‘I bet,’ said Shepherd.
‘No, really. Rape, assaults, and worse. If you’re in the business for a while you’ll hear some serious horror stories. Especially for the guys doing protection work for the Arabs. Compared with them, Mr Grechko is a pussycat, believe me.’
The minibus drove out through the gates and they began to close. Popov and Shepherd headed back inside the villa. Shepherd had caught a few hours’ sleep on one of the sofas in the bodyguards’ room during the early hours and he managed to grab another hour’s sleep after the girls left. Popov gave him a travel pack with a razor, shaving cream, toothbrush and toothpaste and he shaved and showered before joining Popov and the rest of the team in the kitchen for eggs and steak cooked by a young American chef, a twenty-something Texan with his hair clipped back in a ponytail who made the bodyguards laugh with his attempts to speak Russian. While his Russian skills might have been wanting, there was no mistaking his talent in the kitchen – the steak he cooked was just about the best that Shepherd had ever tasted. ‘Flown in every day from Japan,’ the chef explained to Shepherd after he’d complimented him on the food. ‘It’s Matsusaka beef, which I reckon is better than Kobe because of its intense fat-to-meat ratio. They only raise female cows and they feed them on beer, give them regular massages and play them soothing music.’ The chef had laughed when Shepherd had asked him how much it cost per pound. ‘You really don’t want to know,’ he said.
The cars were lined up outside the villa at nine o’clock in the same order in which they’d arrived the previous evening. Grechko and Malykhin appeared at 9.30 with Kozlov. Grechko had changed into a dark suit and Malykhin was wearing a yellow linen jacket and baggy white linen trousers that rippled in the warm wind blowing in off the sea. As a butler in a black suit put Grechko’s luggage into the back of the Rolls-Royce, Grechko and Malykhin hugged and once again Malykhin stood on tiptoe to kiss his friend on the cheeks.
Shepherd and Popov stood by the Rolls-Royce and watched. ‘Malykhin’s not coming with us?’ asked Shepherd.
‘No, Mrs Grechko isn’t a fan of his, I think she’s heard about his parties. And Mr Grechko wants to keep his business private.’
Kozlov strode over, grinning. He hugged Popov and then put his hands on Shepherd’s shoulders. ‘You be careful, SAS man,’ he said, and then hugged him tightly enough to force the air from his lungs.
‘SAS?’ said Popov as Kozlov walked back to the villa.
‘It’s his little joke.’
‘He thinks you are special forces?’
Shepherd shrugged. ‘Like I said, it’s his joke.’
‘He might be right, I suppose. You did a lot of pull-ups.’
‘It takes more than pull-ups to get into the SAS.’
Popov rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘But I suppose if you were in the SAS, you wouldn’t be able to tell me, would you?’
‘I suppose not,’ said Shepherd.
Popov laughed and slapped him in the middle of the back. ‘Then we shall never know,’ he said. ‘Come on, you and I will ride with Mr Grechko. You can have the front seat.’
Shepherd got into the front of the Rolls-Royce and nodded at the driver. ‘Tony,’ he said, offering his hand.
The driver held out his hand but didn’t smile. ‘Olav,’ he said, and shook.
Podolski and Sokolov got into the front Mercedes SUV and Dudko and Volkov got into the car at the rear. The convoy headed out.
Grechko and Popov talked in Russian as they drove towards Nicosia. Shepherd concentrated on what was going on outside, his eyes constantly flicking to the wing mirrors. Several times they were overtaken by motorcyclists and each time it happened Shepherd tensed, even though Popov had said that the Rolls-Royce was fully armoured.
They drove through the city, which Shepherd knew was the most dangerous part of the journey as the crowded streets gave them little room for manoeuvre. The two men in the back stopped talking and in the rear-view mirror Shepherd could see that Popov was in full attention mode, his head swivelling from side to side, constantly checking with the teams in the front and rear cars. The drivers were good, as good as the ones Grechko had back in London. They drove smoothly and confidently without giving other vehicles the chance to cut in.
Their first visit was to a glass tower block topped with the logo of the Bank of Cyprus. A uniformed security guard waved them through to an underground car park where another guard waved them into three spaces close to a lift. The bodyguards climbed out of the vehicles as soon as they came to a halt. Podolski and Sokolov moved to either side of the Rolls-Royce while Dudko and Volkov stayed by their car, their eyes scanning the car park from behind their sunglasses.
When Popov was satisfied that the area was secure he opened the rear passenger door of the Rolls-Royce so that Grechko could get out. As Grechko strode over to the lift, Dudko and Volkov went around to the boot of their car and took out two of the aluminium suitcases. They followed Grechko to the lift, where a grey-haired man in a suit was waiting. He shook hands with Grechko and ushered him into the lift. Dudko and Volkov followed him with their suitcases. Shepherd moved to step into the lift but Popov stopped him. ‘Mr Grechko would prefer to keep his business private,’ he said.
‘I have to know that he’s secure,’ said Shepherd.
Popov shook his head. ‘This is Cyprus,’ he said. ‘It’s not your problem.’
‘Dmitry …’
Popov shook his head again. ‘No arguments, Tony. I’m sorry.’ He nodded at the grey-haired man, who pressed the button to close the doors. Shepherd gritted his teeth in frustration but realised there was nothing he could do.
‘Was it something you said?’ asked Podolski. She had come up behind him, as silent as a cat. Shepherd shrugged but didn’t say anything. She laughed and patted him on the shoulder. ‘Don’t take it personally,’ she said, and walked back to the cars.
After half an hour Shepherd heard Popov in his earpiece, asking whether the area was secure.
‘Secure,’ said Shepherd.
A few minutes later the lift door opened and Popov stepped out. Grechko stayed in the lift with Dudko and Volkov until Popov had checked the area, then they all moved to the cars. Dudko and Volkov were still carrying their suitcases but Shepherd got the feeling that they were heavier.
Grechko got back into the Rolls-Royce while Dudko and Volkov took the cases over to their SUV.
Shepherd and Popov climbed into the car with Grechko and the convoy moved off. They visited two more banks and the procedure was pretty much the same as it had been with the Bank of Cyprus.
At the second bank, Grechko went inside with Popov, though only Volkov accompanied them, carrying a single suitcase. After half an hour they reappeared, and this time there was no doubt that the suitcase had gained weight.
They spent even less time inside the third bank, and when they reappeared Volkov was carrying the suitcase and a small attaché case.
‘That’s the work part done,’ Popov said to Shepherd as Grechko climbed into the back of the Rolls-Royce. Volkov put the suitcase and attaché case into the SUV and climbed into the back. ‘Now it’s family time and then back to the airport.’
They drove out of Nicosia and through the countryside. The sun was blindingly bright and the sky a perfect blue, a far cry from the leaden skies they had left behind in London. They headed inland, towards a line of hills covered in stunted trees, driving through villages that looked as if they had remained unchanged for hundreds of years. Shepherd saw stone houses with flat roofs, shaded by olive trees, with old men sitting on wooden benches, smoking cigarettes and gossiping. They drove by farms with dust-covered farm equipment and cars with mud-splattered windscreens and balding tyres but saw no one working in the fields. There was hardly any traffic on the roads, but three times huge modern double-height coaches powered past them, brightly painted and covered in Cyrillic script. ‘Russian holidaymakers,’ said Grechko after the third one went by. ‘It’s a big holiday place for us now.’