He walked quickly towards the nearest stable block, hands up, breathing hard, and went in first. I followed. An intense, heady tang of dung and hay and sweat and leather rolled over us. Half a dozen stalls were lit by dim tungsten lamps. In the nearest, a sixteen-hand Akhal-Teke stallion nodded over a half-door, his palomino coat glowing a deep gold under the orange lights. He was, simply, stunning. I stepped away from the boy, still clutching the pistol.

‘Tack him up.’

Tears ran down his face.

‘Please,’ he said. ‘Not him. Any other one, but not him. Please, mister.’

‘Just do it,’ I said. ‘And be quick. He’ll be OK,’ I added. ‘I promise.’

He went to work and I went to the door and pushed it to, trying to keep beyond the reach of thermal scopes. I pressed my eye briefly to a tiny gap in the door jamb. Despite the scattering cloud, gusts of fresh snow still swept across the open ground. It was impossible to see more than a few metres. I peered into the darkness around the halo cast by the outside lamp. Shadows moved at its edge. Then, dead ahead, a white-clad trooper stepped into view, assault rifle in his shoulder. Then to his left, another. And another.

I stepped back. The Akhal-Teke whinnied. I turned to the boy and placed my index finger to my lips, urging silence. He’d got the tack on – English saddle and a simple snaffle bridle. I beckoned and he led the horse out of the stall. I pressed my eye to the door again. Outside, the soldiers edged closer – forming and vanishing as the wind picked up, sweeping flurries of snowflakes across them.

Fifteen metres.

I turned to the boy again.

‘Hold him steady,’ I whispered. He nodded, eyes still wet with tears. ‘What’s his name?’

‘Boynou.’

‘Is he fast?’

‘As an arrow.’

I stepped carefully back to the door.

Ten metres.

Close enough.

From the adjacent stall I led a grey Don mare by her head collar. The two horses touched noses. I handed the Don’s lead rope to the boy and took the Akhal-Teke reins in my left hand and the pommel in my right, still holding the pistol. I put my left foot into the stirrup and pushed up, pulling myself over, into the saddle, gritting my teeth at the pain in my knee. I found the other stirrup, and cocked the Makarov.

‘Let go of the lead and open the door,’ I said in a stage whisper. ‘And then get down.’ He put his hand on the wooden catch. ‘Now.’

He pushed down and the door swung open. As a blast of frigid air ripped into the stable, I slapped the unsaddled grey on her rump and she bolted into the night. I dropped low on Boynou’s shoulder, leg on, and squeezed hard.

‘Nu!’ I yelled. Go on!