Our Kremlin minder was a short, stocky man, with dark skin. Alexander Machevsky, one of Putin's chief aides and his first spokesman, was shouting down his mobile. He wasn't pleased, and by the sound of it he'd had to scrap his summer holidays to try and shore up Moscow in the propaganda war. Standing in front of a torched block of flats, he began his oration. It was the same block my friend had told me had been burnt by Ossetian paramilitaries as the Russians averted their gaze.

"Our troops back there have been protecting this property," Machevsky began. "But none of this damage was done by them. What you are seeing is arson .?.?. This is what happens when there are gas-leaks, cases of theft, lights are left on and sabotage takes place, those houses over there were attacked by Georgian special forces?.?.?."

He was cut short by the screaming. A reporter from France 2 shouted out: "There's a weeping widow!" The pack scrambled and pushed into the carcass of this small block of flats. Gingerly, we stepped over broken glass and singed household items, following the sobs.

"Get out of there! Get out!"

Nobody was listening to Machevsky. She was on the third floor, wearing simple floral peasant clothes, with scarred arms and deep black rings under her eyes. I found it hard to take in at first. Her mouth was opening and closing uncontrollably, and what sounded like a wail came out. Eight cameras bore down on her. The camera flashes echoed and the light bounced off the walls. And then she began to scream. I ran, paying no attention to the glass that crunched under my moccasins.