He had found both his parents fit and well, although his father looked harassed: it was his responsibility to prepare Moscow for air raids. Volodya had gone to see his sister, Anya, her husband, Ilya Dvorkin, and the twins, now eighteen months old: Dmitriy, called Dimka, and Tatiana, called Tania. Unfortunately their father struck Volodya as being just as rat-like and contemptible as ever.

After a pleasant day at home, and a good night’s sleep in his old room, he was ready to start work again.

He passed through the metal detector at the entrance to the Intelligence building. The familiar corridors and staircases touched a nostalgic chord, even if they were drab and utilitarian. Walking through the building he half expected people to come up and congratulate him: many of them must know he had been the one to confirm Barbarossa. But no one did: perhaps they were being discreet.

He entered a large open area of typists and file clerks and spoke to the middle-aged woman receptionist. ‘Hello, Nika – are you still here?’

‘Good morning, Captain Peshkov,’ she said, not as warmly as he might have hoped. ‘Colonel Lemitov would like to see you right away.’

Like Volodya’s father, Lemitov had not been important enough to suffer in the great purge of the late thirties, and now he had been promoted to fill the place of an unlucky former superior. Volodya did not know much about the purge, but he found it hard to believe that so many senior men had been disloyal enough to merit such punishment. Not that Volodya knew exactly what the punishment was. They could be in exile in Siberia, or in prison somewhere, or dead. All he knew was that they had vanished.

Nika added: ‘He has the big office at the end of the main corridor now.’

Volodya walked through the open room, nodding and smiling at one or two acquaintances, but again he got feeling that he was not the hero he had expected to be. He tapped on Lemitov’s door, hoping the boss might shed some light.

‘Come in.’

Volodya entered, saluted, and closed the door behind him.

‘Welcome back, Captain.’ Lemitov came around his desk. ‘Between you and me, you did a great job in Berlin. Thank you.’

‘I’m honoured, sir,’ said Volodya. ‘But why is this between you and me?’

‘Because you contradicted Stalin.’ He held up a hand to forestall protest. ‘Stalin doesn’t know it was you, of course. But all the same, people around here are nervous, after the purge, of associating with anyone who takes the wrong line.’

‘What should I have done?’ Volodya said incredulously. ‘Faked wrong intelligence?’

Lemitov shook his head emphatically. ‘You did exactly the right thing, don’t get me wrong. And I’ve protected you. But just don’t expect people around here to treat you like a champion.’

‘Okay,’ said Volodya. Things were worse than he had imagined.

‘You have your own office, now, at least – three doors down. You’ll need to spend a day or so catching up.’