around showed that the house was well protected. There was a bodyguard by the gate who had a rifle slung across his back and there was another man in sunglasses sitting under an umbrella at a table outside one of the outbuildings.

The two men at the front door nodded to Popov and one of them shouted something in Russian. Popov laughed and waved, then opened the door for Grechko. As Grechko headed for the front door two teenage boys came rushing out shouting ‘Papa! Papa!’ and Grechko hugged and kissed them in turn. They were big, strong boys, good looking with thick chestnut hair and the same strong chins as their father. He put his arms around them and they walked inside.

Shepherd moved to follow them but Popov put a hand on his shoulder. ‘This is family time, we stay away,’ said Popov. ‘Mrs Grechko is never happy seeing us around, we remind her too much of London.’ He shrugged. ‘She’s a nice lady.’ He gestured at the garage, where Podolski, Sokolov, Dudko and Volkov were waiting. ‘There’s a rec room behind the garage with a kitchen and a bathroom if you need to freshen up. There’s a couple of couches too if you want to grab some sleep.’

‘Coffee would be good,’ said Shepherd as they started walking towards the garage.

‘Coffee’s easy, and Mrs Grechko’s chef is a Russian who cooks like a dream. I’ll get her to bring us some kalduny.’

‘Kalduny?’

‘Stuffed dumplings. Seriously, to die for. Do you like Russian food?’

Shepherd opened his mouth to say that his au pair was Slovenian and a great cook but he stopped himself just in time. Tony Ryan didn’t have a son or an au pair. He was finding himself so at ease in Popov’s company that he had almost slipped out of character. ‘I tried goulash once.’

Popov nodded. ‘She does a great goulash, too.’

They went over to join the team and filed into the rec room. Podolski offered to make coffee for everyone and she busied herself in the kitchen. Dudko flopped down on one of the sofas and was asleep within seconds. There was a pool table at the far end of the room and Sokolov and Volkov began to play. Shepherd felt uneasy, he never liked hanging around doing nothing. What he really wanted to do was to go for a long run but that was out of the question. He took off his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair before sitting down.

The hours dragged. At just after noon Shepherd watched through the window as two maids carried a table out into the garden at the side of the house, draped it with a cloth and then set it for lunch. At 12.30 Grechko appeared with his ex-wife. Mrs Grechko was in her late forties and not at all what Shepherd had expected. She was tall, only a few inches shorter than her husband, with shoulder-length blond hair and a model’s cheekbones. She had a ramrod-straight back, even when she sat drinking wine with her husband and listening to her sons talk to him. Whenever Grechko spoke to his sons, Mrs Grechko would look at him with a slight smile on her face. She had clearly never stopped loving him and Shepherd couldn’t help but wonder why Grechko had walked away from her.

After lunch Grechko took off his jacket and kicked a football around with his sons before they all went for a walk through the vineyard, shadowed at some distance by two of the bodyguards. Grechko slipped an arm around his ex-wife’s waist as they walked and she rested her head against his shoulder.

Popov came over to join Shepherd at the window. ‘She still loves him,’ said Shepherd.

‘And he loves her,’ said Popov.

‘So why …?’

‘Why aren’t they together?’ Popov shrugged. ‘He’s a billionaire, billionaires have trophy wives.’

‘That’s the rule, is it?’

Popov nodded. ‘They all do. But I agree with you, Tony. He had the perfect wife. She will love him for ever.’

‘And the new Mrs Grechko?’

Popov chuckled and looked around to make sure that there was no one within earshot. ‘She will love him so long as he has money. Which will be for ever, of course.’

The Gulfstream touched down at RAF Northolt at ten o’clock at night. The Bentley and two Range Rovers were already waiting at the hangar. The drivers were in their vehicles but Tarasov, Gunter and Serov were already out, watching the jet as it came to a halt and the pilot turned off the engines.

As soon as the steps were lowered, Popov and Shepherd left the plane and looked around. ‘All good,’ said Shepherd.

Popov waved at Sokolov and Grechko came down the steps with Sokolov and Podolski. He settled into the back of the Bentley as Dudko and Volkov came down the steps with the suitcases. They loaded them into the boot of the Bentley and then climbed into the Range Rover.

‘No passport checks, or customs?’ Shepherd asked Popov.

Popov shrugged but didn’t say anything.

‘So no one checks what’s in the suitcases?’ said Shepherd.

Popov clapped Shepherd on the back. ‘Relax, Tony. You’re a cop, not a customs officer.’

‘I’m serious, we fly in from overseas and no one checks?’

‘This is England, things are more relaxed here, especially for men like Mr Grechko,’ said Popov. ‘We submit a passenger and crew manifest to the National Border Targeting Centre at Manchester and they liaise with Heathrow, who also cover Northolt. They decide whether or not to send someone out, and as it’s Mr Grechko, they tend not to bother.’ He put his hand on Shepherd’s shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, it’s not drugs.’

‘Cash?’

‘You remember when the EU stole all that money from depositors as part of the bailout of the banks in Cyprus?’

Shepherd nodded. ‘Sure.’

‘When Cyprus froze all its bank accounts early this year, most of the big deposits belonged to Russians. That was always the plan, the EU wanted to punish the Russians. Well, we flew in three days before it was announced.’ He grinned and tapped the side of his nose.

‘Grechko was tipped off?’

‘A few of the oligarchs were, yes. I can’t tell you how Mr Grechko knew, but I do know that one of his English friends phoned him and two hours later we were on a plane heading to Cyprus. Mr Grechko moved most of the money out of his accounts but he also put a lot of cash into safe deposit boxes. His wife has access to the money but he brings it back into the UK, too.’ He patted him on the shoulder again. ‘So don’t worry, Mr Grechko is only bringing back what is rightfully his.’

