The canteen offered a full English breakfast, which Purvis promised me was passable – ‘No sheep’s eyes. No horse sausage.’ We talked football while we ate, then home generally; he wanted to know what was going on in England and I pretended that I knew. He gave me tips about Kazakhstan which amounted to not trusting lap dancers. I dropped a few names and places from Helmand, said I’d been in Sangin in 2006. We both knew Brigadier Rob Clarke and had survived raucous nights at Kabul’s Serena Hotel. He got us mugs of lukewarm tea – NATOs, as they called them in the army: white tea, two sugars – and we talked some more about former jobs and then GL5. I studied the old regimental tattoos on his arms, and a fresher inscription: Si vis pacem, para bellum. I’d seen this tattoo a few times on my travels: If you want peace, prepare for war. Curiously, it seemed most popular with the mercenaries. I was never sure in what spirit it was intended. Over time it had gone from seeming like self-justification to an ironic echoing of the flawed logic that had shaped their lives.

‘What do you want us to do?’ he asked.

‘Just be parked where I tell you to park,’ I said. ‘And if you see me running, open the door.’

‘Straightforward enough.’

‘And lend me a gun.’

Purvis sucked in a breath.

‘What is this?’

‘Jealous husband.’

‘And you’ve only been in the country two days.’

‘You know what it’s like.’

‘Is this jealous husband armed?’

‘Hard to say.’

‘Does he have his own backup?’

‘I doubt it.’

‘I’d need to speak to Jim.’

‘Of course.’

Purvis wandered outside, phone to his ear, came back ten minutes later with a thumbs-up and an Adidas holdall. Inside it was a well-used Makarov handgun and a box of 9mm ammo.

‘Seen one of these before?’

‘Once or twice.’

‘For every second this gun’s in your possession it’s nothing to do with us. Never was.’

I released the magazine, counted seven rounds; checked the chamber and reloaded it.

‘I understand.’

‘Where are you going to meet this jealous guy?’

I took out the address Shomko had given me.

‘Casino Zodiak.’

Purvis found two men willing to accompany us. They shook my hand but didn’t remove their shades. One drove; both were heavily armed.

The casino was in the middle of nowhere, which must have been what made Shomko feel safe here. It had a post-apocalyptic look, plastic-clad with dribbles of rust over the cladding from the bolts that held it in place. It was deserted. Cacti pierced the snow around the front. Industrial scrubland lay flat for miles around.

We were early enough to recce the place: emergency exit points, potential choke points, sightlines so you could see any vehicles approaching before they saw you. There was a car park at the back which allowed them to wait out of sight.