“What do you need that for?” someone asked.

“Who’s going to identify your body? We’ll have to call Mummy, no? Get on with it.”

At the next table, they undressed and had their photos taken. Faces, scars, teeth were noted.

At the third table, their passport was taken away. Each man got a rifle and two magazines and was sent to wait at the opposite wall, where they watched the slow movement of people through the hall.

It was K.’s turn: he kept the envelope for himself and volunteered his passport. A soldier leafed through the pages, stopped at his Kyiv address and started. He looked at K., at the passport, back at K., and then looked around, as if seeking guidance. He pulled his weapon closer and said: “Wait here.” Grabbing his rifle, he rushed out of the room.

K. turned. Kostya was among those who had completed the formalities and was now shifting from foot to foot with his urge to smoke and go to the toilet. He waved with a smile to K. and invited him to come closer. His fingers trembled. Two absurdly identical-looking men entered the room. Their differing camouflage only highlighted the similarity of their expressions and their boyish, laidback demeanour. Racing to take up position first, they stopped in front of the recruits and spoke in unison.

“Any driver-handymen here?”

“Somebody who knows their way around an infantry fighting vehicle that is. You know, a BMP!”

The pair jostled with one another to dominate the centre stage.

“Me,” said Kostya from the second row.

“Excellent. And can you deal with a second-generation APC?”

“Yes, sir, yes!”

“Ok, you’re mine.”

“Like hell he is, Shaggy. I need him more than you do. Our BMP is totally clapped out, it wants seeing to.”

“It’s your head that wants seeing to. If it’s clapped out, what do you need a driver for?”

“Piss off. We can make better use of him. When the offensive starts, they’ll be coming through us, not your lot. We’ve had three attempted breakthroughs in the last week alone.”

“Gypsy, who the hell do you think you’re telling to piss off? My commander Motorola himself gave me the order to bring back a driver.”

The recruits were bewildered. A woman in blue hospital scrubs strode in silently.

“Hello, Lena,” Gypsy and Shaggy said in chorus, before resuming their squabble.

Short, forty, maybe forty-five, blond hair gathered neatly in a ponytail. She smiled amiably at the men.

“And what makes Motorola so bloody important anyway?” Gypsy was not to be mollified. “So he got famous on TV. Is he fighting more than anybody else?”

“Maybe he is!”

“I need four men,” said Lena. “Where’s Kabul? Kabul!”

The soldier who went away with K.’s passport returned with the bearded commander. Lena intercepted him with a swift and certain step.

“Kabul, I urgently need four men for evacuation.”

“Just one sec, Lenochka, I haven’t got time for this,” boomed Kabul, and turned to face K.: “And what exactly do you think you’re doing here?! Spying?”