“Do so. The Motherland will be watching you.” Kirkorov gave a perfunctory touch to the peak of his cap by way of returning Vronsky’s parade-ground salute and walked out of the hangar, followed by his ADC and the base commander.

“Arsehole,” muttered one of the men in a stage whisper, as soon as they were out of earshot.

“I heard that, Lev Davidovich,” said Vronsky without turning around, not least to stop his men seeing the grin of relief that was breaking across his face at seeing the back of the general, and the imminent prospect of finally settling his score with this British officer. However, in that moment of triumph, he realized that he had allowed his mission to become personal. “I’m getting as bad as the President,” he muttered to himself, before turning to face his men.

“Mount up,” he ordered and they clambered up into the Ural-4320 trucks, which were to take them to Pravdinsk.

Just over an hour later, Vronsky and his men dismounted by the perimeter of the Pravdinsk command bunker. This was close to where the radio sked had come from and, unless the British were playing some double bluff, this is where they were heading for. But even if they were, so what? All that mattered was that he had arrived here before them and this time he had the benefit of surprise. He and this British captain were going to meet again and soon.

He looked at the luminous dial of his treasured Rolex diver’s watch: five and a half hours to sunset. Plenty of time to set up the ambush.

1500 hours, Saturday, July 8, 2017

The President’s Office, The Kremlin, Moscow

FYODOR FYODOROVICH KOMAROV, the President’s Chief of Staff, could see that his boss was uncomfortable. Despite his lack of height, the President had a presence that had always commanded respect, if not fear. But, Komarov observed to himself, since the sinking of the Queen Elizabeth, things had not worked out as expected and people were saying in ever louder whispers that the President had lost that sureness of touch that had been the hallmark of his rise to absolute power in the Kremlin. Was the President losing that reputation for strength that had guaranteed his position up until now? He looked at the expressionless faces around the table and wondered which of them was, even now, imagining themselves in the President’s chair.

The President’s pale, bloodless face was now flushed with anger, the pale eyes protruded more than usual, and sweat glistened on the bald patch where the hair had receded. Instead of speaking with his usual cold menace when less than pleased, he had of late been prone to outbursts of anger, shouting at his personal staff for the smallest apparent misdemeanors.

He was shouting now. This time at General Mikhail Gareyev, Chief of the Russian General Staff, who sat at the conference table in the President’s austere office in the Kremlin.