For the first time in my life I’d entered Russia as a Russian citizen – on an Aeroflot flight from Ben Gurion direct to Sheremetyevo International. The Shabak had taken care of formalities in Israel. Speaking with what I hoped was a Russian accent unmuddied by growing up in the West, I’d been propelled through immigration in less than fifteen minutes. Maybe I’d got lucky. Maybe Avilov and the GRU were running their own show, outside the scope of internal security. Or maybe they were watching to see what I’d do next – namely, buy a sandwich and a sharpie and change some dollars to rubles.

In the arrivals hall the cashier had examined the hundred-dollar bills carefully and passed them under an ultraviolet scanner. It had crossed my mind for a moment that Talia might have equipped me with a stash of Moshe’s interpretations. I’d craned my neck to see what happened when the note passed under the light, but the only thing obvious was that the plastic strip beside Benjamin Franklin’s face glowed pink. The woman behind the window had seemed happy enough, and passed me a stack of crisp local notes.

Then I’d found a bathroom and locked myself in a stall. From the wad of leftover dollars I’d extracted a C-note and on the reverse written Архангел in thick, black Cyrillic letters. I’d folded it up and put it in my jeans ticket pocket and emerged into the first Russian winter I’d experienced for five years.

Just as a cab was within touching distance a babushka with sharp elbows and ageing furs barged me out of the way from behind and bundled herself into the back seat. The cabbie emerged, shrugging his shoulders as he opened the boot for her bags.

‘Dobro pozhalovat v Moskvu!’ he said. Welcome to Moscow. Damned straight. In the politeness stakes the Russians gave even the Israelis a run for their money.

Another car pulled up behind and I climbed in. I had no hold luggage, just Talia’s daysack, in which I had also discovered a guidebook – designed, I supposed, to make me look like a tourist out to have fun and not a spook on the run. I’d changed my wound dressing, had breakfast in departures and a shave thirty thousand feet over the Black Sea. I felt good.

‘K Bolshomy,’ I said. To the Bolshoi. From there I’d easily pick up another cab. And another. Eventually ending up in the Kuzminki area, a messy, down-at-heel neighbourhood in the south-east of Moscow, which was about as far away in feel as it was possible to get from the slick city centre. From there I’d plan my next move. The driver was sealed off from the rear passenger seats by a glass screen – an innovation since my last visit. An intercom allowed us to speak.