He may have gone to bed, but it was some hours before he could get to sleep, and not just because of the lumpy mattress, the paper-thin blanket, or the garish neon lights that invaded every corner of his room through nylon curtains that didn’t quite meet. By the time he finally fell asleep, it was eleven o’clock in Bristol, two in the morning in Moscow.

Harry rose early the following morning and decided to take a stroll around Red Square. It was impossible to miss Lenin’s mausoleum, which dominated the square and served as a constant reminder of the founder of the Soviet state. The Kremlin was guarded by a massive bronze cannon, another symbol of victory over another enemy. Even wearing the overcoat insisted on by Emma, with the collar turned up, Harry’s ears and nose had quickly turned red with the cold. He now understood why the Russians wore those magnificent fur hats, accompanied by scarves and long coats. Locals passed him on their way to work but few of them gave him a second look, despite the fact that he was continually slapping himself.

When Harry returned to the hotel, rather earlier than planned, the concierge handed him a message. Pierre Bouchard, the conference chairman, hoped he would be able to join him for breakfast in the dining room.

“I’ve allocated you the eleven o’clock slot this morning,” said Bouchard, having already given up on some scrambled egg that could never have seen a chicken. “It’s always the best attended of the conference meetings. I will open proceedings at ten thirty, when I’ll welcome the delegates from seventy-two countries. A record number,” he added with Gallic panache. “You’ll know I’ve come to the end of my speech when I remind the delegates that there’s one thing the Russians do better than anyone else on earth.” Harry raised an eyebrow. “The ballet. And we’re all lucky enough to be attending Swan Lake at the Bolshoi this evening. After I mention that to the delegates, I will invite you onto the stage to deliver the opening speech.”

“I’m flattered,” said Harry, “and better be on my toes.”

“You shouldn’t be,” said Bouchard. “The committee were unanimous in their choice of you as the keynote speaker. We all admire the campaign you’ve been masterminding on behalf of Anatoly Babakov. The international press are showing considerable interest, and it will amuse you to know that the KGB asked me if they could see an advance copy of your speech.”

Bouchard’s words caused Harry a moment of anxiety. Until then, he hadn’t realized how widely his campaign had been followed abroad, and how much was expected of him. He looked at his watch, hoping there was still time to go over his speech once again, drained his coffee, apologized to Bouchard, and headed quickly back up to his room. It was a relief to find the lift was now working. He didn’t need reminding that he might never have another opportunity like this to promote Babakov’s cause, and certainly not in Russia’s backyard.