As if reading my thoughts Ivan plunged a hand into the case and brought out a fistful of bundles, holding them in my direction.

‘Take,’ said Sasha. ‘He wants you to have it.’

‘No, no.’ I waved it away.

‘Yes, please. He inseest. He thinks like Russian soldiers you not being paid well. You need more.’

Looking round under the table, Ivan spotted a far cheaper briefcase made of imitation black leather, with a flap closure and no locks. Having tipped the papers it contained on to the table, he proceeded to stuff it with handfuls of fifty-dollar bills and thrust it at me.

From this point things became more and more surreal. Somebody discovered bottles of special, high-octane vodka in the freezer compartment of the fridge, brought them out and began pouring slugs into short, squat glasses. Whinger and I declined, but as the icy spirit went down other people’s throats in repeated doses, the volume of voices rose. While a minion collected up the papers from the table and stowed them away, Ivan himself carefully removed gold watches from three dead wrists and a couple of crocodile wallets from the jackets still on the chairs.

‘Present to English friends!’ he beamed, holding a watch out in my direction.

‘No, for fuck’s sake!’ I exclaimed. ‘Spasibo – but keep them.’

Then some of his guys arrived with body bags, and at last bundled the corpses out of sight.

Outside, in the corridor, there was a great commotion as other inhabitants of the block argued with the guards on the door, trying to get in and find out what had happened.

‘Let’s get the hell out of here,’ Whinger muttered. ‘There’s going to be a monster piss-up.’

‘We’d better sign off with Ivan.’

‘He’s busy. Another day.’

‘OK.’

I looked round for Sasha and beckoned him over. ‘We need to get back to Balashika,’ I told him. ‘Can someone give us a lift?’

‘Konechno. I drive you.’

‘How many vodkas have you had?’

‘Vodka? Nothing! Two only.’

So it was that we pushed our way past the new guards on the door, through the crowd outside and into the lift. Downstairs there was a heavy military presence on the entrance to the block, but Sasha spirited us through it, found the car he’d been driving, and set off.

I felt plagued by guilt – first by the thought that we should all have been in a formal debriefing session, recalling and recording every move of the raid; second by the knowledge that we had lost a man; and third by the fact that I was carrying a small fortune of ill-gotten gains in a Mafia briefcase.

‘Misha,’ I said. ‘He was dead?’

Sasha nodded. ‘Absolutely. We found his body. How did he fall?’

‘Just lost his nerve.’