A quick inspection revealed that all our rooms were the same: small, hot and stuffy, without air-conditioning, and with only the small upper section of the windows openable. In the tiny bathrooms the tiles were cracked and yellowing, the grout between them black with grime. As Sasha had warned us, there were no plugs in the baths or basins . . . and suddenly – fuck it – I realised I’d left mine behind. I took a quick look round the bedroom for signs of hidden microphones, and although I couldn’t see anything I felt sure they were there. We’d already agreed that there’d be no shop talk in the hotel.

‘Grotsville,’ exclaimed Rick as he emerged into the passage.

‘You said it. Have you got your money on you? Don’t leave it in there, whatever you do.’

‘Got it.’ He slapped his bum-bag which he had pulled round to the front, over his stomach.

‘You look like that fat git we came up with.’

‘Spasibo, mate.’

‘Let’s stretch our legs,’ Whinger suggested. ‘Eyeball the Kremlin.’

That seemed like a good plan. It was already 9.45 local time, but only 6.45 by our biological clocks, and since we’d eaten on the plane we didn’t feel any need for food. Besides, I knew that the British Embassy was somewhere close by, just across the Moscow River from the Kremlin, and I reckoned we might as well suss it out, as I was going to have to report there regularly during our operation.

On our way down in the lift Rick suddenly started shitting himself with laughter.

‘What’s so bloody amusing?’ Whinger said irritably.

‘Some cunt left a menu from one of the restaurants in my room. The stuff on offer is incredible.’

‘Like what?’

‘“Needles in meat sauce”, for one. Then there was “frog’s paws in paste”.’

‘That’s frog’s legs in batter,’ Whinger told him.

‘I know – but think of it . . .’

It was a fine evening for a stroll: the sky was clear and the air cool. Out on the pavement, we elbowed through the scrum of taxi drivers and walked down the slope towards Red Square. The street was so wide and the traffic was moving so fast that the subway seemed the best way to cross. We went down some steps into a concrete tunnel, past young people busking and old women begging, and up the other side. A minute later we were walking uphill on another short, broad thoroughfare and emerging on to the huge open expanse of Red Square.

‘Never realised it was cobbled,’ said Whinger.

‘Nor that it was so big.’