‘Yeah, well, the Cypriots might see it differently.’

Popov shrugged carelessly. ‘The bank manager’s fine. You have to remember this was theft, Tony. A lot of Russians lost a lot of money, and it wasn’t their fault that the banks in Europe got into trouble.’

‘Including you?’

‘Me? Of course not. But I have a lot of friends who work in Cyprus and they are very unhappy. They lost fortunes. Small fortunes, but fortunes nonetheless.’ He nudged Shepherd towards the Bentley. ‘You should ride up front. And please, treat what I have said as confidential.’

‘Of course,’ said Shepherd.

They climbed into the Bentley and the three vehicles moved off. It took them less than an hour to drive to Grechko’s mansion. Grechko said he was going to bed and left Popov and Shepherd in the hallway under a massive crystal chandelier. ‘Are you going home?’ Popov asked Shepherd.

Shepherd looked at his watch. He was dog tired and couldn’t be bothered driving back to his flat. ‘I’ll crash here tonight,’ he said.

‘Excellent,’ said Popov. ‘We’re effectively off duty so we can sample a bottle of vodka that I’ve been wanting to try. I shall get it from the freezer.’ He slapped Shepherd on the back. ‘You check that all’s OK outside and I’ll get some snacks and see you in the recreation room.’

As Popov headed for the kitchen, Shepherd walked out of the house and down to the guardhouse. Lisko was there and he waved to Shepherd through the bullet- and bomb-proof glass. Shepherd smiled and flashed him a thumbs-up. He looked back at the house. There were no lights on the upper floor, Grechko was still sleeping below ground. It seemed an overreaction as the house wasn’t overlooked so there was no way a sniper could strike from outside the grounds. His phone rang as he walked back up the driveway. It was Jimmy Sharpe. ‘Still in Cyprus pimping for that Russian mobster?’ asked Sharpe.

‘Back in London, and I never said he was a mobster.’

‘He’s a Russian with money, that makes him a mobster,’ said Sharpe. ‘None of them have clean money, you know that.’

‘I couldn’t possibly comment,’ said Shepherd.

‘Yeah, well, at least you can take me for that drink.’

‘Happy to,’ said Shepherd.

‘Because I’ve got some intel for you on Farzad Sajadi. He’s known, but minor stuff. He was stopped for driving without insurance three years ago and has been done for speeding a couple of times. Never went to court or anything, just points and fines. Nothing major. Same address as you gave me. He has a four-year-old Honda CRV.’

‘And you checked with Immigration?’

‘He’s not known to them. Not under that name. And I got them to check under Khan using that date of birth. Nothing.’

‘That’s not possible,’ said Shepherd. ‘He had to have got into the country in the first place.’

‘He could have used any name for that. Or no name at all – he could have come in the back of a lorry from Calais.’

‘Sure, but at some point the name Khan or Sajadi must have come up during the asylum process.’

‘You’d have thought so, but he’s not on the Border Agency database and there’s no record of an immigration tribunal ever looking at either name. You’re sure the passport is kosher?’

‘The guy who checked for me would have known if there was anything wrong with it,’ said Shepherd. ‘The passport’s real and so is the driving licence. And presumably the traffic cops found nothing untoward.’

‘Other than the fact he wasn’t insured and is a bit heavy on the accelerator, he seems a fine upstanding citizen. He’s not even claiming benefits.’

‘He’s got a job?’

‘That I don’t know, but I ran a check with DWP and they’re not paying him. He’s responsible for his own council tax, too. Like I said, he’s an upstanding citizen.’

‘What about finding out where he works?’

‘I can’t do that without speaking to him, and that’s probably not a good idea, is it?’

‘Yeah, you’re right. Let me have the car registration, will you?’

Sharpe gave him the number and Shepherd promised to call him back about the drink. He looked at the clock on the screen of his phone. It was almost eleven o’clock. He was walking towards the house when Alina Podolski drove out of the garage on a bright green Kawasaki trail bike. She was wearing a black helmet and she flicked up the visor and grinned at him. ‘You not going home, Tony?’

‘I’m dog tired. What about you? You don’t sleep on the premises?’

She laughed, flashing perfect white teeth. ‘What, sleep down there with farting and belching men, you must be joking. I’ve got a flat in Camden.’

‘Yeah, Camden’s nice.’

‘Where do you stay?’

‘Not far. Near the Heath.’ He pointed off to the west. ‘That way.’

‘You run on the Heath?’

‘How do you know that?’

She brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. ‘I saw you running before. You were heading to the Heath, right? I pegged you for a runner. You’ve got a runner’s build.’

‘Yeah, I do some training there.’

‘We should run together some time,’ she said. She jerked a thumb at the house. ‘The guys, they’re all gym rats. I prefer my exercise outside with the wind in my hair.’

‘Bring your gear in whenever you want,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m always up for a run.’ She waved and drove towards the gate, which was already opening for her. As she turned into the road she beeped her horn and accelerated. Shepherd watched her go. She wasn’t heading towards Camden, he realised. She was going in the opposite direction.

He heard excited barking from the kennels and realised the Dobermans were about to be released for the night, so he hurried inside.

Shepherd was up at six the next day. He had brought an overnight bag with a washbag and several changes of clothes, so he showered and shaved and put on a clean shirt before heading to the control room. As he was checking the overnight log, one of Grechko’s male chefs turned up with a tray of bacon and egg rolls, freshly made porridge and a large bowl of fruit salad. He ate with Dudko, Volkov and Sokolov, and they were just finishing when Popov arrived. Popov grabbed a breakfast roll and poured himself a coffee. He sat down at the table. ‘We can do the morning briefing now if you want,’ he said to Shepherd, and Shepherd nodded. ‘Basically Mr Grechko’s in for the day. He’s taken to heart what you said about getting people to come to him, so he was going to see his designers today in Mayfair but they’ve agreed to come here.’

