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.