Through my sleep I heard a hammering on our door, and in burst Johnny, shouting, ‘Geordie, get up! There’s a panic on.’

For a moment I thought, Christ, the search has started already. They’re turning us out of bed. But at least they can’t search the Embassy – so sod them.

Across the room Whinger protested from under his pillow, and I groaned, ‘For fuck’s sake – what time is it?’

‘Six-fifteen,’ said Johnny. ‘It’s Sasha. He’s desperate to see you.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Here. In the passage.’

‘Bring him in. Sasha!’ I shouted, rolling out of bed. ‘What the hell are you doing?’

Sasha appeared in his DPMs, writhing with embarrassment at having crashed into our preserve and finding me naked.

‘Zheordie, I am sorry . . .’

‘Forget it. What’s the problem?’

‘We need your help.’

‘Now?’

‘Immediately.’

‘Tell me, then.’

I began pulling on clothes as Sasha spilled his story: how a ‘beeg Mafia feesh’, self-styled Keet, the Killer Whale, who normally ruled the roost in Chechnya, had been sighted in Moscow. He and his two brothers, known as Akula (Shark) and Barrakuda, were the godfathers of the Chechen Mafia. Now Keet had been traced to an apartment which belonged to another known criminal in a new, sixteen-storey block in the suburb of Lianozovo, on the northern fringes of the city. His presence in the capital, reported by a tout, offered the authorities a rare chance of getting at him on their own ground.

Senior officers in Omon were anxious to take him out, but they were nervous of the firepower he commanded. Not only did he have a team of four bodyguards armed with sub-machine guns for close-protection; the apartment block in which he’d holed up was equipped with the latest security systems, including closed-circuit television, remote-controlled locks and so on. The whole block was under Mafia control, from the team running the security on the ground floor to the janitors who passed out information about people’s comings and goings. In other words, any attempt to storm the building would inevitably end in a major gun battle, probably with a load of casualties, and certainly with more publicity than anyone wanted.

All this Sasha poured out in a rush.

‘So I come here,’ he ended. ‘And why? Because Omon ask, can the British experts of the SAS help?’

‘Help? How?’

‘Make the plan of attack. Give advice.’

‘Well . . . it’s not what we’re here for.’

‘Zheordie, I know. But this is special problem.’

Poor Sasha looked so anxious that I almost laughed. I turned to look at Whinger, who had come round far enough to prop himself on one elbow.

‘Hear that, Whinge? They’re needing assistance. What d’you reckon?’

‘We could look at it. No harm taking a shufti.’

Pavarotti, who was hanging into the room round the door, raised his eyebrows. ‘For fuck’s sake don’t get involved,’ he said. ‘Christ knows what it could lead to.’