The car turned sharply to the left, slowed, then took another sharp left turn. It dipped down and the traffic noises died away. They were in an underground car park. Another good sign. If they’d been going to kill him they’d probably have driven out into the countryside.
The Mercedes slowed to a crawl, turned, and the engine died. Shepherd tensed. He was ninety-five per cent sure that this was going to work out all right, but the adrenaline kicked in, his heart pounded and he started to breathe faster.
The boot clicked. Shepherd grunted, kicked it open with his feet and sprang out, hands up, ready to lash out. Ervin was standing a dozen feet away, his gun aimed at Shepherd’s chest. Artur stood off to the side, even further away, clasping a Glock with both hands, one finger tensed on the trigger. Shepherd stood where he was, breathing heavily. Ervin smiled. ‘Relax, Tony,’ he said.
‘ Relax? You fucking poleaxe me and you tell me to relax?’
‘What are you going to do? Kung fu? Karate? Even Bruce Lee couldn’t block a bullet.’
Shepherd glanced over his shoulder. The driver was standing by the open door of the Mercedes, holding a sawn-off shotgun. He looked back at Ervin. ‘Now what?’ he asked.
Ervin gestured with his gun. ‘We’re here,’ he said. ‘The boss is upstairs.’
Shepherd put a hand to his head, and felt his hair wet with blood. ‘So let’s go.’ He wiped his fingers on his jeans.
Ervin nodded, then spoke to the others in Albanian. Artur put away his gun and the driver slid the sawn-off under the front passenger seat. Ervin stuck his weapon into his trouser belt. ‘First, we must search you,’ said Ervin.
‘For what?’
‘For anything. Please raise your hands.’
Shepherd did as he was told. Ervin moved forward cautiously and went through the pockets of the pea coat. He examined the Nokia mobile and put it into his own jacket pocket, along with Shepherd’s wallet, keys, return ticket and passport.
‘I’ll want those back later,’ said Shepherd.
‘You’ll have them.’ He patted down Shepherd’s jeans to his boots. ‘I’m going to lift your shirt,’ said Ervin.
‘Nice of you to warn me.’
Ervin pulled Shepherd’s shirt out of his jeans and undid the buttons. He lifted the shirt, peered round Shepherd’s waist, then checked his chest.
‘Satisfied?’ asked Shepherd.
Ervin nodded. Shepherd fastened his shirt and tucked it into his jeans. The driver climbed back into the Mercedes and drove off.
‘This way,’ said Ervin. He led Shepherd to a lift and tapped in an access code on a console set into the concrete. A few minutes later the doors opened and Shepherd stepped in, followed by Artur and Ervin. It was austere and functional, lined with stainless steel. The doors hissed shut.
The lift was designed to stop at only two floors – the underground car park and the penthouse. There was no way of knowing how many floors it bypassed, but less than a minute later the doors opened and Shepherd walked out into a hallway with a red thick-pile carpet and gilded wallpaper, which featured rushes and long-legged birds pecking for fish. Ornate candelabra hung from the ceiling. At the far end of the hallway there was a pair of ornate Chinese doors. As Shepherd and the two Albanians walked towards them they opened. Shepherd wasn’t surprised to see that the man standing there to greet them was also wearing a leather jacket and jeans. It seemed to be the standard uniform: Albanian gangster chic.
He grunted at Ervin and held the door open for them. The room they went into was huge with high ceilings, more candelabra, a massive marble fireplace that was almost as tall as Shepherd, and gilt furniture with overstuffed red cushions. There were ornate statues everywhere – dolphins, lions, African warriors holding spears – and a massive plasma-screen television on one wall with huge speakers. Shepherd stood at the window, which looked out over the Seine and the towers of Notre Dame Cathedral. They were right in the centre of Paris and the apartment must have been worth millions of euros.
A door opened at the far end of the room and a small but powerfully built man came in. He had close-cropped grey hair and a square chin, which he thrust up like a boxer eager to get started. He was wearing a salmon-pink polo shirt, cream trousers and pale tan loafers, as if he’d just stepped off a golf course.
‘Nice view,’ said Shepherd.
‘You don’t notice it after a while,’ said the man. ‘I am Kreshnik. My men tell me you did not want to accompany them.’ He had a thick Central European accent but was obviously fluent in English. He waved for Shepherd to sit down on one of the sofas.
Shepherd stayed where he was. ‘Salik said I was to meet you guys in Paris. He didn’t say I was going to be thrown into the boot of a car.’
‘That was because you didn’t go with them willingly,’ said Kreshnik. ‘Now, please, sit down. Can I offer you a drink?’
‘No, thanks,’ said Shepherd, and sat on a large sofa. It was nowhere near as comfortable as it looked.
‘I have a very nice white wine, perfectly chilled.’
‘Fine. Okay, whatever,’ said Shepherd.
Kreshnik clicked his fingers and Artur left the room. He clicked his fingers again, this time at Ervin, who stepped forward and put the contents of Shepherd’s pockets on to the coffee table. Kreshnik flicked through the passport. ‘One of Salik’s?’ he asked.
Shepherd nodded.
Kreshnik put it down, then picked up the wallet and went through it, examining every card and banknote. He looked at both sides of the driving licence, then laid it on top of the wallet. He picked up the mobile and scrolled through the menu. He frowned. ‘There is only one number in the memory?’
‘Yes. Salik’s.’
‘No friends? No family?’
‘I only use it to talk to him.’
Kreshnik’s eyes narrowed as if he was squinting into a bright light. ‘You have no other friends?’
‘It’s a pay-as-you-go mobile. I have another phone I use to call friends. That one’s a business phone. If there’s a problem I can throw it away and there’s no comeback.’
‘You are suspicious of Salik?’
Shepherd laughed. ‘I’m suspicious of everyone,’ he said. ‘Especially thugs who whack me on the back of the head and dump me in a car boot. I don’t know, maybe I’m paranoid.’
Kreshnik scrolled through the menu again. ‘No calls made, none received,’ he said.
‘I clear the logs,’ said Shepherd. ‘You never know when some nosy bastard’s going to start searching through it.’
Kreshnik’s face hardened. ‘That would be your British sense of humour, would it?’ he said. ‘I’d be careful with that. Not everyone understands the joke.’
‘I’m just saying that in this business you have to be careful. The cops can trace every call you make. You must know that. You watch every word you say and you keep switching Sim cards. And whenever you can, you use public phones. That’s basic – everyone knows it.’
Kreshnik removed the back of the phone and peered inside, took out the battery, examined it, then reassembled the phone and switched it back on.
He put it down on the coffee table and picked up Shepherd’s keys. ‘These are for your car?’ he said.
Shepherd nodded.
‘What sort?’
‘A Land Rover.’
‘I have a Range Rover,’ said Kreshnik.