Three balaclava’d men appeared in the headlights, Kalashnikovs pointed at my windscreen. I raised my hands. One of the men tore the door open and I was dragged out, forced to the ground, pockets emptied. My face pressed down into the snow as I tried to imagine various ways this could unfold and kept arriving at the likelihood of death. It felt too soon, rushed, and with this came rising panic, and then a faint, accompanying awareness that I needed to keep control of myself if I was going to have any chance of surviving.

I was lifted to my feet. Four men now, two in camo fatigues, two in a mixture of nondescript khaki and civilian clothes. I could see narrower Kazakh eyes behind the balaclavas of the khaki men. The lead camo fatigues wore grey gloves and sounded Syrian. He was the jumpiest, the one I was most cautious about, scarf pulled up to his eyes, shoulders hunched, combat jittery.

He turned and called: Hna. Another man appeared from the trees, unmasked. Hna. Here.

Arabic.

The new arrival had broad, blunt Slavic features, blue-eyed, a fair beard beneath his chin encrusted with ice, but moustache shaved. All of which said Chechnya. The sharp, unmistakable scent of unwashed fighters cut through the cold. No alcohol on their breath. Weapons held professionally, kept angled down when they spoke to one another, movements controlled, pupils undilated. No visible radios: an underground crew, guerrilla-smart. I took a proper look at the weaponry. Kalashnikovs and AR-15 assault rifles. I couldn’t tell if they were the Chinese copies or the real thing.

The Chechen barked orders in Arabic without taking his eyes off me: ‘Check the vehicle, check the boot, check the road.’ The choppy, guttural language sounded startling among the snow. When he spoke to me he used Russian, which was understandable as I’d just been hauled out of a Russian military vehicle.

‘Get down.’