It had started to rain, and as they reached the incongruous glass and metal Peace Bridge, they took shelter under a tumbling vine in a street full of boutique hotels, stores and restaurants aimed at Tbilisi’s ever-expanding tourist trade. Julie lit a cigarette and shared it with Kate. They didn’t need to tell their watchers where they were, or that the waiting was dragging out. Kate’s phone buzzed. She glanced at it. Walk away down Erekle II Street. Keep going. She showed the message to Julie, who nodded. ‘You need to look it up?’ Kate asked. Julie shook her head.

They started moving again, walking across a car park, then beneath a line of cypress trees as they passed a section of the old city wall. This was the heart of the tourist old town, the houses newly painted and the restaurant tables sheltered beneath plants overhanging from shady terraces. They passed a church and found themselves in a square with Tbilisi’s famous clock tower. Kate’s phone throbbed again: Go down to the river, get a taxi to the Dry Bridge.

Kate called him via Signal. He answered immediately. ‘I’m not doing this again,’ she said.

‘The Georgians have been watching me here in Tbilisi. I have to make sure they are not following you.’

Kate ended the call. ‘Moving to the Dry Bridge,’ she said quietly. Julie was still checking this on her phone as Kate was relaying the instruction to a taxi driver on the quay. He seemed to understand.

It was only a short journey and the taxi disgorged them into what looked like a flea market that stretched along the riverbank. Kate and Julie browsed the stalls in the morning sunshine. It was as if every citizen of the capital had assembled every piece of junk that had ever been in their possession to sell to tourists. There was a stall offering plugs, adaptors and every kind of electrical accessory, another selling old tools. An old man had a huge selection of knives laid out on a long table, a woman next to him a ten- or fifteen-feet-wide section selling old crockery. Behind them both was an old Lada so full of debris there was no possibility of even a cat squeezing inside it.

Kate and Julie kept walking. They found an old man selling Soviet film posters, another offering medals and Soviet badges. Julie lingered on the posters. ‘I love these,’ she said.

A new black four-wheel-drive Toyota Land Cruiser roared up. Mikhail was in the passenger seat. ‘Get in,’ he said. ‘Both of you.’ They did as they were told. He leant behind him. ‘Turn off your packs,’ he said. ‘They’re going off grid, whoever is listening. We know where you are and we’ll contact you when we are ready to leave.’

‘We can’t go off grid,’ Kate said.