We moved clear of the firing. The original RV was blown, but Nazzar would be able to follow the radio traffic – at least between the ground units. With any luck the chatter would lead him to me. I’d have to find my own way across the border, though. We threaded our way north. Even in the moonlight it was hard to see more than a few strides ahead. I kept inside the trees, parallel to a cleared path, and then stopped at the point where it converged with the main, Russian, road that had taken me from Krupp to Gorodishche. The route continued north-east for six klicks to the village of Kulisko at the mouth of a narrow inlet to Lake Peipus. The Estonian border was on the far side of what I hoped was a frozen solid expanse of fresh water.

I leaned down and slipped the fingers of my left hand under Boynou’s girth. Too loose. I pocketed the Makarov and swung my right foot forward. I lifted the saddle flap and pulled the girth straps a notch tighter in their buckles. There was no time to shorten the stirrup leathers properly. I put two twists into each and stood up. It would do. It would have to do.

Akhal-Tekes are bred for speed and stamina. I’d dreamed of riding one since I was a boy. But if Boynou wasn’t shod in iceshoes, it would be a stunningly short gallop. I broke a switch of birch from a branch beside me and nudged him out of the trees. The road ran ahead of us – a silver, snow-blighted ribbon of highway glinting under a recalcitrant moon. I listened hard, but heard only the beating of my heart and the deep nasal rasp of horse breaths in the frozen air. Snow fell. I checked the Makarov was secure and held the reins tight in both hands. I closed my fingers around the makeshift crop. They were stiff and painful, unresponsive from the cold, still bleeding from the cuts my grandfather’s knife had scored across them.

Leg on, heels down, back straight. Boynou went from a walk through a couple of strides of a sitting trot and then into a canter. The road beneath held his sure-footed hooves. I urged him on, touching his shoulder with the birch. I shifted my weight and rose in the saddle, dropping my hands either side of his withers, moving my arms forward to give him his head while keeping the rein short enough to control him.

He didn’t gallop.

He flew.