‘Designers?’

‘Mr Grechko has commissioned a new boat and a new jet and the designers are being briefed on his specifications. They were with Mrs Grechko in France last week but everything has to be cleared through him first.’ He grinned. ‘I was talking to one of our guys over there and apparently there’s a problem with having chandeliers on planes. Who knew?’

They all laughed and Shepherd sipped his coffee. He was warming to Popov. He ran a tight ship but he had an easy way with his men, working them hard but letting them have enough fun to stop them getting bored. And he had the same sarcastic sense of humour as policemen the world over.

‘So, we have the designers arriving at ten. He was due to see his bankers at Canary Wharf for lunch but they have agreed to come here, though considering the vintages in Mr Grechko’s wine cellar I don’t think they needed much persuading. And he was due to go to Claridge’s for dinner with friends but he’s asked them to come here for eight.’

‘The friends?’

‘Three. He’s known them all for ten years or more. They’ve been to the house before.’

‘Do they have security?’

Popov shook his head. ‘One is a writer, one is an actor who’s going to be starring in a movie Mr Grechko’s production company is due to film in Canada, and his accountant is coming.’

‘We’ll be checking their vehicles?’

‘Of course. But as I said, they have all been here before, they’re trusted friends.’

‘Sounds good,’ said Shepherd. ‘I think I’ll probably pop off home this afternoon, then. If you need me, I’m at the other end of the phone.’

Popov grinned. ‘We’ll try to get by without you, Tony,’ he said. ‘It’ll be a struggle but hopefully we’ll manage. You enjoy your day off.’

Shepherd and Popov were at the entrance to the house when the designers arrived, a middle-aged blond woman with the chiselled looks of a former model, a plump Asian girl with a briefcase and a long plastic tube on a shoulder strap, and an effeminate man in tight Versace jeans who kept batting his eyelids at Popov.

As Popov ushered the team into the house, Shepherd gave the driver and his car the once-over. ‘Anywhere I can get a coffee, pal?’ asked the driver, a fifty-something man in a grey suit and a yellowish pallor that suggested liver problems.

Shepherd called Volkov over and asked him to take the driver to the kitchen and to stay with him. He was uneasy whenever outsiders were in the house, but the design team were harmless and the driver didn’t have the look of a professional assassin.

The meeting lasted just over an hour and a half and then they left, with the male member of the design team blowing Popov an exaggerated kiss through the car window before they disappeared through the gate.

Half an hour later, a black top-of-the-range Mercedes prowled through the gates and disgorged two fifty-something men in Savile Row suits. They adjusted their silk ties and expensive shirt cuffs and blinked in the sunlight like vampires emerging from their coffins before following Popov inside. The Mercedes headed back to the gate.

Shepherd waited until the gate had closed before walking over to the garage. He pressed his thumb against the sensor and tapped out his four-digit code. He walked inside and down the ramp to the car parking area. He waved up at a CCTV camera, knowing that Molchanov would be watching him in the control centre. He climbed into his X5 and drove out.

He parked in an underground car park in Park Lane and put on a black raincoat before walking outside. The sky was a leaden grey and it looked as if it wouldn’t take much for the heavens to open. He was ten minutes early but Harper was already sitting at a table at the café overlooking the Serpentine, smoking a cigarette, his face half hidden by the hood of his parka. ‘How’s it going, mate?’ he asked.

‘All good,’ said Shepherd. He gestured at the empty coffee cup in front of Harper. ‘Another?’

‘Yeah, go on,’ said Harper. Shepherd went over to the counter and returned with two cappuccinos. He sat down next to Harper and looked out over the water. Half a dozen swans were trying to persuade people to part with chunks of their cakes and sandwiches. ‘They’re keeping you busy?’ asked Harper, flicking ash on to the ground.

‘As always.’

‘I suppose if I asked what you’re working on you’d say that you could tell me but then you’d have to kill me?’

‘It’s not like that,’ said Shepherd. ‘Most of what I do is more like police work than spook stuff.’

‘But classified?’

‘Sure, but then pretty much everything I work on is.’

‘Terrorists?’

‘Mainly. But big-time crims, too.’

‘Drug dealers?’ asked Harper, with a sly smile.

‘Some,’ said Shepherd. ‘But most of the resources are now targeted at home-grown Muslim terrorists, for obvious reasons. Back in the old days it was old Cold War stuff, then the IRA, but when the Soviet Union imploded and the peace process kicked in, they had nothing to do for a while. That’s when they started looking at organised crime, but that went on to the backburner after 9/11.’

‘Yeah, well, it’s an ill wind, they say.’

Shepherd nodded. ‘From your standpoint, sure.’

‘You checked up on me, right?’ Shepherd didn’t say anything and Harper grinned mischievously. ‘What, do you think you can go rooting around the PNC for me and that I wouldn’t find out?’

‘It wasn’t me,’ said Shepherd.

‘Whoever it was they were clever enough not to leave their fingerprints,’ said Harper. ‘They went in under the log-in of a young PC who obviously thought he could leave his terminal unattended while he went for a coffee.’

‘You’ve got someone in the Met on your payroll?’ said Shepherd.

Harper faked indignation. ‘How dare you suggest that I would do anything as illegal as paying a member of Her Majesty’s Constabulary for information!’

‘No offence,’ said Shepherd.

Harper grinned and took a long pull on his cigarette. ‘Well, come on, tell me what you found out about me.’

‘Not much, as it happens.’

Harper’s grin widened. ‘Told you,’ he said.

