‘Let’s have a rope for the bergens, then the ladder.’

So we came back to ground level. The moment we were clear of the shaft and the cover was closed, Rick slipped the original padlocks into place and scattered hay over the top.

‘Where’s our transport?’ I whispered.

‘Dunno exactly. Somewhere close. We’ve been talking to them. Give ’em a call.’

I switched on my radio and said, ‘Green One to Black, do you read me? Over.’

‘Black,’ came Whinger’s voice immediately. ‘Standing by for pick-up.’

‘Roger,’ I went. ‘We’ll come out two and two, as planned. First pair one minute from now. Second thirty seconds later.’

By then all the nuns – or whoever they were – seemed to have gone to bed. Only a single light was burning at the back of the inner yard; everything else was dark. All the same, we stuck to our plan of coming out in separate pairs.

‘Away you go,’ I said, and Rick and Toad vanished towards the gate. I counted thirty, then set off with Pavarotti.

Through the gate we turned right and started walking along the pavement. The asphalt gleamed wet after recent rain, and across the river the Kremlin buildings were still floodlit. There was nobody walking on the embankment. The first pair had disappeared – picked up already.

About a hundred yards ahead of us I saw some object lying half on the pavement, half in the road. As we approached, I saw it was a man, or maybe a body, legs out in the carriageway, head in the gutter. From the horrible angle of his feet I could tell that his legs had been run over, maybe several times. One hand was clutching the neck and shattered remains of a bottle, and round it a dark puddle had spread, more like blood than vodka.

‘The poor bastard’s snuffed it,’ said Pavarotti as we passed. But no: at that moment the figure let out a gurgling groan and shifted slightly. On any other night, anywhere else in the world, I’d have pulled him to safety on the pavement. But here, so close to the scene of our infiltration, I didn’t want to know.

The contrast between the splendid buildings opposite and the sordid brutality of life in the gutter said everything about the way in which seventy-five years of Communism had brought a vast country to its knees.

We walked on. A second later we heard an engine and saw lights coming up behind us. I tightened my right hand on the butt of my Sig, just in case; but then the lights flicked up and down in recognition. Whinger called, ‘I have you visual,’ the vehicle slowed, and a second later we were safe on board his Volga.

‘Good on yer, Whinge,’ I said as we pulled away. ‘No problems?’

‘The whole place is lifting with drunks – but apart from them, nothing. How about you?’