‘Yes, you do. But you can do me a favour.’
‘Sure.’
‘Watch yourself with this Harper character. He’s obviously not your run-of-the-mill crim, I’ll give you that, but the job you’re in now, you’ve got to be careful who you associate with.’
‘I hear you.’
‘I can tell my advice is going in one ear and out of the other,’ said Sharpe. ‘Anyway, I’m off to bed. You got anything interesting on?’
‘Just my boxers.’
‘I meant job-wise, idiot.’
‘Yeah, there’s something on, Charlie has summoned me to Thames House later today.’
‘Give her my love.’
‘I’ll definitely do that,’ said Shepherd, and ended the call. He put the phone down on the bedside table before rolling over and trying unsuccessfully to get back to sleep. His mind kept racing, filled with jerky images of his time in Afghanistan: the searing heat, the foul smells, the firefights, the explosions, the mortar fire, the rattle of Kalashnikov fire, the adrenalin rush of being under fire. He tossed and turned for more than an hour, then he rolled out of bed, pulled on a tracksuit and went downstairs. His boots and his rucksack were in the cupboard under the stairs. Shepherd always ran with the rucksack, which he had filled with house bricks wrapped in newspapers. He laced up his boots, swung the rucksack on to his back and let himself out of the kitchen door.
He ran for the best part of an hour, most of that time at full pelt, and he was bathed in sweat by the time he got back to the house. His au pair, Katra, was in the kitchen making coffee. She was wearing a grey sweatshirt a couple of sizes too big for her and jeans that seemed to be a couple of sizes too small. She had her blond hair tied back in a ponytail and the sleeves of her sweatshirt pulled up to her elbows. ‘You’re up early,’ she said.
‘Couldn’t sleep,’ he said. ‘I’m heading to London after breakfast,’ he added, tossing the rucksack back under the stairs and slipping off his muddy boots. ‘I’m not sure when I’ll be back, I think they have a job for me.’
‘You know Liam’s back for half term in two weeks?’ she asked, giving him a mug of coffee.
‘I’d forgotten,’ he said. ‘I’ll Skype him this evening. I’m going to go by train, so I’ll need a lift to the station.’
‘Egg and bacon? And toast?’
‘You read my mind,’ said Shepherd, taking his coffee with him upstairs.
He sat on his bed and phoned Lex Harper on the Samsung phone that he’d given him. ‘Just wanted to update you on my progress,’ said Shepherd.
‘Which is zero, right?’
‘How did you know?’ asked Shepherd.
‘I can hear it in your voice. I knew it wasn’t going to be easy.’
‘Yeah, well, I’ve tried the obvious things and drawn a blank, so it looks as if he’s here under a different name.’
‘Mate, I bet he’s here as an illegal. Probably got asylum under that different name.’ Harper cursed. ‘So near and so bloody far,’ he said. ‘Looks like I’ll just have to keep pounding the streets of West London looking for him. Not much of a plan, is it?’
‘I’m in the office later today,’ said Shepherd. ‘There’s a guy there I can ask, he’ll do some digging for me on the QT. What about you, are you OK hanging around?’
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ said Harper. ‘I’m staying right here until we get this bastard.’
Thames House had been the home of MI5 since 1994. It was an imposing grey Portland stone edifice on the south side of Horseferry Road, with statues of St George and Britannia on the frontage glaring across the road at Nobel House, the former headquarters of ICI, which was built at the same time and to virtually the same design. A flag fluttered on the roof of the building with MI5’s crest and motto – Regnum Defende, Defend the Realm. As well as being home to the Security Service, Thames House also contained the Northern Ireland Office and the Joint Terrorism Analysis Centre. Because of the undercover nature of his work, Shepherd rarely visited the building, but Charlotte Button had asked him in for a meeting first thing on Monday morning. Security was tight and Shepherd had to show his MI5 ID, press his right thumb against a fingerprint detector and pass through a metal detector before he was allowed to use the lift to the fourth floor.
