Was Tarasenko taking Russian orders? Ukrainian politics had disintegrated into rumours. And because this was Ukraine any of them could be true. There was no way of telling. Russian sources confided in me: their Kiev had an agreement with the Right Sector to guard the perimeter. But the fact of the matter was this: they wanted war.

The night I checked into the Hotel Dnypro was not the night to be there. Militia were glued to the lobby TV. Oligarchs were pouring millions into fuel for Ukraine's tank fleet. The talks in London had broken down. Yarosh threatened explosions in Russia's pipelines, pumping through Ukraine. Riots were rocking Donetsk and spreading to Kharkiv. There was talk of stabbings.

Putin was pushing Ukraine into panic. I was not immune. I felt the first creep of fear that night in the lift. The button only went green on my floor. And I was the only guest. Right Sector HQ: militiamen were panting with pushups on the level above me. There was a commotion, something was up. Downstairs an armoured black car drove away.

Twitter informed me the Right Sector had come under fire in Kharkiv. Russia's foreign ministry announced blood might force it to root out the Right Sector in Eastern Ukraine. Miliita boys ran up and down the corridor: we could come under attack.

I began to panic too. I was in a Russian military target now. Jewish in a Russian military target, when the name of the game was framing stabbed Jews. Right Sector boys meandered through the corridor. Who the hell were these people? Kremlin plants? Crypto-fascists? Killers? There was no way to find out.

Dawn. Maidan looked nothing like it did on my first stroll. Barricades loomed large in the hard blue light. The European flags were almost gone. There were only black-red flags of the anti-Soviet partisans.

Dmitriy, a Right Sector militia boy in dreadlocks, was smoking at Maidan's edge. He looked as if he should be in a ska band, not dirty olive fatigues. "War looks more and more likely but I'm ready." Then I spotted them: Molotov cocktails. He smiled: "These are a precaution only."

A priest and a nun stumbled into the eerie dawn emptiness. Russia had announced its right to intervene in Eastern Ukraine. The priest chanted wildly, the cross held before him. The nun clasped her icon — Saint George, the blood-red winged guardian — in front of her tiny red eyes.

I dithered in Maidan. Russia helicopters had made an incursion into mainland Ukraine. The provisional government was mobilising the militia into a National Guard. The Right Sector were pulling themselves together in the encampment. They snarled: "Go! Go . . . get out!"