Stephen Leather - True Colours

‘Dmitry says I’m not to allow strangers alone with Mr Grechko.’

‘I’m not a stranger,’ said Shepherd.

‘You are to me,’ said Sokolov, folding his arms.

‘Call Dmitry, he’ll tell you it’s OK,’ said Shepherd.

Sokolov put his hand up to his Bluetooth earpiece as Shepherd went into the pool room. It had been built in the style of a Roman bath with stone columns and carved figures of naked Roman gods. At one end was a huge stone lion with a plume of water cascading from between its open jaws. Grechko was in the water, swimming lengths with a lot of splashing and grunting. Shepherd realised that the Russian wasn’t wearing trunks; there was a white stripe of untanned skin across his backside.

Grechko was an uncoordinated swimmer, his legs and arms thrashing in the water with an irregular beat, but he was a powerful man and moved at quite a speed. His turns at either end were ungainly and involved him slapping the poolside with his hand before twisting around with a loud grunt and powering himself forward by pushing with his feet. He would keep his face down in the water until he lost momentum and then he would began thrashing and splashing again.

The Russian swam a further ten lengths before climbing out of the pool at the far end. He picked up a towel, slung it over his shoulder, and walked towards Shepherd with a wide grin on his face. ‘You swim naked, Tony?’ he asked.

‘I’m not much of a swimmer,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m more of a runner.’

‘Then you should run naked. All exercise should be done without clothes, the way God intended.’ He began towelling himself dry.

‘There’s something I need to ask you,’ said Shepherd. ‘Miss Button is trying to identify the bodyguards who were working for Zakharov and Czernik before they were killed.’

Grechko stopped towelling himself. ‘She suspects their bodyguards?’

‘It’s too early to say,’ said Shepherd. ‘She’s been in touch with the people at both men’s companies but they’re not being helpful.’

‘And you want me to ask them?’

‘I think you’ll probably have more luck than she’s having. Could you approach them and ask them to cooperate with her?’

Grechko nodded. ‘No problem. But why?’

‘We’re starting to think that the assassinations might have been an inside job,’ said Shepherd.

‘One of their bodyguards killed them?’ Grechko wrapped the towel around his waist and stood with his hands on his hips.

‘It’s possible.’

Grechko jutted his chin up and looked down his nose at Shepherd. ‘This is not good,’ he said.

‘It’s just a theory.’

‘And we could have an inside man on our team? He could be in the house right now?’

‘It’s unlikely,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ve been through the CV of every man on your team, especially the new arrivals. And everyone checks out.’

‘People lie on their CVs.’

‘That’s true. I’m in the process of checking all references, and calling them myself. If I spot any discrepancies, I’ll act immediately.’

The Russian rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘You know what a Judas goat is?’

‘I know,’ said Shepherd. ‘The bait in a trap. But that’s not what’s going on here, Mr Grechko.’

Grechko stared at Shepherd for several seconds, then he nodded slowly. ‘I trust you, Tony. I’m not sure why I do, but I trust you.’

‘I won’t let you down, Mr Grechko.’

Shepherd spent most of the day in the control centre, reading through the files on the various members of the bodyguarding team. He made more than two dozen calls around the world, checking on references, and found nothing untoward. He decided to go for a run on the Heath and spent an hour and a half running and doing press-ups and sit-ups before running back to the house to shower and change. He was heading to the kitchen to pick up some sandwiches when his mobile rang. It was Button. ‘Bad news, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘I’ve checked all the bodyguards for both men and there’s no common dominator,’ she said.

‘No offence but you did check photographs and not just names?’ said Shepherd.

‘No offence taken, Spider, and yes, I had the HR departments send over photographs. There are no matches. I’ll email you all the pictures now so you can check them against your team there. But if there’s no match between Zakharov and Czernik it’s doubtful that there’ll be a match with the men there.’

‘Yeah,’ said Shepherd, running a hand through his hair as he paced up and down the corridor. ‘So we’re no farther forward?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘But that doesn’t make any sense. If the sniper wasn’t shooting bodyguards to insert himself into the close protection teams, what was he doing it for?’

‘That’s a good question,’ she said. ‘I wish I had an answer.’

‘It can’t be a coincidence,’ said Shepherd. He stopped pacing. ‘What if it’s not about inserting himself into the team, but getting an intel source in place?’

‘Someone to feed him information?’

Shepherd’s heart was starting to pound. ‘That’s it. He’s got someone on the inside feeding him information on the target. He puts a bodyguard out of commission and when the target boosts his security the killer gets his own man on board. But it’s a different man each time.’

‘That makes sense,’ said Button. ‘So we’re looking for a connection between the new arrivals, some common denominator.’

‘The common denominator is the killer, because he’s paying them, presumably,’ said Shepherd. ‘But he can’t be pulling their names out of a hat. They must be people that he trusts, which means he’s known them for a long time, worked with them perhaps.’

‘And the killer is a sniper, which suggests military training. The bodyguards are pretty much all Russian, or at least former Soviet Union, so that suggests that the killer is too.’

‘So what you need to do is to compare the work histories of the new arrivals on all three teams and find a common point.’

‘I’m on it,’ she said, and ended the call.

Sheena the chef had prepared a selection of sandwiches and cakes and Shepherd took them back to the control centre.

McIntyre was there on his own when Shepherd opened the door and his eyes sparkled when he saw the food. ‘I could get used to this,’ he said. He took a bite out of one of the sandwiches, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve. ‘I might have something useful for you,’ he said.

‘I’m all ears.’

‘Last night the guys were talking about another Russian oligarch who was killed a while back. Name of Buryakov. Know him?’

Shepherd shook his head.

‘According to the guys, he had a heart attack or something. But two months before he died, someone tried to shoot him. A sniper.’

‘Where was this?’

‘Somewhere in Germany, I forget where.’ He grinned. ‘I don’t have your photographic memory, remember?’

‘So a sniper took a shot and missed?’

‘Yeah, just like with Grechko. And just as in Grechko’s case, a bodyguard took a bullet. In the arm.’

Shepherd nodded thoughtfully. ‘That’s interesting.’

‘It is, isn’t it? Bit unusual for a sniper to hit the wrong target, right?’

‘Very unusual,’ said Shepherd. Long-range sniping was challenging at the best of times, Shepherd knew from experience. It was easy enough to screw up a kill shot and a sudden change in wind could result in the target being missed completely. But hitting a completely different target, even if they were in close proximity, was rare in the extreme. ‘Who was talking about this?’

‘That skinny guy, the one with the shaved head. What’s his name? Volikov? Volvakov?’