Vronsky kept a fixed smile on his face, as he listened to the men discuss whether Anna’s girlfriends could possibly be any prettier than she was. What was it with foreigners? They knew he spoke their language, but surrounded by others who could not speak English, they seemed to forget that fact. He caught Laura’s eye.

She pulled a face as if to say sorry.

He smiled and nodded gravely in response. She was an intelligent and sensitive person and, in another life, he would have found himself warming to her.

Vronsky stood. “Shall we?” he asked, as he helped Laura put on her jacket and indicated the two waiting taxis.

They all squeezed in. Unaccountably, once they had split up to do so, a big man got into the front seat of the second vehicle.

“Don’t worry,” Vronsky announced to the Americans. “He is here to make sure your friends are safe. There are some bad people in this city.”

Slightly heady from the unaccustomed beer and friendliness of their new friends, Rooney and Blair sat back in the taxi.

Vronsky ordered the driver to move off. Behind him in the rear view mirror he saw Laura tense. Perhaps his command had been that bit too sharp. Not perhaps what you would expect from a university lecturer. “As I said,” he explained, “the restaurant is not in a tourist area and the driver was surprised we were going there. I had to tell him twice.”

Reassured, the Americans started chatting and pointing as the taxis pulled out into the evening traffic, heading down Ivanova Street before hitting the main road west, Pushkin’ska, on their way to the east of the city. Soon they had left the city center, crossed the Kharkiv River and entered the grim suburbs. Vronsky sensed a growing apprehension and announced that he was ringing his cousin to confirm they were nearly there. The neighborhood might be awful, he explained, but the food was superb and getting a table was not easy. Vronsky saw Trapnell smile and the others followed his lead and relaxed with him as he made his phone call.

Fifteen minutes later, the taxis pulled up outside a tall “Khrushchev” apartment block, one of many built across the Soviet Union in the 1950s and designed to pack as many people as possible into as small a space as possible. If getting the Americans into the taxis in Freedom Square had been the riskiest part of the operation—one shout of alarm and the cars would have immediately been surrounded by inquisitive and hostile locals—this was the second most difficult moment. Vronsky did not need a problem here, where unfriendly eyes might witness what was to happen next. Although there was nobody on the street at the moment, people could well be watching from the surrounding buildings.

“We’re here,” he announced with a smile, stepping out of the car.