If I was being honest, I’d have to say I looked much the same, with the odd grey hair appearing. Worse, my eyes were so bloodshot from the centrifugal force of the spin that I looked like Count Dracula after a satisfactory attachment to some young lady’s jugular.

One thing I knew for sure was that I did not want to get caught in the net and have to submit to prolonged interrogation. I’d been through all that six years earlier, during my first tour with the Subversive Action Wing, the most secret unit within the SAS. That first time I’d been pulled in and put through the mill. Now, as then, everyone assigned to the SAW had to be able to maintain a cover identity for up to thirty-six hours: it was an essential part of our training, especially when a delicate task like our trip to Moscow was in prospect. It wasn’t that, as commander of the team, I felt I should be exempt from such indignities: just that I was tired, and the thought of answering endless questions gave me a pain in the arse.

I’d toyed with the idea of wearing shades when I came to Immigration, but I dropped it, because all they do is attract attention. Instead, I’d gone for a white baseball cap with a long peak, green on the underside, that came well forward over my face. What with that, a blue T-shirt, jeans and trainers, and a scruffy little civilian haversack on my back, I hoped I could pass for the self-employed carpenter I was claiming to be. I’d also taken the precaution of loading up with booze, like all the genuine tourists and day-trippers around me.

I found myself a seat in the forward upper lounge and settled down. All round me people were laughing and chatting, kids screaming; but I pulled the peak of my cap down and closed my eyes, which were itching and aching, and the next thing I knew a voice on the tannoy was blaring out that we would dock in five minutes’ time. I’d managed to sleep the two-hour trip away.

I had time for a wash and the hundredth run-through of my own cover identity, just in case I was pulled. According to my passport I was Malcolm Barrow, aged thirty-six, from Alnwick in Northumberland. I’d been to France to visit friends who’d bought an old pub in Normandy and wanted some restoration done. I had the name of the place in my head – L’Auberge au Vieux Puits – but, conveniently for me, it was very primitive and had no telephone, so no quick checks could be made.