The arrival hall at Sheremetyevo was as dim and dire as ever, but so few people were coming in that Immigration proved relatively painless. Beyond the Customs, in contrast, the taxi drivers swarmed even more voraciously than usual. Hardened to their methods, I stood still until I spotted a short man waiting at the back of the scrum. He had an open, friendly face, a neatly trimmed red beard, and was wearing a peaked, dark-blue cap. Instead of screaming at me, he was smiling.

I pushed through the mob and said, ‘OK. Let’s go.’

Outside, the cold bit, and I was surprised to see a dusting of snow on the ground. My guide led the way to a clean-looking grey Zhigudi and held one of the back doors open for me.

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘But I’ll come in front.’

I settled in the passenger seat and asked, ‘What’s your name?’

‘Sergei.’

‘You speak English?’

‘Some.’ He gave a deprecating grin. ‘City centre?’

‘No. I want to go to Balashika.’

‘Balashika!’ He sounded amazed.

‘Balashika first. Then city centre. Then back to Balashika. How much will all that cost?’

‘Dollars?’

I nodded. As he pulled out on to the highway, I could see his mind ticking up figures. ‘One hundred fifty.’

‘I’ll give you two hundred.’

‘Khorosho!’

He drove fast but well, not taking risks, but watching all the time for openings in the traffic, and taking shortcuts to avoid the blocks at major intersections. When I praised his navigation, he answered in quite fluent English. We chit-chatted about this and that, and when I asked how old he was, he suddenly, with a flourish and a big grin, whipped off his cap to reveal that he was almost completely bald. ‘Feefty!’ he exclaimed. I refrained from saying that without his hat he bore a strong resemblance to Lenin, but I felt that if I had, he wouldn’t have given a damn.

He took the outer ring-road, round the north perimeter of the city. Out in the country there seemed to be more snow, and although the main road was clear, the ground was uniformly white.

As we approached Balashika I felt my anxiety building. I hadn’t quite worked out how I was going to handle my re-entry into the camp. The time was 6.30 p.m., and the chances were that the team would be back indoors for the night.

Taxis weren’t allowed inside the barracks, so I asked Sergei to wait outside the gate. Luckily the guy on the barrier recognised me, and even greeted me cheekily as Starik – Old Man.