Button was waiting for him in a windowless meeting room. There was a pine table with six high-backed leather chairs around it, and the wall opposite the door was filled with a whiteboard. There were a dozen or so photographs and notes written in black and red ink on the whiteboard and a pale green file and a large manila envelope on the table.
‘Spider, punctual as always,’ said Button. She was wearing a dark blue linen jacket over a cream dress and had her chestnut hair clipped up at the back. She air-kissed him and patted him on the left arm, just above the elbow. He caught the fragrance of her perfume, floral with a hint of orange. ‘I’ve got you a coffee,’ she said, pointing at a white mug next to a plate of chocolate biscuits.
Shepherd grinned. ‘Good to see that the cutbacks haven’t hit the catering budget,’ he said, sitting down.
‘A few years ago I would have been able to offer you Kit Kats,’ she said. She sat down opposite him and reached for a cup and saucer. She stirred her tea and smiled at him. ‘No lasting effects from the taser?’ she asked.
‘A couple of burn marks,’ he said. ‘But it could have been a lot worse. I could have gone up like a Roman candle.’
‘Ready to get back in the saddle?’
Shepherd looked over at the whiteboard, wondering what she had planned for him. ‘Sure.’
Button opened the file and took out a photograph of a large, heavy-set man in a dark suit. He was in his late fifties with a squarish, unsmiling face and receding hair cut close to the scalp. ‘Peter Grechko,’ she said. ‘One of the Russian oligarchs who now makes London his home. He’s one of the world’s richest men, up there with Roman Abramovich, Boris Berezovsky and Abram Reznikov.’
Shepherd nodded and took the photograph from her. ‘I’ve heard of him. He tried to buy Liverpool but missed out and now he’s hoping to buy Manchester City, right?’
‘Among other things,’ said Button. ‘Did you hear about the attempt on his life? A sniper took a shot at him two days ago as he was leaving Stamford Bridge. He’d been watching Chelsea play. A bodyguard was wounded but Grechko was unscathed.’
Shepherd frowned. ‘That’s news to me.’
‘Hardly surprising,’ said Button. ‘He owns a chain of provincial newspapers and several news magazines and is close to the owners of several national newspapers. Skis with the younger Murdochs and lives down the road from the owner of the Daily Express.’
‘Who needs a D notice when you’ve got friends in high places?’ said Shepherd, handing back the photograph.
‘His friends go higher than that,’ said Button. ‘He’s very close to the prime minister. He’s been on Grechko’s yacht, several times. As have several members of the cabinet and half a dozen peers, Labour and Conservative. Mr Grechko is on the board of several charities patronised by the PM’s wife and made a substantial donation to his old college.’
‘I think I can see where this is going,’ said Shepherd.
‘I’m sure you can,’ said Button. ‘The PM’s office has asked us to make sure that nothing happens to Mr Grechko while he is on British soil. He has his own security team, of course, but I need you to go in and oversee it.’
‘I’m sure they’re thrilled about that idea.’
‘It’s not up to them,’ said Button. ‘The PM’s office wants Mr Grechko looked after and that’s what’s going to happen.’
‘And Mr Grechko’s happy with that?’
‘It was his idea, apparently,’ said Button. ‘He was at Chequers over the weekend and asked for help then.’ She stood up and walked over to the whiteboard. She beckoned Shepherd to join him. ‘This is Grechko’s security team,’ she said. At the top of the board was a head-and-shoulders photograph of a man with a squarish face and a thick brow. There was a scar on his left cheek as if a broken bottle had been thrust into the flesh and twisted, and he had a neck so thick that his head seemed to merge seamlessly into his shoulders. Button tapped the photograph with her pen. ‘Dmitry Popov has been Grechko’s head of security for the past eight years,’ she said. ‘He’s a former senior Moscow police officer and his previous job was on Putin’s security team.’