The Turks had come on side, he said, and we had permission to fly. Better still, he’d fixed an aircraft – a P33, a ten-seat executive jet used by senior military commanders. Take-off would be from the military side of Vnukovo airport at 2.30 Moscow time. We couldn’t fly direct, but were to stage through Krasnodar, in the north of the Caucasus, so that the plane could refuel before the final hop of the flight and not have to take on Turkish fuel at the far end.

That meant leaving Balashika at 1.00 – and suddenly time for planning, which had seemed endless, had almost run out.

At 12.30 I put in one last call to Tony, even though I knew it was 4.30 a.m. in the States. He was asleep, but his stand-in, Cyrus, was fully briefed. He confirmed that Orange was stationary on the same site, and that the weather in the region was likely to remain unchanged for the next thirty-six hours.

‘You got a big high centred over the west coast of the Caspian, extending all the way to the Black Sea,’ he said. ‘Predicted wind speeds, three to five knots on 260 degrees. Moon’s three-quarter full. Moonrise 1900 local, moonset 0600. Looks like you’ll have God’s own view of the Caucasus range as you drop in there.’

‘Thanks for your help,’ I went. ‘Tell Tony I’ll call him from Kars.’

‘OK. And take some warm clothes with you. That place is six thousand feet above sea level.’

Chapter Fourteen

FOURTEEN

The P33 was noisy and cramped, with little headroom and hard, uncomfortable seats, but it did the job. There were two regular army officers on board, hitching a lift to Krasnodar, but otherwise Sasha and I had the cabin to ourselves. The seats were arranged in pairs facing each other, and for much of the flight we kept a map of the Grozny area open on our knees, discussing the terrain.

When Sasha started talking about the war he grew animated, cursing the brutality and incompetence of the whole operation. He’d been in charge of one of the Omon special units, and had done what he could to keep his own men under control, but Kulikov, the overall commander of Russian troops in the south, had gone round inciting officers and men to kill every Chechen they could get their hands on.

‘Not only Chechen people,’ he told me. ‘One Omon unit attacked farm. They shoot fifty cows, kill them all. They set fire to cows’ food – hay – burn down barns, destroy machines. It was all crazy, mad. What had the cows done to annoy them?’

‘Did you get to hate Chechens?’ I asked.

‘Not hate them. Chechens ordinary people. Not like Afghanis. Afghanis fanaticals. Some Chechens good, some bad.’