‘You’ve done a good job of staying below the radar. The consensus seems to be that you’re in Spain.’

‘Yeah, well, as long as they think that, I’m a happy bunny.’

‘How did you find me, Lex?’

‘It wasn’t difficult. For a start you weren’t hiding, plus I knew you back in Afghanistan, I knew your name and your date of birth and that you were married to Sue and that you had a kid, Liam.’ His face fell. ‘Shit, sorry.’

‘Sorry?’

‘About the wife. The car crash. I only just found out. Sorry.’

‘It was a long time ago.’

‘I know, but I’m sorry. I never met her, but you were always talking about her.’ He sipped his coffee and then wiped the foam from his upper lip with his sleeve. ‘Always nagging you to leave the Regiment, remember?’

Shepherd chuckled. ‘Yeah. She got what she wanted after I got shot. I left a few months later. Out of the frying pan into the fire, as it happens.’

‘Yeah?’

Shepherd nodded. ‘Yeah. They never had me walking a beat, they put me straight into an undercover unit and the work was every bit as dangerous as Afghanistan. High-level crims, drug dealers, hitmen, gangsters. She was soon nagging me to leave the cops.’

‘To join Five?’

Shepherd shook his head. ‘Nah, I moved to SOCA, but that was after she died.’

‘SOCA? Now that was a great idea, wasn’t it? The British FBI? They couldn’t find their arse with both hands.’

‘You’ve come up against them, have you?’

‘There’s half a dozen of them in Pattaya but they don’t know me. I’ve sat opposite two of them in a go-go bar and they’ve looked straight through me.’

‘How come?’

‘Because they’re tossers. Like your mate, what was his name, Razor? In and out of the massage parlours like bloody yo-yos. If ever they started to get busy about me I’ve more than enough to get them pulled back to the UK. SOCA was never going to work. You can’t shove cops, customs officers and taxmen into the same organisation and expect them to work together. They form their own little kingdoms and start plotting against each other.’

Shepherd raised his eyebrows. ‘You seem to know a lot about SOCA.’

‘I know a lot about a lot, mate. Knowledge is power. End of.’ He took a long pull on his cigarette. ‘Still, if they were any good they’d have been giving me a hard time, wouldn’t they, so thank heaven for small mercies. I just hope this new mob, the National Crime Agency, isn’t much better. Doubt it will be. It’s like renaming the Titanic just before the iceberg hits.’

‘How did you get my number, Lex? And how did you know I worked for Five? Because that sort of info wouldn’t be accessible by your average cop.’

Lex smiled as he blew a plume of smoke at the floor and watched it disperse. ‘You think because your phone’s unlisted that it’s not listed somewhere? Come on, you’re in the business. If a phone’s got a contract then there’s a trail. The only safe phone is a public landline and the powers that be are doing all they can to cut down on those. They want everyone on mobiles because they can track them.’

Shepherd nodded but didn’t say anything. Harper was right, of course. Mobile phones had made the job of surveillance much easier. If you had a target’s phone number you could follow the phone around the world, listen to every phone call made and see every text. And with the latest technology, all that could be achieved even if the phone was switched off.

‘I tell you, mate, Big Brother is already here.’

Shepherd turned to look at him. ‘You still haven’t answered my question, Lex.’

‘How did I get your number? And your address in Hereford? I paid for it. Cold hard cash and a lot of it. There’s a whole industry out there geared up to providing information. And a lot of the guys doing it are former cops and former spooks. They still have access. But don’t worry, all they could find out was that you worked for MI5, their database is as secure as it gets. I don’t ask how they get their intel, and they don’t say. The money does the talking.’

‘OK, so here’s the big question. If you’ve got access to all that information, how come you needed me to check up on Khan? You found me, why couldn’t you find him?’

Harper nodded as he drew on his cigarette and held the smoke deep in his lungs before exhaling. ‘Because you’re in the system. You’ve got a passport and credit cards and a driving licence and you pay your council tax like a good citizen. And like I said, I already had your basic details. Easy peasy. But Khan was a whole different kettle of fish.’

‘You tried under his real name?’

‘Real name doesn’t really apply, does it? We knew him as Ahmad Khan in Afghanistan but who’s to say that’s his real name? A guy can use any name he wants out there, most births aren’t even registered. That’s why when they do come over here they get to stay. You can have fingerprints, DNA, iris scans, the works, but they’re no bloody use if you’ve nothing to compare them with.’ He dropped what was left of his cigarette on the floor, stamped on it, then picked up the flattened butt and put it into his pocket. He leaned across the table. ‘So, time to shit or get off the pot, Spider. Did you find him?’

Shepherd nodded. ‘Yeah, I found him.’

Harper grinned. ‘I knew you would. Hammersmith? Near the court?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Family?’

‘Not that I know of. He’s not known as Ahmad Khan any more. Now he’s got a British passport under the name Farzad Sajadi.’

‘That’s interesting.’

‘What’s your plan, Lex? What do you want to do?’

‘What do you want to do?’ Lex’s eyes bored into Shepherd’s. The two men stared at each other for several seconds. It was Spider who looked away first. There was something different about Lex’s eyes, a coldness that hadn’t been there when he’d been Shepherd’s spotter in Afghanistan. The relationship between a sniper and a spotter was as tight as any relationship could be. It was all about trust. A sniper had to concentrate on his target with every fibre of his being, and that meant the spotter had to be watching his back. A sniper had to be able to trust his spotter completely, and in Afghanistan Spider had trusted Harper, literally, with his life. But the Lex Harper sitting next to him on the bench in Hyde Park wasn’t the same man who’d partnered him in Afghanistan. But then Shepherd had changed, too. Everyone changed. Time and events made sure of that.

