The security guards had been briefed to expect us. The first two – Russians – checked our documents. The inner post was manned by a Brit, as I’d predicted. He spoke a few words into his radio, then directed Sasha to drive on across the courtyard and round the left-hand side of the main building. Behind the inner post was another open space with an attractive garden, a hard tennis court and, across the back, a low two-storey building which had obviously once been the stable block belonging to the main house. A forest-green Range Rover was parked in one corner with a small, shiny blue Fiat beside it.

By the time we arrived at the front door a man was already standing outside – a tall guy, probably in his early forties, with a shock of thick, grey hair springing forward over his forehead and a bushy moustache to match. He was wearing a white shirt and a navy tie with diagonal stripes that no doubt indicated some fancy school or regiment.

‘Sergeant Major Sharp?’ He came over and shook hands with a firm grip. ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m David Allway, Chargé d’Affaires.’

‘Hello,’ I said. ‘This is Major Ivanov – Sasha – who’s looking after us.’

Sasha shook hands and gave a deferential nod in place of a salute. Then I introduced Whinger and Rick.

Allway swept a hand at his forelock, which instantly flopped back into its former position, smiled at everyone and said, ‘Your liaison officer’s here already.’

‘Great,’ I said. ‘What’s his name?’

‘Her name . . .’ he paused, smiling again, ‘is Colonel Gerasimova. She’s waiting in the office. Let’s go in.’

‘Just a second,’ I said. ‘A colonel . . . Is she army?’

‘No – she’s from the FSB, a section of the former KGB. On formal occasions they still like to use KGB ranks.’

Ah, Jesus, I thought. This is all we need.

If I don’t remember much about Allway’s office, it’s because I was so startled by the appearance and manner of our interpreter. She was dark, with short, straight hair, and very slim – ‘lithe’ would be a better word, because her movements were quick and elegant. She was wearing a smart suit of cornflower-blue linen with a cream-coloured shirt underneath. After so much squalor outside, she was like a vision. When we entered the room she was sitting down, talking to a red-headed secretary, but when she stood up to greet us, I saw she was nearly as tall as me. Her face caught everyone’s eyes as we came in: it was a bit too long and narrow to be classically beautiful, but there was something striking about it, especially her big, dark eyes.

‘Sergeant Major Sharp? I’m Anna Nikolayevna. Welcome to Moscow!’