Morning brought shock after shock to exacerbate our hangovers. The first came on the news, when somebody heard that the Russian Foreign Minister, had been assassinated. There’d been a shoot-out on Leningradski Prospekt, the main thoroughfare running out towards the north-west. The Minister had been on his way to Sheremetyevo airport, en route for Washington, when a car had come up alongside his Zyl limo – in spite of the police escort – and gunmen had riddled it with bullets. The Zyl had run off the road at speed and crashed head-on into a concrete wall, and the bulletin didn’t make clear whether he’d been killed by gunshots or by the impact. In any event, he was dead. So were the driver, two of the bodyguards and one policeman. The gunmen had got clean away, but blame had immediately been placed on ‘criminal elements’ – in other words, the Mafia.

‘Chechens, for sure,’ said Sasha, the moment he arrived in camp. ‘And why? They make retaliation for losing their Beno. I told you.’

‘It’s a war, going on in the middle of Moscow,’ I said.

‘Zheordie, this war will last fifty years.’

Like us, Sasha was feeling rough, and we gave him a cup of strong black coffee before starting for the ranges.

Then Toad appeared, washing his hands like crazy.

‘Heard the news?’ he went.

‘The hit on the Foreign Minister?’

‘Yeah – but the stand-off it’s creating.’

‘What are you on about?’

‘It’s just been on the BBC World Service. The American Ambassador was in that same car.’

‘Jesus!’ I sat up. ‘Did they kill him as well?’

‘Not quite. He’s in intensive care. But the United States is threatening to break off relations with Russia. Clinton’s been on the hotline to the President, giving him a bollocking. He reckons the whole country’s going to ratshit.’

‘He’s not far wrong,’ I said. I felt my gut contracting. Now we’re really in it, I thought – and as if to confirm my misgivings, in came another unexpected punch from a different direction.

We were on the point of leaving the building when in burst Rick, looking chuffed to bollocks. ‘You’ll never believe it!’ he yelled. ‘Irina’s back!’

‘Take it easy,’ I told him. ‘Who’s Irina?’

‘Natasha’s sister. The one who went to the States.’

‘What about her?’

‘They’ve got her back!’

‘Who have? For Christ’s sake, explain.’

‘The FBI turned up at her apartment in the Bronx. They grabbed her and a few of her friends and deported them – put them on a plane for Moscow.’

‘Ah,’ I said. ‘This is starting to make sense. You’ve Tony Lopez to thank for that. He must have got his finger out.’

Then suddenly I thought, Wait a minute. How does Rick know about this? He must have been talking to Natasha. Hadn’t I told the prick to lay off?