I brushed past her on to the steps outside. A black Chevrolet Suburban pulled up – tinted windows, diplomatic plates, off-road tyres.

‘It’s no longer safe for you to stay in Israel, Mr McLean. I made a promise to our mutual friend. But questions are being asked. Questions I cannot avoid any longer. No one will miss Avraham Landau. But the girl, Sveta? That was, uh, unfortunate.’ The rear nearside passenger door opened.

‘But I didn’t …’

‘Please, Mr McLean.’

‘OK,’ I said. ‘But go easy on Baaz. He’s an innocent. Just send him home.’

‘Of course.’

I scanned the rooftops as best I could, but it was pointless. If I ran, I was dead – if not right there, then eventually. It had ever been thus.

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I appreciate it.’

I turned my back to her and walked towards the Chevy, bent slightly at the waist, straining my eyes to no avail to make out any detail in the darkness inside. I stepped up on to the running board and turned around.

‘Tell me, were you and Ezra in the field together?’

‘No. We weren’t.’ She moved back into the doorway. ‘Ezra Black was my husband.’ I swung myself into the SUV. ‘Please, Mr McLean. If you find Rachel, bring her home.’

‘Which home is that, Talia?’

I gave her a mock salute. She smiled and disappeared into the lobby, and I was alone in the back of the car with only the driver up front for company. I pulled the door to. He hit the gas and together we sped into the city.

‘Where are we going?’ I asked.

He looked over his shoulder, eyes wrapped with Ray-Bans despite the dimness of the sodium-lit streets outside.

‘Moscow.’

30

The cold bit like a knife.

Minus eight. Air dry as steel. Skies grey as lead. It had been snowing all night – fresh drifts of powder set solid as the temperature dived. It was a hard, unforgiving cold, offering no mercy to the city frozen in its grip. I thrust my hands into my pockets and kept my head down, and waited in line impatiently for the taxi that would take me into town.

I needed to get into cover. Fast. Every second I was in the open, in public, risked detection. The express train was too exposed. Moscow was littered with CCTV cameras which, MI6 had briefed us at Raven Hill before I went AWOL, were linked to an increasingly sophisticated facial recognition system. A taxi at least kept me off the streets. Talia had loaded a black daysack for me with winter clothes, a washbag, a few rubles, a wad of dollars – and a fake Russian passport.

‘Sorry,’ the Israeli driver had said with a grin as I’d surrendered the Greek papers I’d got from Lukov. ‘The boss doesn’t trust Bulgarians.’