Shepherd rubbed his right shoulder as he thought back to the day that Khan had shot him. He had nearly died that day in 2002. And the officer he was with, Captain Harry Todd, had died as he lay in Shepherd’s arms, shot in the head and throat. He shuddered as the memories flooded back. Khan had shot Todd twice but either of the wounds would have been fatal. And if the round that had slammed into Shepherd’s shoulder had been an inch to the left, Shepherd would have died too.

‘Spider?’ Harper was looking at him with concern in his eyes.

‘Yeah, sorry,’ said Shepherd. He shook his head to clear his thoughts.

‘You thinking about Captain Todd?’

‘Yeah.’

‘That bastard Khan ambushed him. And you. You weren’t even shooting when you came out of that building, you were no threat to him.’

‘What do you want to do, Lex?’

Harper leaned towards Shepherd. ‘Remember what the captain wanted? That French phrase?’

‘Droit de seigneur?’

That’s the one. The right to be in at the kill. That’s what I want, Spider. I want to see the bastard die.’

‘You’re talking about murder.’

Harper shook his head fiercely. ‘I’m talking about justice, and you more than anyone should know how important that is. He killed the captain. He shot three of my mates in the back. And he damn near killed you.’

Shepherd nodded. Everything Harper said was true. But that didn’t make what he was suggesting the right thing to do.

‘Well?’ said Harper.

‘You’re up for this?’

‘Damn right,’ said Harper. ‘Are you?’

Shepherd closed his eyes. His brain kicked into overdrive, pulling out images from his almost perfect memory. The blood trickling down Todd’s face. More blood frothing from the wound in his throat. The way the life had faded from the captain’s eyes and his body had shaken and then gone still. Then the nightmare journey back to the helicopter, Shepherd lying on a makeshift stretcher being dragged behind a moped, bouncing and banging across the rough terrain, every movement sending bolts of pain through his shoulder as the blood seeped into the trauma bandage covering the gaping wound, the wound that he saw every morning in the bathroom mirror. He opened his eyes and smiled thinly at Harper. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I’m up for it. But first we have to make sure.’

‘Make sure?’

‘We need to know it’s definitely him.’

‘You said you’d ID’d him.’

‘I said I’ve identified the guy in the picture. But we need to be one hundred per cent sure that it’s Khan.’

‘An Afghan with a milky eye and a straggly beard? How many of them do you think there are in the world?’

‘To be honest Lex, I don’t know. And neither do you. We need to get a close look at him. And I’ll get Jock along. Jock got up close and personal with Khan so I want to know what he thinks.’

‘How the hell is Jock?’

‘Haven’t seen him since Afghanistan. The Regiment’ll know where he is. Soon as I’ve got Jock on board, we’ll go take a look at Khan.’

Shepherd drove back to Hampstead and found a parking space fairly close to his flat in a side road off Hampstead High Street. The cramped one-bedroom flat was on the second floor of a block built during the sixties to fill the gap left when two mews houses were demolished by a stray German bomb during the Second World War. Shepherd let himself in, tapped in the burglar alarm code and made himself a cup of coffee before phoning Major Gannon. The call went through to voicemail but Shepherd didn’t leave a message. He was taking his first sip of coffee when the phone rang. ‘Sorry, Spider, I was in the range – how’s things?’

‘All good, boss,’ said Shepherd. ‘You?’

‘Helping train a group of SFOs,’ said the Major. ‘Slow going.’

Specialist Firearms Officers had originally been confined to specialist units that were used only in emergency situations, but recently they had become a familiar sight on the streets of British cities. While public opinion would have preferred to have kept the traditional bobby armed only with a stick and a whistle, times were changing, and the armed units were the only defence against criminals armed with guns and knives. Most of the country’s police forces now sent their SFOs to the SAS for training.

‘I had a run-in with armed cops a while back,’ said Shepherd. ‘Found myself on the receiving end of a taser.’

The Major laughed. ‘And how was it?’

‘Hurt like hell,’ said Shepherd. ‘And as I was covered in petrol at the time, it could have been lethal.’

‘Better than a bullet,’ said the Major.

‘No argument there,’ said Shepherd. ‘Boss, I need a favour. Jock McIntyre. Any idea where he is?’

‘Now there’s a blast from the past,’ said the Major. ‘It’s been a couple of years since I’ve seen him. I was in Iraq with him five or six years ago and I used him in the Increment a few times.’ The Increment was one of the government’s best-kept secrets, an ad hoc group of special forces soldiers used on operations considered too dangerous for the country’s security services, MI5 and MI6. The Major had headed the unit for several years. ‘I haven’t heard from him for at least three years.’

‘He’s left the Regiment?’

‘Yes, he had a couple of close calls during the last tour and he started drinking more than was good for him. I had him in for a couple of chats and we put him through a detox programme but it didn’t do much good. He’d put in the years so he left with a decent pension but he wasn’t happy about going.’

‘He wasn’t dishonourably discharged?’

‘Hell no, he was always professional in the field. It was just when he got back to Hereford that he had problems. He’d have a few too many drinks in the pub and then get into fights with the local yobs. You know what it’s like here, Spider. There’s always some tough guy who wants to prove he can take on the SAS. Most of the guys just walk away but Jock seemed to welcome the attention. It got so that we had to ban him from the local pubs.’

‘Can you find out where he is? I need to get in touch.’

‘Something I can help with?’

‘It’s personal, boss.’

‘Personal is sometimes when you need the most help, Spider. You were there when I needed you, I’m here for you if you need me.’

‘I appreciate that, boss,’ said Shepherd. ‘But it’s no biggie, seriously.’ Shepherd wasn’t happy about lying to the Major but the fewer people who knew what he was planning, the better.

