‘We passed all your data to the RAF,’ Bill said. ‘They’ve done an appreciation and decided to approach you from the north, down the slope. They don’t fancy coming up the valley and over the compound entrance.’

At 5.30 I gave my pressel a double jab and said, ‘OK, Sasha. I’m on the move. We’re off to the DZ. I’ll come round and pick you up. Stay still till I reach you.’

‘I wait.’

Stars blazed overhead, and even though the moon hadn’t risen yet the night was alarmingly bright, the snow reflecting all the remaining light from the frosty sky. This white blanket was something we hadn’t planned for: the patterns on my DPMs were clearly visible, and I could have done with a snow overall.

Moving cautiously, and keeping to bare rock ridges as much as possible so that I didn’t leave a continous trail, I worked my way round to the helipad. Sure enough, the chopper was still on the ground – an Alouette, painted some light colour, its rotor blades drooping under a three-inch load of snow. If it remained in position there’d be nowhere for a Chinook to land. No matter – the hostage recovery team could fast-rope down while the aircraft hovered. Then, if we couldn’t shift the Alouette, we might have to exfil from the DZ in the forest.

I found Sasha ready to move. Instead of heading out to the left, in the direction of the DZ, we put in a bit of a detour and made our way straight up to the top fence, which was still unfinished. After watching for a couple of minutes we climbed the wire at a point where the wind had blown the snow off a rocky spine, leaving no tracks on the inside. The outside was a different matter. We landed in what turned out to be a gully, filled with snow to a depth of a couple of feet, and we couldn’t help churning up the surface as we floundered out of the drift. I snatched up a pine branch and frisked it back and forth behind us, levelling the surface as best I could; but the moonlight was so bright that a trail still showed.

There was no time to mess about. Clear of the fence, we turned left, to the west, through the forest, and again followed the contour. Navigation was simple: I knew that if we held our height, we’d come out on the farm track that led up from the valley to the high hayfield.

Except when we brushed into tree branches, our progress was utterly silent: the dry snow lay like six inches of the softest powder, and our boots made not the slightest sound as they pushed through it.