So, in that moment, ensnared by his love and an even more powerful pity, he permitted his mother to take away the freedom to make his own choices.

In the cupboard that did duty as his bedroom and smelt of damp rot and the results of his furtive wanking, he spent a sleepless night. At one point, his hand crept towards his crotch but he stopped himself. He needed to exert control, to stifle the flare of rebellion, and to plan. Towards dawn, it occurred to him that his future would never have been any different and it was best to make a virtue of necessity. Knowing his fate, he would be the more powerful, the more effective and, perhaps, the freer for it.

It was his business to believe – and believe he would.

The decision made, he fell asleep.

The State looked after Petr and, in return, he became word perfect in what was required.

The Státní Bezpecnost, the StB, trained him in the covert and labyrinthine. These methods were to be put into practice wherever operatives were deployed which could be in industry, in medicine, in politics. Or, even as the lowly shopkeeper.

Keep your mouth shut and never raise you head above the parapet.

Understand the enemy target and learn the details. His vice, her favoured newspaper, his shoe size, her brand of toothpaste.

The chosen were taught how to submerge into the thought process of their targets, to identify their weaknesses and to understand their psycho-dramas. The trick was never to plunge in so deep that sympathy was evoked. Never think of a weeping housewife ordered to spy on her son as anything but a useful cypher. Trainees were warned of the dangers of transference.

‘Get to know their smell,’ said one instructor, a nasty piece of work if ever there was one. ‘Where they drink, when they make love, where their children go to school.’

He played them a film, a grainy, flickering set of images, of a young mother being reduced to a wreck because her bicycle tyres were constantly flat. She never knew if it was bad luck or, as was the case, that she was being harassed for having subscribed to a banned newspaper.

‘Very simple,’ said the bully. ‘Very simple.’

Petr never shared any of this work with his parents. Once or twice, he thought his father might be on the verge of asking questions but his mother, who had a sixth sense, managed to head him off. In that way, his parents remained innocent of the techniques employed for infiltration, monitoring and manipulation of those the authorities targeted. Or the methods required to exfiltrate political dissidents who had escaped to the West, only to be returned home and squeezed dry.