‘No problem,’ said the Major. ‘I’ll take a walk over to the admin office and pull his file. OK to call you on this number?’

‘Yeah, I’m at home,’ said Shepherd.

‘Hereford?’

Shepherd laughed. ‘Sorry, no. London. I’ve been in this flat so long it’s starting to feel like home.’

The Major ended the call and Shepherd went through to the pokey kitchen and opened the fridge. There were a couple of Marks and Spencer salads, a pack of cheese slices and a pack of yoghurts. Shepherd wasn’t a great food shopper and tended to eat out more often than not when he was away from Hereford. He pulled out the salads but both were a week past their sell-by date and he tossed them into the bin by the cooker. There was half a pack of Hovis bread that was just within its sell-by date so he made a couple of slices of cheese on toast and took them and a cup of Nescafé back into the sitting room. He had barely flopped down on to the sofa when his phone rang. It was the Major and he had an address in Reading and a phone number for Jock McIntyre. ‘I think the number’s out of date,’ said the Major. ‘There’s a note in the file saying that someone from the SAS Association tried to get in touch last year but didn’t get any reply.’ The SAS Association looked after former members of the Regiment who had fallen on hard times and paid out more than £120,000 a year in financial support. ‘According to the file he’s separated from his wife and working as a security guard.’

‘A security guard? Jock?’

‘He’s not the Jock you remember, Spider. Look, if you do see him, get him to get in touch with me, will you?’

‘Will do, boss.’ Shepherd ended the call, finished his sandwich, and then tapped out McIntyre’s number. It went straight through to voicemail.

The Major hadn’t given Shepherd a work address for McIntyre so Shepherd’s only option was to try catching the man at home. He figured it would take just over an hour to drive to Reading. It wasn’t a town that he was familiar with but the Major had given him the postcode and the X5 had satnav. He looked at his watch. It was three o’clock in the afternoon. There was probably no good time to get there – there was no guarantee that McIntyre was still at the address, and if he did still live there he could be working days or nights.

He locked up the flat and walked downstairs. He’d parked a short walk away and within minutes he was driving west, the destination programmed into the car’s satnav. The navigation system took him to a street of run-down terraced houses close to the town centre. The houses were on three floors, with a large bay window on the ground floor, two smaller windows on the first floor, and a single arched gable window set into the roof. Most appeared to have been converted into flats and had multiple doorbells by the front door.

Shepherd parked on the opposite side of the street and walked over to McIntyre’s address. He was in Flat 3 but Shepherd couldn’t work out whether that was the top-floor or the ground-floor flat. He pressed the bell and waited. There was a small speaker below the three bell buttons but it remained resolutely silent. He pushed again, and then a third time. He was just about to turn away when the door opened. A large black woman in a bright green African-style dress and a matching headscarf started to back through the door, pulling a double stroller. Shepherd helped keep the door open as she manoeuvred the stroller on to the pavement. ‘Thank you,’ she said. Two small boys looked up at Shepherd with matching grins. They couldn’t have been more than eighteen months old, still at the stage where every stranger was a source of amusement. He couldn’t help smile back at their cheery faces and one of them put a hand to his mouth and blew Shepherd a kiss.

‘No problem,’ said Shepherd. ‘You don’t happen to know Jock McIntyre, do you?’

‘The Scottish man?’ said the woman, pulling the door shut. ‘He drinks a lot, and he scares my children sometimes.’

‘I’m told he lives in Flat 3.’

‘That’s right, the top,’ said the woman. ‘He lives above me. The one good thing is he’s quiet. I never hear him when he’s home.’

‘But he’s not in now?’

‘I don’t think so. Did you ring the bell?’ She was clutching a leather handbag to her ample chest as if she feared he might try to take it from her.

Shepherd nodded. ‘I’ll come back later.’ He turned to go.

‘Is he your friend?’

‘Sure.’

She looked at him earnestly. ‘You should tell him not to drink so much. Sometimes he falls over on the stairs. He’s going to hurt himself. Alcohol is a bad thing.’

‘I’ll tell him,’ said Shepherd. He went back to the car as the woman manoeuvred the pushchair down the street.

Shepherd was about to get into the car when he saw a small shop down the road, so he wandered down and bought a bottle of water, a box of Jaffa Cakes and a copy of the Daily Mail. Back in the car, he reclined the front seat, nibbled on the Jaffa Cakes and read the paper.

It had been dark for almost an hour when McIntyre came walking down the road from the direction of the station. He was carrying a backpack slung over one shoulder and was walking slowly, as if every step was an effort. It was a far cry from when Shepherd had seen him in Afghanistan, where McIntyre had no problem running with thirty kilos of equipment on his back plus a loaded weapon and ammo. He had been one of the fittest men in the Regiment and one of the few who could give Shepherd a run for his money in the stamina stakes.

He had his head down and his shoulders were hunched as if he had the cares of the world pressing down on him. His sandy hair had greyed over the years and there was a grey pallor to his skin as if all the colour had been drained out of him.

Shepherd tossed his paper on to the passenger seat and climbed out of the car. McIntyre didn’t look up as Shepherd crossed the road, a sure sign that the man had lost his edge.

‘Jock?’

McIntyre carried on walking as if he hadn’t heard.

Shepherd jogged the last few steps. ‘Hey, Jock!’

McIntyre looked up, his brow furrowed into a deep frown. ‘Yeah, what?’ His eyes were red and watery and there were broken veins peppered across his nose and cheeks. He blinked as if he was having trouble focusing, and then his face cracked into a lopsided grin. ‘Bloody hell, Spider Shepherd.’

‘One and the same,’ said Shepherd.

