‘Contract killers. Almost all. With one bullet, a man can earn half million dollars.’ He looked at me and went on in a soft, menacing, ingratiating voice: ‘Eemagine. You are manager of bank, big boss, yes? Somebody telephones. “Look, Meester Sharp, you should pay us some marney.” You tell them, “Get to hell.”

‘Another call. “You know, Mr Sharp, you are in danger. You need pratyection. We do not like you to be hurt. We can pratyect you. We can look after your family. But it will cost you: two per cent. Two per cent of bank takings – a lot of money.”

‘Again you say, “Get lost.”’

He paused, and when he went on, his voice was even more reasonable, more wheedling, more sinister.

‘A week passes. Another call. “Now look, Meester Sharp. Are you not concerned for your safety, for your little children, for their lives?”

‘“No,” you say.

‘“All right, then. Wait. Wait. Just wait.”

‘You think you are safe. Why? Because you have closed-circuit TV on your block. You have modern security system. You have former KGB on duty outside. But you are under terrible pressure – from your bosses to resist the threat, from the criminals to pay.

‘Then one morning you go out to your car. Sunny day. Very nice. Guards are sitting there. Only twenty-five metres to walk, but that is enough. BASH! Bang! The contract killer fires one shot from his car – finish.’

‘Nasty,’ I said.

‘Is very bad, and always getting worse. Now all politicians are in danger, even the President and the Prime Minister.’

‘That’s why we’re coming over, I guess.’

‘Konechno.’

He gave me such a long run-down on Mafia activities that we reached camp almost without noticing it. ‘Here we are,’ I said as we turned in towards the gate. ‘Welcome to Stirling Lines.’

The police on security duty had been briefed to expect him, and I checked him through without difficulty. Then we headed for the officers’ mess, where a room was booked. At that time of the afternoon the place was deserted except for Larry, the steward, who was busy cleaning the regimental silver, so I took Sasha through to show him his room, which was small but cheerful, with a shower and lavatory cubicle attached.

‘Even own bathroom!’ Sasha grinned. Then, pointing at the washbasin, he recited a little poem: ‘Tolko pokoynik, Ne ssit v rukomoynik.’

‘What’s that?’

‘It is joke about Russian hotels. Usually bathroom is a kilometre away along passage. It means, “Only a dead man does not piss in the basin.”’

He was delighted with the accommodation; but when we got back into the anteroom, with its sofas and armchairs and little tables, and scenes from regimental history on the walls, he became nervous.

‘Zheordie,’ he said. ‘I am shamed.’

‘What’s the matter?’

‘This place . . .’ He gestured round the room. ‘My clothes . . .’ He looked down at himself, pointing to his black jacket, his faded jeans, his ancient trainers. ‘Not smart.’