A man in grey GAI uniform, with the red stripe down the side of his pants, was guiding us in towards the verge. As I pulled up, another man appeared beside the window and said, ‘Dokumenti.’

I reached down under my seat for the package Anna had made up for each car and handed it to him. He took it, but motioned for me to go with him to a hut at the edge of the highway. Then he started saying, ‘Klioucha, klioucha,’ and making twisting movements with his hand.

‘Keys,’ said Toad. ‘He’s after the keys.’

‘Suspicious bastard,’ I said. ‘He thinks we’re going to try and drive off.’

‘Ah, fuck it!’ exclaimed Pavarotti. ‘Shall I deal with him?’

‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘I’ll go. You two sit tight.’

I took out the ignition key and handed it through the window. I was on the point of getting out when I remembered the Rat. Better leave it in the car, I thought. Then, measuring the distance to the hut by eye, I thought, No – that isn’t a hundred feet. It’ll be OK.

As I stepped out of the car I glanced into the back, and was reassured to see that the component beside Toad was covered by an old blanket.

I started to follow the GAI officer. He pointed towards the hut, gesturing to me to carry on. Then he turned back to the Volga.

The hut was set just off the tarmac, down a bit of a bank and on the edge of the wood. At first my main concern was that I wouldn’t understand what the cops were asking, and I wished to hell my Russian was better. Then, second by second, step by step, I began to get the feeling that something was wrong. The hut didn’t look like one of the regular GAI stations, which were lit up like little guardrooms. This thing was only a roadsmen’s cabin, and dark. Besides, the other cars parked by it weren’t GAI vehicles, but ordinary saloons. Worst of all, there were at least five men standing in the shadows, not in GAI uniform, but wearing leather jackets that gleamed when the headlights of a vehicle went by on the road. There was something odd about their body language; their postures unnaturally rigid and alert.

At that instant I suddenly heard, through my earpiece, Pavarotti call, ‘CONTACT!’ Before I could react, the guys in front of me started to move in my direction. I glanced over my shoulder at the Volga and saw two men with sub-machine guns closing in from either side.

I jabbed my pressel switch and said sharply, ‘Contact! Contact! Whinger, in here! Get in! Get in!’

‘Negative,’ came his answer. ‘We can’t. We’re in a contact too.’

Over the radio I heard a rattle of shots. An instant later the shots came live, through the air.