‘I hope that wasn’t about my mother,’ said Shepherd.
‘He said you’ve got the eyes of a killer,’ said Popov. ‘And he’s not wrong.’
Podolski came out behind Grechko and they moved down the steps together, sticking close until Grechko had slid into the back seat of the Rolls-Royce. The two stewardesses came down the steps carrying Grechko’s Louis Vuitton luggage, which they loaded into the boot of the Rolls-Royce.
One of the bodyguards was already in the front passenger seat and Shepherd could see that three of them weren’t going to sit in the back of the Rolls-Royce so he looked at Popov expectantly. ‘Why don’t you ride up front with Vassi?’ said Popov. Shepherd saw Dudko and Volkov head up the stairs and back into the plane.
Shepherd walked with Kozlov to the Mercedes at the front of the convoy. One of the bodyguards was already sitting next to the driver. Kozlov opened the door and motioned for Shepherd to get in. As he slid inside another bodyguard opened the rear door on the other side and climbed in, leaving Shepherd in the middle. Kozlov got in and slammed the door. He and the other bodyguard were both big shouldered, and despite the size of the SUV Shepherd had very little room to move.
As the doors slammed shut, Shepherd looked back at the plane. Dudko and Volkov were coming down the steps, each carrying two heavy aluminium suitcases. They took them to the Mercedes at the rear of the convoy and loaded them into the boot before getting into the back. Shepherd frowned. He hadn’t seen them on the plane, nor had he seen them being taken on board at Northolt.
They drove out of the airport and on to the main road. The drivers were clearly professional, staying close enough so that no cars could infiltrate the convoy but leaving enough room to manoeuvre if there was a problem. There was little traffic around so everyone was relaxed.
‘So, Dmitry says you are a policeman, Tony,’ said Kozlov in almost impenetrable accented English.
Shepherd nodded. ‘Executive protection,’ he said. ‘My unit looks after diplomats and visiting dignitaries as well as local politicians.’
‘And you have a gun?’
Shepherd thought that his Glock had remained hidden in its shoulder holster but Kozlov had obviously spotted it. ‘Cleared through Europol,’ he said.
‘But before you were a policeman you were a soldier, correct? Special forces?’
Shepherd frowned. ‘Why do you say that?’
Kozlov patted him on the knee. ‘Do not worry, Tony. Your secret is safe with me.’
‘I’m a policeman,’ said Shepherd, sticking with his legend. ‘Always have been. I’ve done some training with the SAS, but that’s it.’
The Russian winked and patted him on the knee again. ‘There are many former SAS on the island, did you know that, Tony?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Men like Mr Grechko and Malykhin, they prefer to have Russian security. For some, there is nothing better than a SAS man. Many of them work on the island. I know many Russian special forces men and they are giants. Big men with big muscles.’ He grinned and tapped his finger against his temple. ‘Not so smart, but big and strong. But the SAS, they’re not giants. They are not big men, nor do they have big muscles. How tall are you, Tony? Five ten?’
‘Five eleven,’ said Shepherd.
Kozlov nodded. ‘Five eleven,’ he repeated. ‘Now the Spetsnaz, that’s what they call their special forces, are all well over six feet. Six six. Six seven. If you tried to join the Spetsnaz, they would laugh at you.’ He put his lips close to Shepherd’s ear. ‘But the SAS men I know, they are all five ten, five eleven. And they look ordinary. Nothing special. But they are fit, as fit as thieves.’
Shepherd tried not to smile but he failed. ‘It’s as thick as thieves,’ he said.
The Russian frowned. ‘That doesn’t make any sense at all,’ he said. ‘Why would thieves be thick? A thief needs to be fit.’
‘I guess they do, but it means that thieves stick close together.’
Kozlov shook his head. ‘That still doesn’t make sense. But you know what I mean, Tony? You look like the SAS men that I see in Cyprus. Hard bodies but not big, cold eyes but not crazy, and there’s a calmness about you.’
‘A calmness?’
‘I don’t explain myself well,’ said Kozlov. ‘My English is not so good. But the men of the Spetsnaz they are not calm. They always look as if they are about to start killing, they just need an excuse.’ He patted him on the leg again. ‘So come on, we are friends. You can tell me. You are SAS?’
Shepherd shook his head. ‘Just a policeman.’
‘But a British policeman with a gun?’
‘A lot of British policemen have guns,’ said Shepherd.
‘Yes, I hear that London is a very dangerous city these days,’ said Kozlov. ‘Especially if you are Russian.’ He laughed and slapped Shepherd’s leg. ‘But don’t worry, here in Cyprus you will be safe.’
Malykhin’s villa was a forty-five-minute drive from the airport. It was perched on a rocky outcrop overlooking the Mediterranean and the last mile was a narrow two-lane road that for much of the time had a sheer drop to the sea below. Off in the distance navigation lights bobbed up and down and high overhead another jet was heading to the airport. There was a ten-foot-high stone wall running around the estate, dotted with CCTV cameras, and two metal gates that swung open as the convoy approached. There was a watchtower to the right of the gates where a man was talking into a walkie-talkie. The entire wall was illuminated with spotlights and Shepherd could see that it was topped with decorative ironwork that also functioned as effectively as razor wire.
The villa was almost as large as Grechko’s mansion but was far less symmetrical, as if it had been added to over the years with little thought given to its overall style. The central part had the look of a Greek temple with columns and architraves, but a wing had been added on to the left which had floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking an infinity pool, and there was another wing to the right that appeared to be Spanish, with verandas and a terrace overlooking the sea. There were lanterns hung around the verandas and cast-iron street lamps around the edge of the terrace. The entire villa was illuminated with spotlights buried in the gardens.
In front of the main entrance was a massive fountain depicting three dolphins frolicking in the surf, with plumes of water spouting from their blowholes. Two bodyguards in dark suits and sunglasses were waiting when the convoy pulled up next to the fountain. Shepherd had to smile at the bodyguards wearing their ubiquitous shades. They might look good but in the dark the eyes needed as much light as they could get for night vision to function efficiently.
Popov got out of the Rolls-Royce and hurried around to open the passenger door for Grechko. Kozlov and Shepherd joined him as Grechko climbed out.
The front door of the villa opened and Georgy Malykhin hurried out, wearing a gleaming white suit and white patent leather shoes. He was a short, squat man, a bald Danny de Vito, who barely reached Grechko’s shoulder. He hugged the bigger man, said something in Russian, and then hugged him again before standing on tiptoe and kissing him on both cheeks. The two men walked into the villa. Shepherd looked at Popov. ‘Now what?’ Two liveried maids hurried over to the Rolls-Royce to retrieve Grechko’s luggage.
‘They’re in for the night,’ said Popov. ‘Mr Malykhin has a Michelin-starred chef and one of the best wine cellars in the world.’ He looked at his watch. ‘And the entertainment will be arriving in an hour or so.’
‘The entertainment?’
Popov grinned. ‘Mr Malykhin has an eye for the ladies. And Mr Grechko isn’t one to turn down the hospitality of a friend.’ The two maids disappeared inside with Grechko’s bags and the door slammed shut.
‘You’re talking hookers?’ said Shepherd. ‘Are you serious?’