‘Even after what they did to the banks?’ asked Shepherd.
‘More so,’ said Grechko. ‘The prices of land and houses are tumbling, and a lot of Russians are buying now. They’ll never trust their money to a European bank again but they’ll buy property.’ He looked over at Popov. ‘You should buy something here, Dmitry. All that money I pay you.’
Popov laughed but said nothing.
They reached Mrs Grechko’s estate, a sprawling winery in the foothills of a mountain range. There was a fresh breeze that took some of the heat out of the sun, but Shepherd still had to shade his eyes with his hand as he peered through the car window. They drove through a stone arch and along a single-track road that cut through acres of tended vines. The house was smaller than Shepherd had expected, a two-storey grey stone farmhouse with a black roof and white shutters on the windows. There was a barn to the left built of matching stone and more buildings behind the house.
As the cars approached the house, two men in casual dress appeared at the door. The dark glasses and the way they stood with their arms folded gave away their profession. The two SUVs peeled off and parked next to a double garage to the right of the house while the Rolls-Royce pulled up in front of the house. Shepherd and Popov were out as soon as the car stopped, but even a cursory look around showed that the house was well protected. There was a bodyguard by the gate who had a rifle slung across his back and there was another man in sunglasses sitting under an umbrella at a table outside one of the outbuildings.
The two men at the front door nodded to Popov and one of them shouted something in Russian. Popov laughed and waved, then opened the door for Grechko. As Grechko headed for the front door two teenage boys came rushing out shouting ‘Papa! Papa!’ and Grechko hugged and kissed them in turn. They were big, strong boys, good looking with thick chestnut hair and the same strong chins as their father. He put his arms around them and they walked inside.
Shepherd moved to follow them but Popov put a hand on his shoulder. ‘This is family time, we stay away,’ said Popov. ‘Mrs Grechko is never happy seeing us around, we remind her too much of London.’ He shrugged. ‘She’s a nice lady.’ He gestured at the garage, where Podolski, Sokolov, Dudko and Volkov were waiting. ‘There’s a rec room behind the garage with a kitchen and a bathroom if you need to freshen up. There’s a couple of couches too if you want to grab some sleep.’
‘Coffee would be good,’ said Shepherd as they started walking towards the garage.
‘Coffee’s easy, and Mrs Grechko’s chef is a Russian who cooks like a dream. I’ll get her to bring us some kalduny.’
‘Kalduny?’
‘Stuffed dumplings. Seriously, to die for. Do you like Russian food?’
Shepherd opened his mouth to say that his au pair was Slovenian and a great cook but he stopped himself just in time. Tony Ryan didn’t have a son or an au pair. He was finding himself so at ease in Popov’s company that he had almost slipped out of character. ‘I tried goulash once.’
Popov nodded. ‘She does a great goulash, too.’
They went over to join the team and filed into the rec room. Podolski offered to make coffee for everyone and she busied herself in the kitchen. Dudko flopped down on one of the sofas and was asleep within seconds. There was a pool table at the far end of the room and Sokolov and Volkov began to play. Shepherd felt uneasy, he never liked hanging around doing nothing. What he really wanted to do was to go for a long run but that was out of the question. He took off his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair before sitting down.
The hours dragged. At just after noon Shepherd watched through the window as two maids carried a table out into the garden at the side of the house, draped it with a cloth and then set it for lunch. At 12.30 Grechko appeared with his ex-wife. Mrs Grechko was in her late forties and not at all what Shepherd had expected. She was tall, only a few inches shorter than her husband, with shoulder-length blond hair and a model’s cheekbones. She had a ramrod-straight back, even when she sat drinking wine with her husband and listening to her sons talk to him. Whenever Grechko spoke to his sons, Mrs Grechko would look at him with a slight smile on her face. She had clearly never stopped loving him and Shepherd couldn’t help but wonder why Grechko had walked away from her.
After lunch Grechko took off his jacket and kicked a football around with his sons before they all went for a walk through the vineyard, shadowed at some distance by two of the bodyguards. Grechko slipped an arm around his ex-wife’s waist as they walked and she rested her head against his shoulder.
Popov came over to join Shepherd at the window. ‘She still loves him,’ said Shepherd.
‘And he loves her,’ said Popov.
‘So why …?’
‘Why aren’t they together?’ Popov shrugged. ‘He’s a billionaire, billionaires have trophy wives.’
‘That’s the rule, is it?’
Popov nodded. ‘They all do. But I agree with you, Tony. He had the perfect wife. She will love him for ever.’
‘And the new Mrs Grechko?’
Popov chuckled and looked around to make sure that there was no one within earshot. ‘She will love him so long as he has money. Which will be for ever, of course.’
The Gulfstream touched down at RAF Northolt at ten o’clock at night. The Bentley and two Range Rovers were already waiting at the hangar. The drivers were in their vehicles but Tarasov, Gunter and Serov were already out, watching the jet as it came to a halt and the pilot turned off the engines.
As soon as the steps were lowered, Popov and Shepherd left the plane and looked around. ‘All good,’ said Shepherd.
Popov waved at Sokolov and Grechko came down the steps with Sokolov and Podolski. He settled into the back of the Bentley as Dudko and Volkov came down the steps with the suitcases. They loaded them into the boot of the Bentley and then climbed into the Range Rover.
‘No passport checks, or customs?’ Shepherd asked Popov.
Popov shrugged but didn’t say anything.
‘So no one checks what’s in the suitcases?’ said Shepherd.
Popov clapped Shepherd on the back. ‘Relax, Tony. You’re a cop, not a customs officer.’
‘I’m serious, we fly in from overseas and no one checks?’
‘This is England, things are more relaxed here, especially for men like Mr Grechko,’ said Popov. ‘We submit a passenger and crew manifest to the National Border Targeting Centre at Manchester and they liaise with Heathrow, who also cover Northolt. They decide whether or not to send someone out, and as it’s Mr Grechko, they tend not to bother.’ He put his hand on Shepherd’s shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, it’s not drugs.’
‘Cash?’
‘You remember when the EU stole all that money from depositors as part of the bailout of the banks in Cyprus?’
Shepherd nodded. ‘Sure.’
‘When Cyprus froze all its bank accounts early this year, most of the big deposits belonged to Russians. That was always the plan, the EU wanted to punish the Russians. Well, we flew in three days before it was announced.’ He grinned and tapped the side of his nose.
‘Grechko was tipped off?’
‘A few of the oligarchs were, yes. I can’t tell you how Mr Grechko knew, but I do know that one of his English friends phoned him and two hours later we were on a plane heading to Cyprus. Mr Grechko moved most of the money out of his accounts but he also put a lot of cash into safe deposit boxes. His wife has access to the money but he brings it back into the UK, too.’ He patted him on the shoulder again. ‘So don’t worry, Mr Grechko is only bringing back what is rightfully his.’