Button smiled and nodded to concede the point. ‘Actually, he’s an equal opportunity donor,’ she said. ‘He gave a million pounds to all three political parties.’
‘Hedging his bets? So no matter who runs the country, they’re beholden to him?’ Shepherd sighed. ‘Don’t you feel sometimes that we’re behaving like a Third World banana republic, selling ourselves to the highest bidder?’
‘I hear what you’re saying, Spider, but you have to realise that men like Peter Grechko are now world citizens. The normal rules don’t apply to them. And wherever they settle, there’s a trickle-down factor that only benefits their host country. If they start to believe that the UK isn’t a safe place for them, we stand to lose billions. And let’s not forget that a killer is a killer, no matter who his target is.’
Shepherd held up his hand. ‘You’re right, of course. But if the sniper is a hired hand, even if we do catch him, there’s no reason to think that’ll be the end of it. Whoever is footing the bill can just find someone else.’
‘Let’s worry about that down the line,’ said Button. She finished her tea and flashed him an encouraging smile. ‘First let’s make sure that Peter Grechko has whatever protection he needs. And don’t forget, I want you wearing a vest at all times.’
‘When do I start?’
‘No time like the present,’ she said. ‘Assuming you can pick up the gun and the car tomorrow, you might as well go around and introduce yourself and get the lie of the land.’
‘And this is full-time, right?’
‘Pretty much,’ said Button. ‘Certainly I want you by his side whenever he leaves the house. My understanding is that his home is secure, so providing he’s there you can take a break. We can’t afford anything to go wrong, Spider. If anything happens to Grechko on our watch, our lives won’t be worth living.’
Shepherd said goodbye to Button, but when he reached the lifts he went up and not down. He got out on the sixth floor and walked along to the office of Amar Singh. Singh was in his early thirties and one of MI5’s top technical experts. Shepherd had worked with him at the Serious Organised Crime Agency and they had both moved with Charlotte Button to MI5.
Singh grinned when he saw Shepherd at his door. He hurried from around his desk and hugged him hard. ‘Long time no see, Spider,’ he said. He was in his mid-thirties, wearing an expensive Hugo Boss suit. Shepherd could never work out how Singh managed to spend so much on his clothes when he was the father of three young children. ‘Didn’t expect to see you here.’
‘Special occasion,’ said Shepherd, dropping down on to a chair. There was a framed photograph of Singh and his family on the desk – his arms protectively around his pretty long-haired wife Mishti and equally gorgeous daughters. The youngest was just over a year old but already had her mother’s smouldering eyes, of a brown so dark that they were almost black. ‘Charlie wanted to brief me in situ. So what’s the latest in ballistic protection?’
‘Human or vehicle?’
‘Both,’ said Shepherd.
‘We’ve got some new lightweight vests that are the bee’s knees,’ said Singh. ‘We’ve got them from a company in Israel. They use fabrics infused with nanoparticles, putting them in multiple layers with the weaves in different directions. They stay soft and pliable until the moment of impact, at which point they go harder than Kevlar. The material is so soft the vest can be extended down the upper arms and down to the groin area. They actually look like a thick T-shirt and are as easy to put on and take off.’
‘Sounds perfect,’ said Shepherd. ‘Do they come in blue?’
Singh laughed and scribbled on his notepad. ‘White only,’ he said. ‘They’re not for general release just yet but I’ll get you a couple. What are you, a thirty-eight?’
‘Closer to forty these days,’ said Shepherd. ‘They do work, right?’
Singh laughed again. ‘It’s the high cost that’s holding them back,’ he said. ‘They’re ten times the price of a Kevlar vest at the moment. Our purchasing department is waiting for the cost to come down before placing a major order. What I have is a few samples. I’ve seen them in operation, and they’re really something. They’ll stop any handgun round at any range, and they’ll stop a round from an AK-47 at about fifty feet up. That’s not to say you won’t get bruised, but the round won’t penetrate. As soon as the round hits the fibres they harden, almost instantaneously. But with a high-powered round that means the vest will impact a couple of inches. The skin won’t be broken but it’ll hurt like hell. They have the facility of adding ceramic plates, if you want, of course.’
‘The vest will be fine,’ said Shepherd. ‘And Button wants me to have a bulletproof car.’
‘Of course she does,’ said Singh. ‘You’re one of our most valued employees. What’s the legend?’
‘Police, close protection squad. I’m thinking a four-by-four.’
‘What do you drive these days? BMW X5?’
‘Yeah. But mine’s back in Hereford.’
‘We’ve got several in the pool and I’m pretty sure that one of them is already fully armoured.’
‘Not sure that I need bomb-proofing,’ said Shepherd. ‘Just the glass and ballistic protection in the doors.’
‘When do you need it by?’
‘Today?’
Singh chuckled. ‘Tomorrow morning?’
‘Can you have it dropped off? I’ll be in Hampstead.’
‘Should be able to do that,’ said Singh. ‘Are you on your old mobile?’
‘Yeah, but I’ll be picking up a new one for this job. The legend is Tony Ryan.’
Singh made a note on his pad. Shepherd gave him the address of the Hampstead flat and Singh wrote that down, too.
‘What about the car? Registered to Tony Ryan?’
‘Better make it a Met car,’ said Shepherd. ‘As far as anyone knows I’m on secondment from the Met so that’ll add to the legend.’
‘Not a problem,’ said Singh. ‘Might cut down on the parking tickets, too.’
‘Good point. Can you get a resident’s permit for the car, too, I’ll have to leave it on the street when I’m in Hampstead.’
Singh made another note on his pad.
‘And I need a favour,’ said Shepherd. He reached into his jacket and pulled out the newspaper cutting that Harper had given him. He gave it to Singh and then sat quietly as he read it through. When Singh looked up again, Shepherd leaned across and tapped the face of the man he was sure was Ahmad Khan. ‘I need to identify this man.’
Singh frowned as he reread the story and caption. ‘He’s not mentioned in the article.’
‘He’s not mentioned anywhere,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m fairly certain his name is Ahmad Khan and he’s from Afghanistan. But he could be in the UK under any name or nationality.’ He gestured at the cutting. ‘That was blind luck, he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Though as he’s walking along the pavement, it could well be that he lives in that area of London.’
‘If he’s hiding, he could be long gone by now.’
‘I doubt that he’d be reading the local paper,’ said Shepherd. ‘But the problem is, I have no idea what name he’s using. So here’s my question, starting with what I’ve got – which is that – how do I identify him?’
‘You’ve checked the name you have?’
Shepherd nodded. ‘He’s not on the PNC and he wasn’t issued a visa. Of course, he could be in the country completely illegally and not using any paperwork at all.’
Singh nodded thoughtfully. ‘That’s doubtful,’ he said. ‘Even illegals try to get something, a driving licence or an NHS number, something that they can show to the cops.’