‘Sheena’s club sandwiches are the best I’ve ever eaten,’ said Popov. He patted his waistline. ‘And I have to force myself not to eat too many of her cheeseburgers.’
Popov showed Shepherd a pantry the size of a small supermarket, and a cold storage and freezer filled with enough meat to feed an army.
Just outside the kitchen was another lift, and Popov used it to take them down to the first basement level. Shepherd watched as Popov tapped in the four-digit code and touched his thumb against the sensor. The Russian saw him and gestured at the keypad. ‘Every member of staff has their own code,’ he said. ‘The code has to match the thumbprint. That way we know exactly who goes where.’ He nodded up at the roof of the lift, where a small shiny black dome showed their reflections. ‘Plus we have CCTV in all the lifts and hallways.’
‘But not in the rooms?’
‘Mr and Mrs Grechko like their privacy,’ said Popov. ‘But we do have CCTV in the boys’ quarters, and in the kitchens. And all around the exterior of the house.’
The lift doors opened and Popov took Shepherd through into the main car parking area. ‘This is where we park our cars,’ said Popov. There were two black Range Rovers and two Mercedes SUVs, and half a dozen saloons. He nodded at a steel shutter. ‘This is where Mr Grechko keeps his vehicles.’ He pressed a red button and the shutter slowly rattled up to reveal several dozen immaculate cars, most of them classics. There were three bright red Ferraris, a yellow Lamborghini, a Maserati, two Bentleys, and a number of vintage cars with huge grilles and sweeping mudguards. ‘Mr Grechko likes cars almost as much as Mrs Grechko likes shoes and handbags,’ said Popov with a sly smile.
‘Does he go out in them?’
Popov nodded. ‘Every now and again. Sometimes takes a run out to a pub with Mrs Grechko. When he does go out there’s always one of our vehicles with him.’
‘And what about maintaining the cars?’
‘You’re thinking bombs?’ said Popov.
‘Considering all the options,’ said Shepherd.
‘There are two mechanics but they’ve both been with Mr Grechko for five years. A father and son.’ He pointed at a small cubicle next to a ramp and a workshop. ‘They’re usually in there drinking tea.’
‘If Mr Grechko does decide to go out, no matter in which vehicle, I need advance notice,’ said Shepherd.
‘No problem,’ said Popov. ‘We have a full briefing every day at seven hundred hours. I detail any travel arrangements, visitors, deliveries and so on then.’ He pressed the button to close the shutters and they rattled back into place.
Popov took Shepherd down a corridor and showed him a door marked ‘security centre’. Popov gestured at the sign. ‘This is where we coordinate security,’ he said. ‘I’ll bring you back at the end, it’ll make more sense that way.’ On the opposite side of the corridor were six identical doors, numbered one to six. ‘Our people have the option of living in or getting a place outside,’ said Popov. ‘I’m here most of the time but the guys work twelve-hour shifts, six days a week, according to the contract but with the option of doing a seventh as overtime.’ He opened the door to number six. It was a cube about ten feet by ten feet with a single bed, a built-in wardrobe and desk, a small television and Blu-Ray player. ‘These are just crash-rooms,’ said Popov. ‘There are showers down the corridor. You’re welcome to any free room whenever you want, first come, first served.’
‘Do all the guys live in?’ asked Shepherd.
Popov closed the door. ‘Some do, some don’t. It’s up to them. There are more permanent rooms on the level below this, more like small apartments with their own bathrooms. Why, do you need a place?’
Shepherd shook his head. ‘I’ve got a flat not far away,’ he said.
‘There are seven of the guys living in, plus me,’ said Popov. ‘It’s the cheaper option but some of the guys like their own space.’
‘I guess they’re not allowed to bring girls back,’ said Shepherd.
‘No one is allowed in unless …’ began Popov, but then he realised Shepherd was joking. He wagged his finger at him. ‘English humour,’ he said. He took him back down the corridor and along to another area of the car park where there was a room marked drivers. Popov opened it. There were two cheap plastic sofas and a small table around which three middle-aged men in grey suits were playing cards. They had the guilty look of schoolboys caught doing something they shouldn’t have been. Shepherd realised there was a handful of banknotes in the middle of the table and that the men were gambling.
If Popov noticed the money, he didn’t mention it. ‘These are Mr Grechko’s regular drivers,’ he said. He introduced them from left to right. ‘Roman Khorkov, Yulian Chayka, and Nikolay Eristov.’ The three men hadn’t been in the file that Shepherd had seen and he made a mental note to check up on them when he got the chance. ‘There are two more drivers but they are with Mrs Grechko.’
Chayka said something in Russian to Popov and the other two drivers laughed. Popov replied, also in Russian, and the three drivers nodded. ‘He was asking if you were the latest member of my team,’ explained Popov. ‘I told them that you’re here to advise on security.’
Shepherd had the feeling that there was more to it than that but decided not to press it.
At one side of the car park was a glass wall beyond which was a room full of exercise equipment, including treadmills, exercise bikes and weights. ‘You said you were a runner but if you want to work out, the gym is always open,’ said Popov.
There were two men in the gym, both of them big with thick forearms emphasised by their sweat-stained vests and slightly bowed legs. One of them was lying on his back lifting a heavy barbell while the other stood over him, his hands out ready to grab the bar if his colleague began to struggle. The guy doing the spotting noticed Popov. It was Konstantin Serov, one of the bodyguards who had been at the front gate. He took the barbell from the man on the bench and slotted it on to the rack. The man on the bench sat up, his face bathed in sweat. Leo Tarasov. Serov was a former mixed martial arts champion; Tarasov had been in the Russian navy but had been court-martialled after punching a fellow sailor unconscious.
Popov pushed open a glass door and introduced Shepherd to the two men. They both shook hands with Shepherd. Serov said something in Russian to Popov and Popov replied. Tarasov said something and all three men laughed. Shepherd looked over at Popov and Popov put up a hand. ‘They were asking if you worked out and I said you were a runner,’ said Popov.
‘And what was so funny?’
‘Leo said that running could come in handy. It was a joke.’
Shepherd nodded at Tarasov. The man’s forearms were about twice the size of Shepherd’s and he had a neck so thick that Shepherd doubted he could get his hands around it if he tried. ‘You speak English, Leo?’
The Russian nodded. ‘Sure.’
‘You look strong,’ said Shepherd. ‘What can you bench-press? Three hundred and fifty?’
‘Three eighty kilos,’ said Tarasov, nodding.
‘That’s impressive,’ said Shepherd. ‘How are you on pull-ups?’
‘Pull-ups?’ Tarasov frowned. ‘What are pull-ups?’
Popov said something to Tarasov in Russian and pointed at a Nautilus Gravitron machine. It had been specifically designed for chin-ups, pull-ups and vertical dips, with numerous bars and handholds at various sites. ‘Sure,’ said Tarasov. ‘Pull-ups.’ He raised his right arm, bent it at the elbow and flexed his bicep. It was the size and shape of a rugby ball.