‘Exactly. I’m not falling for it.’ The suited man steps away from the car and Ivan closes the window. Carrie leans over the seat. ‘Take us to the Rachmaninoff Hotel. Now.’ Her voice is hard, full of venom. I am terrified, but I stay flat back against the seat, and try not to give any indication of how scared I am. Once again, I am impressed with how she handles things. I’d thought I knew what I was doing before I met her, and yet she continues to surprise me.

Ivan sits still for a moment. The suited man shakes his head, just a fraction, but enough to indicate that we’re possibly going to get our way.

‘Now,’ Carrie says again.

Ivan blows out a stream of what I assume are Russian expletives, then he jams the key into the ignition and throws the car into reverse. He hangs back over the seat, causing Carrie to bounce back towards me, and then he reverses down the middle of the road at full speed.

My heart is hammering now, and I’m far too scared to turn around, convinced that at any moment we are going to crash full-on into a car coming the other way – the correct way – down the street. Carrie is holding onto the handle above the door with one hand, and she grabs mine with her other and we both squeeze tight, bracing for impact.

But just as I think we’re going to crash and die, the car slows, and swerves and then he’s driving the correct way again, down another street, still far too fast. Then he slams on the brakes and points out of his window again.

‘Rachmaninoff Hotel,’ he says. ‘Shithole.’

I glance out at the dull grey block with a faded red canopy over the door. There’s a dingy-looking alleyway running along the side, and I dread to think what might be down there. There’s no doorman at this place. We might’ve made a mistake, after all.

‘Are you sure this is the Rachmaninoff Hotel?’ Carrie says, grabbing the piece of paper.

I lean over to read it, and it does indeed have the correct name on it. But I’ve done this before, in much nicer cities than this – sometimes there are hotels with the same name. Sometimes one is much nicer than the other. Naming it after a famous composer doesn’t mean it has to be nice, obviously.

‘I try to tell you,’ he says. ‘I not rip you off.’

Carrie sighs. ‘OK,’ she says. ‘Maybe you were right. But I’ve booked this place and I know the price, and they’re expecting us, so…’ She glances over at me, giving me an uncertain smile. ‘Are you OK here, V? Should we go back?’