Rachkovsky’s big idea (‘everyone needs one, dear boy’) is to bring about a closer relationship between Russia and France. It’s certainly counterintuitive: the French Republic, despite its wobbles, is still the inheritor of the French Revolution, the global symbol of political progress, whereas the Tsar heads the most reactionary regime in Europe. But in balance-of-power terms, both states have something to gain from the odd pairing. Both fear a resurgent Germany, are envious of the British Empire, and have imperial aspirations of their own. Rachkovsky’s short-term goals – keeping tabs on terrorists, developing a reliable partnership with the French Interior Ministry – are a kind of political foreplay. What’s the endgame for Rachkovsky? An ambassadorship? The Foreign Ministry? Don’t be deceived by his rumpled, cards-on-the-table bonhomie. He’s a man of limitless ambition. He’ll take everything he can get.

At this stage, what Nicolas is doing is more public relations than real espionage. He’s part of a big stable of journalists who do Rachkovsky’s bidding, a spigot of disinformation, a virtual claque that applauds whatever suits Russia and trolls whomever opposes it.

Nicolas tells himself that it’s just a job, that he’s putting his real self in the book he’s writing: an account of his adventures in India which exaggerates the derring-do and omits the spying. Things have moved quickly with the Rozenfelds, the family Father David introduced him to at church. Every Saturday, he visits them for lunch, invariably brisket followed by apple pie. After the meal, Anya’s parents discreetly withdraw for fifteen minutes. Anya plays the piano for him and talks about the books she’s reading. Nicolas is always slightly relieved to hear the loud cough that precedes the dip of the door handle and Mr Rozenfeld’s return.

Meanwhile, Rachkovsky gives Nicolas the impression he’s a favoured associate of the Third Section, but he’s skilled at giving everyone the same feeling. He senses that Nicolas has a father-shaped space in his psyche and manoeuvres himself to fill it. Every month or so, he invites Nicolas around for shashlik in his garden. Here, Rachkovsky plays the host and family man, squeezing lighter fluid over the charcoal, flourishing a fish slice at the kebabs and hamburgers, his pale, pudgy legs exposed in an ill-advised pair of Bermuda shorts.

At one of these Sunday gatherings in the early spring of 1886, the guests are crowded round the space heaters because it’s much too cold for eating al fresco and Rachkovsky seems unusually subdued. Nicolas asks why. ‘Office politics, old chap. Be grateful you’re a freelancer and don’t have to deal with the wankers I have to.’

‘What’s the problem?’

Rachkovsky presses the grilling meat with the spatula and fat sizzles onto the briquettes. ‘Not everyone approves of my methods. Our current government is not renowned for its subtlety. It’s not enough, apparently, that we’re keeping tabs on everyone who could possibly do us harm and that we’re working behind the scenes to bring the French government onside. They want a big fucking headline. I tell them until I’m blue in the face that peace and quiet is the best possible outcome. There’s just a profound lack of intellect back in Saint Petersburg. They don’t seem to see the importance of the stuff that never happens.’