The door opened three times in the next hour. Once was a cursory check by the guards, once I was given a polystyrene cup of milky coffee. The next visitor was a man with a Russian accent. He had a goatee, black hair swept back so strands fell around his face, an expensive-looking cashmere coat. He saw me, shook his head and swore at the guards.

‘Get him a towel and dry clothes.’

The guards looked disgruntled. A rancid towel was tossed at my face, then my clothes were returned.

‘Come on,’ my visitor said. ‘Let’s get you out of here.’

TWENTY-THREE

I wasn’t in a position to say no. He led me back to reception, where I signed paperwork that declared my treatment at the hands of the security services had been impeccable. My other possessions were returned. A lot of men watched us leave; I had become quite an attraction.

‘Animals,’ my companion muttered.

He led me to a dark grey Land Rover with a suited driver at the wheel.

‘Are you okay?’ he asked.

‘I’ve been better. Who are you?’

‘My name is Sergei Cherenkov. Please, get in.’ His English was good. The vowels suggested time living in an English-speaking country, maybe some education there. Our driver was thick-necked, shaven-headed.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Let’s get some breakfast,’ Cherenkov said.

We drove to a café with no lights on, but my companion appeared to know it would be open. The driver stayed in the car. The café owner turned the lights on for us. Cherenkov ordered teas.

‘You drink tea, no?’ He took a cigarette from a packet of Kent, looked around for an ashtray. The health warning on the pack was in Arabic. He wore rings on each hand.

‘What the hell is this about?’ I said.

‘I work on cultural matters with the Russian embassy. I know Dimash Toreali. Did he show you the Palace of Peace and Reconciliation? I was advising him on an opera he wants to put on there. To sponsor.’

‘And?’

‘I was trying to get in touch with you, at your hotel. They said you’d been taken. It took me an hour to find out where you were.’

Toreali didn’t know where I was staying, but I let this slide. Cherenkov was Russian intel – he could have surveillance on me or on the people who’d arrested me.

‘What did they want?’ he asked. ‘Your captors.’

‘I’ve no idea.’

The teas arrived with a glass ashtray. Cherenkov looked at them with an air of dissatisfaction. He browsed the menu.

‘Would you like some eggs? An omelette?’

‘No.’

He ordered himself some eggs. As well as the rings he wore leather bracelets on his left wrist, over a smudged tattoo.