‘What it is,’ said Whinger thoughtfully, ‘is the size of this godforsaken country. At home everything’s neat and tidy because we have so little space. Here there’s millions and millions of fucking acres, and it doesn’t matter if you scatter rubbish about.’

Five minutes later Sasha returned, sliding papers back into his folder. ‘Forged documents,’ he said as he started up. ‘Always they are looking for forged licences. People sell them for fifty dollars.’

‘Are these the regular police, then?’

‘No – GAI only traffic.’

We drove on. Soon I saw a large sign which I could read easily: BALASHIKA. Behind it, set back from the road and running parallel with it, was a wall of concrete sections topped by coils of barbed wire. The solid part of the barrier was about two metres tall, so that it effectively blocked the view of everything beyond.

‘Here is the camp,’ Sasha announced. ‘Very big.’

Certainly the wall ran for miles. On and on it went, broken at one point by a single-track railway line, but even there baffles of concrete slabs set at angles made it impossible to see inside. At last Sasha slowed and we drew up at what was obviously the main entrance: a double gateway with sliding barriers of heavy metal bars forged in squares, and flat-roofed guardrooms on either side. The roadway was pitted, the buildings badly finished, the wall cracked where it was propped by pillars. Twisting round in my seat, I glanced at Whinger and saw that his reaction was the same as mine: the place had an instantly depressing atmosphere.

When I look back on that day, I realise that from the start I had a feeling of foreboding about our whole operation. There was no friction of any kind – indeed, our hosts were friendly and welcoming – but the squalor of the barrack blocks and the primitive nature of the training facilities made me dread spending two months in such surroundings. Get a grip, Geordie, I kept telling myself. What matters is the training. You can put up with anything for eight or nine weeks.

As soon as we were inside the camp, Sasha disappeared briefly and came back dressed in DPM fatigues, without badges of rank, but with the emblem of a tiger’s head on his left lapel. On duty, we soon saw, his manner changed: he became sharper, more efficient – and that gave me confidence. He introduced us to a couple of fellow officers – who seemed good enough guys, with a positive, open approach – but they spoke hardly any English, and at this first meeting their names didn’t stick.