Then I remembered a friend of mine – Andy, a Tornado pilot – saying that a key element in training to fly fast jets was that pilots must have the ability to dump bad decisions behind them. In the air, especially at low level, events happen so fast that the pilot has to take dozens of decisions every minute, and the essential skill is to dump whatever’s just happened, so that your mind’s free to look ahead.

OK, I told myself. Forget that one. Now what?

‘Take that right,’ I told Mal suddenly.

He hauled the wheel round. Our tyres squealed under the load. Sixty yards behind us the Lada copied our every move, turning through the crossing just as the lights changed.

‘Whinger’s got through as well,’ Mal said tersely. ‘Must have shot the red.’

‘I’ve a mind to stop suddenly and sort the bastards ourselves,’ I said, reaching down to draw my Sig. At the back of my mind I knew that the very idea of opening up on unidentified strangers in the middle of the city was outrageous. In London I’d never have dreamt of it. But here in Moscow the level of lawlessness was so high that any form of self-defence seemed in order.

We appeared to be driving in orbit round the university; the colossal tower was still quite close on our right. If we stayed near it, at least we’d know where we were.

‘Right again,’ I said.

Now we were on another wide boulevard, heading back towards the esplanade. The big road stretched ahead, empty of traffic. Suddenly I heard Whinger say, ‘Slow down, Mal. Come down to fifty ks.’

‘Roger,’ went Mal, and eased off the accelerator. He’d been doing about sixty-five, and let the needle fall back. With one eye on the mirror he said, ‘Stand by. The Lada’s closing. No – cancel that. They’ve eased off again.’

The next thing we heard was Whinger calling, ‘Stand by for contact. I’m going in.’

I knew what he’d done: on the long straight he’d built up speed and was coming in at the opposition on one fast run. I twisted round in my seat just in time to see a wild flare of headlights sweeping sideways, then the black silhouette of a vehicle momentarily on end, standing on its nose for an instant before hurtling off the near side of the road. Seconds later there was a brilliant flash, and flames leapt from the wreck.

I braked and pulled in to the kerb.

‘Nice one, Whinge,’ I called. ‘You OK?’

‘More or less.’ He sounded well hyped up. ‘Sustained a bit of damage, but we’re still mobile. Davai, davai!’

We carried on for a couple of blocks. Then Mal said, ‘No – he’s dropping back.’

‘Whinge,’ I called. ‘You got a problem?’

‘Yeah – front tyre’s going down.’

‘Next right, then. Get off this fucking great road.’