“You, springe aus dem fenster,” said Meehan, pointing the orange tip of his cigarette at the window.

Rolf nodded politely, acknowledging the joke without going to the trouble of laughing. Meehan was still struggling with his German accent despite studying hard for the last nine months. He had nothing else to fill his time with between meals and interrogations.

“Springe aus dem fenster,” he repeated quietly to himself for practice.

He thought about the Gorbals and the Tapp Inn, where he knew every single rogue that came through the doors, or was likely to. He wondered what they would think of him sitting in an airplane from East Germany, chatting in the lingo on his way to Russia. They hadn’t told him why he was being moved; for all he knew he might be on his way to a bullet in the head, and he still couldn’t help but smile.

They drank the vodka down, and very quickly Meehan fell asleep, head lolling forwards on his buckled neck, drooling onto the blue serge suit they had given him to wear.

The landing jerked him awake and he sat up, puzzled and annoyed. He was pleased when he found himself on a plane.

“And so we have landed,” said Rolf unnecessarily.

It was dark outside the window, but occasional lights rolled by on the horizon. The scout troop had slept and were waking up whiny, bickering, looking around the cabin, stretching and yawning. Their miserable, puffy faces reminded Meehan of his own kids, out in Canada, waiting for him with Betty. They had been there for nine months, waiting to start again on a new continent with the money he’d promised to bring back. He’d promised them a home and a small business, a shop maybe, a new beginning where he wasn’t in and out of pokey all the time. He was smarter than the average crim. He’d escaped from Nottingham jail and managed to get himself over to East Germany, but this was a different order of game and his plan was full of holes. They had no reason to give him money for his information. He was an ant, a nothing. They could easily kill him: the British government wouldn’t complain if a small-time safe blower went missing, and he knew he’d be leaving East Germany with his life if he was lucky. He was dreading Canada and Betty’s reproaches, the disappointed, saddened eyes of his children, who knew, long before children should ever know, that their father was fallible.

The plane stopped moving, and Meehan leaned forward to see if he could spot a name on the terminus building, but they were parked nose-first and the view from the window yielded no clues. The uniformed children clambered out of their seats, reaching over and under the chairs for luggage, squabbling and pushing one another in their hurry to get into the aisle.

“We must wait until the others are disembarked,” said Rolf, explaining why he was still sitting down.

At last the plane emptied and Rolf stood up, unfolding his coat and throwing Meehan and the lieutenant theirs. They gathered their things together, and Rolf watched the male steward by the door for a signal.

“Yes,” he said. “Now we go.”

On the steps Meehan noticed that it was colder and windier than the place they had left, but it was night here and day when they departed, so it wasn’t really a useful comparison. A windowless van was waiting at the bottom of the stairs. Three men in long overcoats and fur hats stood by it, looking up at them expectantly. Rolf saluted them and introduced Paddy as Comrade Meehan. None of the men saluted or took his outstretched hand. Everywhere he had been in the East they spoke to him as an equal but treated him as a prisoner. At least at home the screws hated you honestly.

Inside the van the rows of seats were bolted to the floor and the cabin was cut off from the driver by a wooden partition. With the van doors shut firmly behind them, they drove a couple of hundred yards, and then they stopped. The noises were different here, they sounded internal; a water drip echoed loudly, a distant whirr, like an outboard motor, bounced between walls, amplifying. The six men waited inside the van, nodding pleasantly at one another, smoking, and checking their watches. A sharp knock on the side of the van caused the driver to shout something, and the man nearest the back opened the doors. They were parked in a hangar. While their luggage from the plane was being handed in, Meehan spotted a fire hydrant on a wall, sitting above a bucket of sand, and he saw that the instructions were in Cyrillic script. He was in Russia.

He had been pacing the small gray cell for ten minutes when a surly female guard of about forty brought in a tray. She had blond hair and very blue eyes but didn’t look at him as she laid the tray on the bed and turned away quickly, locking him in again. The meal consisted of greasy gray salt fish still in the tin, dry black bread, and lemon tea. The fish was inedible, but he ate all the bread and drank the bitter tea. The moment he pushed the tray away along the bed, the same female guard opened the door and gestured for him to follow her out.

The corridor was low and plain with pipes along the top of the wall. Including his own cell, there were only three doors off the corridor. The guard led him to one end, paused at a big gray steel door, and knocked. Metal slid against metal and bolts were pulled into place. The window slid open and a male guard looked them over, checking carefully behind them before opening the door and letting them through. They followed a staircase down one flight, their footsteps sounding tense and shrill, jittering against the concrete. One floor down they stopped at a door, knocked, and waited. A smaller, oblong window opened, also metal, and a handsome guard in a smart pale blue uniform looked out at them. He shut the window abruptly and pulled the heavy metal door open.

When they stepped out of the stairwell they found themselves in what appeared to be a rococo palace. The high-ceilinged hallway was duck blue, trimmed with gilt detailing and white plaster tracery. The floor was a rich mahogany parquet that deepened the noise of their footsteps, making them purposeful and dignified. The woman guard led Paddy across the hallway to a fifteen-foot-high double door flanked by uniformed military guards. She paused outside, pulling her tunic straight, touching her hair.

On her signal the two guards reached across and opened both doors at once, like the start of a Hollywood dance sequence. It was a ballroom. The ceiling was painted with gods and women and fat babies, all set in trompe l’oeil gold frames. Three long windows at the far end of the room would have led out into a garden or a balcony, but they were blocked out with blackout blinds, disguised behind dirty net curtains.

Facing Meehan in the middle of the room sat a long table with seven people at it, all dressed in mufti, their erect posture and cardboard haircuts making it obvious they were military. To his left-hand side sat three typists at a separate table, two of them young and pretty, the third old and dried up. Rolf and the lieutenant, made small by their surroundings, were perched on seats against the other wall. The young lieutenant was not doing the interpreting this time; he had been replaced by a stocky woman in a belted dress with thin black hair scratched up into a bun the size of a small chocolate. A man with a gray complexion and bushy black eyebrows sat in the middle of the center table. His head and body were square, like a cube balanced on a larger cube. He had an air of amused authority about him, like a judge with so much power he didn’t need to be intimidating. He drawled loudly in Russian, his deep voice booming around the large room, and the interpreter turned to Meehan.