Meanwhile, I was sorting the kit they’d brought us and repacking it into my bergen. They’d given us plenty of warm clothes, including two free-fall Goretex suits with Thinsulate linings: when zipped together, the jackets and trousers gave us a perfectly windproof outer layer. There were also a couple of sweaters apiece, thermal silk long johns and long-armed vests, and any amount of boil-in-the-bag meals, which we could eat cold if necessary. If all went well, we’d be on the ground for less than thirty-six hours, so I cut down our load as far as I dared, as the combined weight of our essential kit was already formidable.

I had a 203, with eight spare thirty-round mags and two grenades, plus Sig, spare mags, knife, Satcom, GPS, covert radio, kite-sight, binoculars, fireflies, water-bottles, sleeping bag, bivvy bag and cam nets. A lot of the heaviest stuff, like the magazines, went into the pouches on my webbing, but there was still enough to fill a bergen. Sasha had his Gepard and spare mags, plus a pistol and ammunition.

At 9.30 p.m. I went for a final briefing with Bill Chandler. The met forecasts were unchanged. Orange hadn’t moved: the satellite was still getting its signal. ‘As far as they can tell, it’s not in the main house,’ Bill told me. ‘If it was inside a big structure, they probably wouldn’t hear it. It seems to be about a hundred metres east of the building.’

‘OK,’ I said. ‘As soon as we’re on site I’ll call you and let you know what we can see.’

After a sandwich and a cup of tea we were ready to go. At the last minute I bumped into Pat, who looked in rollicking form, his bright brown eyes shining, cheeks ruddy, and his teeth flashing white as ever.

‘Taking on Chechnya single-handed, are you, Geordie?’ he enquired with a big grin on his face.

‘Just the two of us. Pat, this is Sasha, a very good colleague from Moscow. Sasha – Pat Newman.’

‘Hi, Sasha!’ Pat shook hands quickly. ‘You want to watch this fellow – he’s a dangerous bastard to be with.’

Rising to the banter, Sasha took hold of my webbing and said, ‘I keep him tied to me.’

‘Quite right! Otherwise he might dump you in it.’

‘You look out,’ I told Pat. ‘The Chechens are pretty handy with their guns. Move a bit faster this time or you’ll end up a Figure Eleven again.’

‘We’ll see!’ Pat grinned and gave me a smack on my sore shoulder.

‘Eh,’ he went, seeing me wince. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘I got nicked there in a bit of a shoot-out.’

‘Really! We live in dangerous times. Happy landings, anyway.’

‘Same to you, Pat. We’ll see you tomorrow.’

As we moved off, Sasha asked, ‘What is Figure Eleven?’