I put his belongings back, feeling hopeful. Midlife crises were where I stepped in. They came at just the right moment, when an employee was well connected and utterly desperate – you wonder what you have put those years in for, kissing arse. You stumble into me. I’m the pleasure you’ve been denied. I respect you.

In the end I declined my massage and went for a swim, keeping an eye out for Shomko. When I saw him return I joined him in the changing rooms.

‘She give you good service?’ he asked.

‘Excellent.’

‘Sometimes they are—’ He made a hand-chopping gesture. Efficiency? Violence? I wouldn’t have drawn out an erotic encounter with Lieutenant Shomko. ‘Still, I got you a bargain. Usually, Westerners, they make you pay more.’

‘Money’s not a problem.’ I turned back to my things, letting the statement hang in the steamy air. ‘So maybe you can help me again some time.’

‘Give me your phone.’ He punched his number in. ‘You get in trouble, you have my number. Shomko.’ He patted his chest. We shook hands.

He’d entered his name in my contacts as ‘Helping man’.

In my hotel room I considered how best to use him. I thought back through the day, checked for a message from Joanna. Nothing. Just confirmation from Stefan that he was on his way, and the one from Tom Marsh: they’re looking for you. It wouldn’t be long before they found me. I needed to know how my own country’s intelligence service fitted into this.

I shut my eyes and saw the Mega Astana exchange. You get a few bytes of data, travelling through the air like an infection. Shows you something you can’t unsee, and turns you into a threat.

Two people in a room in the Triumph of Astana. What could be so dangerous? Was it me or him?

TWENTY-TWO

I tried unsuccessfully to sleep. I was averaging four hours a night. In my shallow dreams, when they did come, I was either in the room in the Triumph of Astana or in my hotel room, Joanna sitting by the bed, waiting for me to wake up.

I was woken by a knock on the door.

‘Mr Bell?’

It was the receptionist. When I opened the door she stepped aside and a team of four men pushed their way in, forcing me back into the room and closing the door again.

‘Take a seat,’ one man said, in English. He wore a suit and holster beneath a grey winter coat. He gestured at the bed. There was another plain-clothes officer and two uniformed police as backup. One radioed confirmation that I was here and they were in.

No badges or warrants shown. The senior officer was tall, the long coat accentuating his height. He had paperwork in his hand: documents from the car-hire company.

‘Mr Toby Bell?’

‘That’s right. What’s going on?’

‘When did you arrive in Kazakhstan?’