Or the Americans. Or the Israelis. Old alliances were stretched to breaking point; new ones untested, unreliable. Anyone could be bought with a billion bucks. The CIA stood Janus-like at the dawn of a new era: one face looking down on the legacy of Joe Stalin, the other looking forward to the opportunities a frenemy in the Kremlin might afford. Even MI6 – especially MI6 – didn’t know whether to shake the hand of the resurgent Russian devil, or cut it off. The motivations of monsters like Philby and Burgess no longer seemed archaic and irrelevant. Anyone could work for anyone. Everyone was expendable. No one was above suspicion.

My face pivoted into the beam of the halogen spotlight at the end of the container. The rope contracted, fully wound, and held me still for a moment, frozen in the bright white light. Behind it, steel scraped against steel. A rush of cold air. The smell of diesel. The continual pulse of a heavy engine. And then the sound of footsteps striking plywood.

Here we go.

Three pairs of feet. Two in boots. One in shoes.

‘Bystro! Shevelites’!’ Someone was being begged to get a move on in Russian. ‘Esli ego tak ostavit’, on dolgo ne protyanet.’ Whoever was speaking did so with the calm but urgent authority of a professional – telling the others in no uncertain terms that, tied up like that, I didn’t have much longer to live. He was right. I guessed he was the person wearing the shoes – and that he was wearing the trousers, too.

The guards hesitated.

‘We should leave him. Please,’ a second voice pleaded in Russian. They were scared of me. It was almost flattering.

The man in charge spoke again.

‘Just do it.’

I spun back around; as I twisted past the men, I squinted at them through upside-down, sweat-clogged eyes. Three upturned figures emerged from the light, clinging to a wooden ceiling like thin black spiders. The two in boots stayed near the door, cradling AKS-74 carbines. Six-two, six-four, a couple of hundred pounds apiece, kitted out in vests and combat fatigues. The man in shoes stepped forward, floating above me. He was lighter, smaller, carrying a tan portmanteau, not an assault rifle. A doctor. Most likely he’d check my vital signs first and then, all else being equal, sedate me and cut me down. I had to convince him there wasn’t time for that, that I had to be untied immediately. Staying conscious was the only hope of escape I had.