I tried to see the paperwork that came with it: Catalyst in Astana? It was MI6 paperwork, apparently intercepted and now stamped with the crest of Kazakh Anti-Terrorism. I knew that their anti-terrorism was run by a man called Rakim Zhaparov. His name came up in debates over the use of intelligence produced during torture. Identifying him wasn’t entirely comforting.

‘What is this meant to mean?’ I asked. ‘Who is he? Why do you think I know him?’

Zhaparov nodded to someone standing behind my right shoulder. A few seconds later a device pressed to my ear. There was a beep and then it felt like a nail gun had fired into my brain. I fell off the seat, temporarily blinded, arms wrapped around my head. Before I could recover, I was picked up and sat back down, ears ringing. I felt sick, and registered the beginnings of dread. What was that device? What kind of long-term effects were we looking at? I really didn’t want to emerge from this mentally degraded.

‘Tell us what you’re doing here.’

‘You’ve just got yourself in a lot of trouble.’ My voice came out weakly.

‘No, I think you really don’t understand who is in trouble.’

I felt the electricity souring my muscles. Everyone has a breaking point, no matter how distant. What did I have to give them, even if I wanted to? What did they want?

The guards lifted me up, one on each arm.

‘Have a think,’ Zhaparov said. ‘See if you remember.’

The doors at basement level were battleship grey with magnetic acoustic seals. The air was freezing. I was pushed into a cell, five metres by five, with a wooden bench along the back wall, uncuffed.

‘Your clothes.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘Then I’m sure you don’t mind if we undress you.’

They had restraint equipment – ankle cuffs, fabric restraints, stun belt. Four men, with more behind them. I undressed. They gave me a grey tracksuit, then someone threw a bucket of water over me.

‘You have a right to be washed.’ The door slammed shut on their laughter. I started shivering uncontrollably. I took the top off and used it to dry myself as much as possible. I tried to keep moving, heart pumping, brain working. I didn’t have long before hypothermia set in. Options: I play along, giving fake information, buy myself time. Or I wait it out. They didn’t want me dead. If they knew who I was, I’d be too valuable. If they didn’t, they might be under the impression someone would care. I could try to scare them with suggestions of Toby Bell’s own importance. I knew enough about government and the diplomatic service – maybe get the embassy involved after all. Who knew where that would lead? The next flight back to London, most probably.