‘I think high-class ladies of the night would be more the way they would see it, but yes, money will most certainly be changing hands.’
‘Dmitry, have you gone crazy? You’re bringing a group of strangers into a secure location at a time when the principal’s life is under threat.’
‘They are girls, Tony. Young and pretty girls.’ He slapped Shepherd on the back, hard enough to rattle his teeth. ‘If it makes you happier, you can frisk them.’
Malykhin’s security centre was a series of rooms in an annexe at the back of the villa. There was a control room similar to the one in The Bishops Avenue mansion with CCTV screens and a rack of charging transceivers, a room with sofas, easy chairs and a big-screen TV, and a small kitchen and bathroom. There were two men sitting with their feet on a coffee table playing a shoot-’em-up video game. They stopped playing when Popov walked in and there were several minutes of backslapping and Russian banter before Popov introduced Shepherd.
One of the bodyguards made coffee and for the next hour the four men sat talking about weapons, women and sport. Most of the conversation was in Russian but Popov was good at translating most of what was said. Eventually a transceiver crackled and Popov grinned over at Shepherd. ‘The girls are here,’ he said.
The four men went outside as a minibus pulled up, driven by an old man in a flat cap. A side door opened and half a dozen girls tottered out in impossibly high heels and short skirts. Shepherd doubted that any of them were out of their teens but none of them appeared to be under-age. They all had long hair, three were blondes, two were brunettes and one was a natural redhead, and they had the look of catwalk models. One of the blondes lit a joint, took a drag, and passed it to the redhead.
Kozlov opened the front door and waved for the girls to enter. The driver of the minibus slammed the door shut and drove off down the hill. ‘Sure you don’t want to pat them down?’ Popov asked Shepherd.
Shepherd nodded at the skimpy tops and tight skirts the girls were wearing. ‘I guess we know they’re not carrying concealed weapons,’ he said.
Popov laughed and put his arm around Shepherd’s shoulders. ‘My friend, most of them are regulars here. And the first time they come, Vassi has them checked out.’
‘Medically?’
Shepherd was joking but Popov took the question seriously. ‘Full blood work, a criminal record check and details of their ID card or passport.’
The girls disappeared inside and the door closed.
‘Before you ask, the CCTV cameras are shut down in main rooms while the guests are there,’ said Popov.
‘I understand now why he doesn’t stay with his ex-wife,’ said Shepherd. He looked at his watch. ‘Look, I’m going to stay outside for the next couple of hours. What about you?’
‘I’ll get some sleep then I’ll take over from you. I’ll talk to the guys to make sure the rear is covered.’ He patted him on the shoulder. ‘You can relax, Tony, we’re regular visitors here.’
Popov walked away, leaving Shepherd listening to the clicking and whirring of insects around him. He looked up at the hillside above the villa, wishing that he was as confident as the Russian. The problem with the isolated villa was that there were dozens of vantage points where a sniper could get a clear view. For all he knew there could be a scope centred on his chest at that very moment. At that instant his phone vibrated and he jumped, then shook his head at his skittishness. He took out his phone to see that he’d received a text message from Amar Singh. ‘Call me,’ it said. Shepherd figured it could only be good news.
He looked around to check that there was no one in earshot and then called Singh. ‘I’ve got your man,’ said Singh.
‘Are you serious?’
‘I wouldn’t be joking, not after all the time and trouble I’ve been to,’ said Singh. ‘Do you want the name or not?’
‘Amar, I’m gobsmacked,’ said Shepherd.
‘Like I said, it wasn’t easy,’ said Singh. ‘The facial recognition took for ever but once I had a usable picture I was able to get a match through the Passport Agency.’
‘You mean the Border Agency?’
‘I mean the Passport Agency. Your man is a British citizen, has been since 2003. He has a British passport and, as it happens, a UK driving licence.’
‘That can’t be,’ said Shepherd.
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence,’ said Singh.
‘No, I mean the guy’s a Taliban fighter, or at least he was ten years ago. I don’t see how that could possibly have him fast-tracked to a British passport.’
‘Well, it’s happened. His name is Farzad Sajadi.’
‘The driving licence has his address, right?’
‘Sure.’ Singh read out the address, along with the date of birth. ‘That’s strange, I hadn’t noticed that,’ he said.
‘Noticed what?’
‘The passport and the driving licence were issued on the same day. That’s one hell of a coincidence.’
‘That’s practically impossible, right?’ said Shepherd.
‘Unless there’s something funny going on.’
‘Any details about where and when he got citizenship?’
‘Nothing,’ said Singh. ‘Which is also a bit strange. There’s usually a huge paper trail that goes along with asylum applications. But all I’ve got is the passport and driving licence. I can start digging for utilities, mobile phones and credit cards, but for that I’ll need a case file.’
‘We’re not at the case-building stage yet,’ said Shepherd. And he knew that he never would be.
‘So I’ll wait to hear from you?’ said Singh.
‘Amar, I owe you, big-time. If you ever need a favour, just ask.’
Singh laughed. ‘Funny you should offer. I’ve got a nephew who’s crazy about the SAS. Reads everything he can about them, loves the Andy McNab books, plays special forces video games all the time. Is there any chance you get take him to Hereford some time?’
‘It’d be a pleasure, no problem at all,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m back and forth all the time and I’d be more than happy to show him around, let him fire off a few rounds, the works.’
‘That’d be brilliant,’ said Singh.
‘In fact I’m going to be taking my boy around over the next few weeks. He’s thinking about joining the army so I want to let him know what he’s letting himself in for. I could take your nephew along with us. I’ll let you know when we’re going.’ He thanked Singh again and ended the call, then tapped out Jimmy Sharpe’s number.
Sharpe answered the phone with a weary sigh. ‘Another favour?’ he said.
‘I was just going to ask if you fancied a drink one night this week,’ said Shepherd.
‘Don’t mind if I do, especially if you’re paying.’
‘And I wouldn’t mind you checking out another name for me. Farzad Sajadi.’ Shepherd spelled it out for him and gave him the man’s date of birth and the address that Singh had given him.
‘Is this connected to that Khan guy?’
‘I think they might be one and the same,’ said Shepherd. ‘He’s got a passport and a driving licence in that name.’
‘Fake?’
‘Doesn’t look like it, no. But there’s something not right. He was a bloody Taliban fighter, how can he have a British passport?’
Sharpe laughed. ‘You don’t get it, do you? When the Taliban were killing off the Afghanistan population, any Afghan who got into the UK could claim asylum. But once we and the Yanks invaded, the Taliban became the endangered species so they can claim that Afghanistan isn’t safe for them. Any of them that could make it to the UK would be pretty much guaranteed asylum. So we’ve got the crazy situation in London now where in the same street you’ve got a Taliban murderer living a few doors down from a guy whose family was killed by the Taliban. But we treat them exactly the same. The same happened in Iraq. The first wave of asylum seekers were people who’d been persecuted by Saddam Hussein. Then we invaded and the worm turned and all the Iraqis who’d backed Saddam found they were being persecuted so it was their turn to run. It’s Alice in Wonderland.’