I was shitting bricks as we came down the steps with the first of them. Having a thing like that in your hands is no joke. No matter how often Toad had assured us that an accidental impact couldn’t set the bomb off, I kept wondering what would happen if one of us lost his footing.

Gingerly we lowered the first case into one boot. That just left room for the SCR box alongside. The second big case had to go on the back seat, and the combined weight put the Volga down on its springs. With two guys up front, the rear mudguards were almost on the tyres.

Sasha had told the guardroom we’d be going out, so we had no problem there. We flashed some big smiles along with our passes, and the sentry raised the barrier, waving us through. Then, on the main road, it was just a question of turning left and heading down the big highway into town.

The traffic was incredibly light. I thought of Sunday night on the M4, with a million cars all trying to pour back into London at the same time. Here, I realised, most of the poor bastards who lived in the city centre had nowhere to go at weekends.

Whinger drove the lead car, the black one, with me beside him, map in hand. Rick kept the grey Volga four or five hundred yards behind, so that the two vehicles didn’t seem to be associated. With him was Pavarotti, and, squeezed into the back seat beside half of Orange, Toad. There was really no need for him to come with us, but at the back of my mind lurked the worry that while we were moving the devices around, something might happen to them. I could hardly imagine what the problem might be, but if one of them started ticking or heating up we might suddenly need Toad to deal with it.

The two cars were in radio contact, in case anyone saw trouble looming. The plan was for Rick to close up in the final stages of the trip, so that he could follow us and not have to worry about navigation. We also had pistols in underarm holsters, concealed beneath our jackets.

When we joined the thin stream of traffic, I realised what good cars the Volgas were to have. Never mind that they had zero acceleration and roared and wallowed like ten-ton trucks: they were anonymous, and scruffy enough not to arouse anyone’s interest. As we kept to the right-hand lane at about sixty ks, any number of identical vehicles surged past on the outside.

That first run-in could hardly have been easier. The only threat was from the potholes which, with the huge load we had on board, could have done serious damage. Whinger often had to swerve to avoid a chasm ahead.