‘What the hell are you doing in this neck of the woods?’ He shook his head in amazement.

‘Just dropped by to see how you were doing,’ said Shepherd.

‘All the better for seeing you, my old mucker,’ said McIntyre. He grabbed Shepherd and gave him a fierce bear hug, then patted him on the back with both hands. Shepherd could smell stale sweat and booze and it was obvious that under the heavy coat McIntyre was carrying a lot more weight than the last time they’d met. McIntyre put his hands on Shepherd’s shoulders and studied his face with eyes that were bloodshot from too little sleep or too much alcohol or most likely a combination of the two. ‘Bloody hell, you’re a sight for sore eyes,’ he said. ‘How long’s it been?’

‘Last time I saw you was November 2002, when I was leaving Afghanistan,’ said Shepherd.

‘Aye, but I didn’t know that you’d be leaving the Regiment,’ said McIntyre. ‘That bloody wife of yours finally got her way, didn’t she? Nagged and nagged until you left. How the hell is Sue? She was a fit one, all right. You did well bagging her. We always thought she was too good for you.’

Shepherd forced a smile. ‘She died, Jock. Back in 2004. Car accident.’

McIntyre’s face fell. ‘God, I’m sorry.’ He gripped Shepherd’s shoulders tightly. ‘Me and my big bloody mouth.’

‘You weren’t to know, Jock.’

‘And your boy? I’m scared to ask.’

‘Liam’s fine. Away at boarding school at the moment.’

‘Boarding school? Hell, you win the lottery, did you?’ He gestured over the BMW. ‘And a bloody Beamer? Life must be good, huh?’

‘Boarding school isn’t that expensive and the car’s from the office pool,’ said Shepherd. ‘What about you, Jock? How’s life?’

‘Life’s shit,’ said McIntyre. ‘But it’s better than the alternative. Anyway, let’s not stand out in the street like this. Come in – I don’t have Jamesons but I’ve got some Johnnie Walker.’

Shepherd nodded. What he had to say to McIntyre was better done in private than sitting in a pub or coffee shop. McIntyre slapped him on the back. ‘Hell, it’s good to see you, Spider. Ten years goes by in a flash, doesn’t it. Seems like only yesterday we were in Afghanistan.’ He shoved his hand into his trouser pocket and pulled out two Yale keys on a keyring with a small black and white plastic football on it. ‘Do you see much of the old guys?’

‘Some,’ said Shepherd. ‘Let’s get that drink and I’ll tell you.’

McIntyre slotted the key into the lock and took Shepherd through into the hallway. The walls were dirty and scuffed and the carpet had worn through in places. A bare bulb hung from the ceiling. ‘Top floor, I’m afraid, but it keeps me fit,’ said McIntyre.

He headed up to the first floor. The door there looked as if it had been kicked in at some point and it had been reinforced with strips of metal. There were two locks, one at eye level and one at knee level. ‘I met your neighbour,’ said Shepherd, nodding at the door.

‘The Kenyan bird?’ said McIntyre. ‘She’s a sweetie, isn’t she? Cooks amazing curries. I can smell them upstairs. Her kids are always crying, though. Does my head in sometimes.’

There was no carpet at all on the final flight of stairs, which had been painted purple but that had worn away to bare wood in places. There was another bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. Shepherd followed McIntyre up the stairs, where he used the second key to open a white-painted door. ‘Home sweet home,’ he said, tossing his backpack on to the floor by a pile of unopened mail and circulars.

It was just about the most depressing room that Shepherd had ever been in. It was the attic of the house and the only light came from the single gable window. There were several damp patches in the corners, the plaster wet and speckled with black mould. There was a single bed pushed against the wall opposite the door. There was no headboard, just a pillow and a grubby duvet. Under one of the eaves there was a built-in kitchen unit with a microwave and a single hotplate, and there was a battered kettle on top of a small fridge that rattled and hummed as if nearing the end of its useful life. A plastic accordion door led to a poky bathroom. Shepherd caught a glimpse of a stained toilet and a tiny plastic shower cubicle. His nose wrinkled at the foul smell coming from the toilet.

‘Aye, there’ve been problems with the drains,’ said McIntyre. ‘I think the Kenyan bird has been trying to flush her Pampers. Still, this is only temporary, I’m going to be moving to a new place soon.’ He went over to a wall cupboard and took out a half-full bottle of Johnnie Walker Red Label and two glasses. ‘I don’t have soda water,’ he said apologetically. ‘But there’s tap water.’

‘Neat is fine,’ said Shepherd, looking around for somewhere to sit. There was a single wooden chair next to a small table under the window but there were three crusty saucepans stacked on it and the table was littered with KFC and pizza boxes. There was a scuffed leather armchair with stuffing bursting from the sides but it was covered in dirty clothing, including several pairs of soiled underwear.

‘I know it’s a mess, it’s the maid’s day off,’ said McIntyre, handing a glass to Shepherd. ‘Good to see you, Spider.’ The two men clinked glasses. McIntyre waved at the bed. ‘Sit yourself down there,’ he said. As Shepherd perched on the end of the bed, McIntyre shoved the dirty saucepans off the wooden chair and they clattered on to the stained carpet, which had possibly once been beige or yellow but now was the colour of a smoker’s fingers and there was barely a square foot that wasn’t peppered with cigarette burns. The ceiling had once been white but years of smoking tenants had turned it the same shade as the carpet. It was presumably from the previous tenant because there were no signs of McIntyre being a smoker.

McIntyre took a gulp of whisky and then poured more into his glass. He raised it in salute. ‘You know, you’re the first visitor I’ve had in here,’ he said, sitting on the wooden chair.

‘How long have you lived here?’ asked Shepherd.

McIntyre screwed up his face as if he’d been given a difficult mathematical problem to solve. ‘Six months,’ he said eventually. ‘Seven, maybe. It’s just somewhere to sleep.’

‘What happened to your marriage, Jock? You and Emma seemed a great couple. Two kids – they’re in their twenties now, right?’

‘Haven’t seen the kids for four years,’ said McIntyre. He smiled tightly. ‘Had a bit of a falling-out with Emma. Can’t go near her at the moment.’

‘Can’t go near her? What do you mean?’

‘Restraining order. Bloody cops.’ He shrugged and drained his glass before refilling it again. ‘She’ll come around eventually. Till death do us part, right?’ He grimaced. ‘Sorry. Stupid thing to say.’

Shepherd waved away the man’s apology. ‘Where are you working, Jock?’

‘I’m looking after an office building near the station,’ said McIntyre. ‘Days mainly but I get overtime overnight a couple of days a week. It’s quiet at night so I can catch forty winks.’ He raised his glass to Shepherd. ‘At least no one’s shooting at me and I don’t have to keep looking out for IEDs.’

‘I thought there was plenty of work out in Iraq, private security and that,’ said Shepherd.

‘Not any more,’ said McIntyre. ‘At least not for the likes of you and me. They do it on the cheap now, the days of a thousand dollars a day are long gone. Used to be you got great food and business-class flights back and forth and plenty of leeway to do what needed to be done, but that’s all gone. There are guys out there now earning a hundred and fifty bucks a day, Spider. That’s close to minimum wage. And it’s as dangerous as it ever was. More so. What they’ve done is to privatise casualties. Whereas it used to be the army that took the hits, now it’s the contractors. And when you do get hurt, you’re sent back home and left to your own devices. You have to take out your own insurance and that costs an arm and a leg.’ He laughed harshly, the sound of a wounded animal. ‘No pun intended. I wouldn’t go back to Iraq if they got down on bended knee and begged me.’ He raised his glass but his hand was unsteady and whisky slopped on to the carpet. ‘So what brings you to Reading? I’m guessing it’s not a social visit.’ He sipped his whisky and scrutinised Shepherd over the rim of his glass.

Shepherd met McIntyre’s gaze and forced a smile. McIntyre was a mess, he looked as if he was close to a breakdown. There was a tenseness about his movements and a small twitch to the side of his right eye that made it look as if he was winking. His nails were bitten to the quick and his skin had a yellowish pallor, a sign that all the alcohol he was drinking was taking its toll on his liver. Shepherd had half a mind to walk out.

‘Come on, Spider. Spit it out. It’s got be something important to get you out here.’

Shepherd nodded as he held his glass with both hands. ‘Remember Ahmad Khan?’

‘The muj that shot you and the captain? Like it was yesterday. One of the biggest regrets of my life is that we didn’t slot that bastard in Pakistan.’

Shepherd reached inside his jacket and pulled out the newspaper cutting that Harper had given him. McIntyre put his glass on the table next to a Domino’s pizza box and walked unsteadily over to Shepherd. He took the cutting from him and peered at it, then walked back to the table and began rooting through the fast food boxes, muttering to himself. Eventually he found a pair of reading glasses and he perched them on the end of his nose and stared at the cutting again. ‘What the hell is he doing in the UK?’ he said.

‘You think it’s him?’

‘Of course I think it’s him. And so do you. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Shepherd.

‘Come on, how many Afghans with straggly beards and one milky eye do you see in London?’

‘I don’t know, to be honest,’ said Shepherd. ‘There are thousands of Afghans in London, and a lot of them have beards. I don’t know how common that eye thing is.’

‘We were in Afghanistan and he was the only one I saw with an eye like that.’

Shepherd nodded. That was true. It was a very distinctive blemish, one that Shepherd had never seen elsewhere.

McIntyre paced up and down the tidy room as he reread the newspaper cutting. ‘How the hell does this happen?’ he muttered. ‘How does a Taliban murderer end up living here?’

‘That’s a good question,’ said Shepherd. ‘But a better question is what are we going to do about it?’

McIntyre took off his glasses. ‘You know what we’re going to do about it. We’re going to slot him, like we should have done in Pakistan.’

‘One step at a time, Jock,’ said Shepherd. ‘First we’ve got to be sure it’s him.’

McIntyre gave the cutting back to Shepherd. ‘Then we slot him, right?’

Shepherd pocketed the cutting. ‘One bridge at a time,’ he said.

McIntyre put his spectacles back on the table and picked up his glass of whisky. He raised it in salute. ‘We’re going to give that bastard what he deserves.’

‘No offence, Jock, but you need to lay off the booze.’

‘Sure, sure.’

‘I’m serious. We’re going to need clear heads to pull this off.’

McIntyre nodded. ‘No worries. I can take it or leave it.’ He saw the look of disbelief on Shepherd’s face and he grinned. ‘Spider, I drink because I’m bored, end of.’

‘That’s good to hear,’ said Shepherd. ‘How about we start by pouring that in the sink?’

McIntyre held up the glass. ‘Now that’d be a waste of perfectly good whisky, wouldn’t it?’

‘Clear heads,’ repeated Shepherd. ‘Starting now.’

McIntyre sighed, then walked over to the sink and emptied the glass. Then he fetched the bottle and poured the contents away. ‘Happy now?’ he said, tossing the empty bottle.

‘Happier,’ said Shepherd.

McIntyre gestured at the glass in Shepherd’s hand. ‘The no-drinking rule applies to you as well, right?’

Shepherd laughed. ‘Fair comment,’ he said. ‘I’ll stay off the booze as long as you do.’ He looked at the whisky in his glass, then quickly drank it. He grinned at McIntyre. ‘Starting now.’