‘I wouldn’t say that.’

‘How do you see it?’ She brought up footage of the crowd in Semey. ‘Is this a revolution? That’s what I’m worried about. A Central Asian spring?’

‘No. People like the President. They like what he’s done.’

‘These guys?’ Piper pointed at a clipping on the table: Kazakh Police Break Up Strikers.

‘They aren’t protesting about the President. They want a pay rise. We have strikes in the UK.’

She nodded. I felt her warming to me and pressed on, trying to imagine what Toby Bell would have said.

‘This region’s got failed states all around, and here’s one that’s doubled its GDP, that hasn’t been at war. The population’s generally happy. It’s got religious pluralism.’

‘That’s what we tell people.’

‘Churches, synagogues. It’s a secular Islamic state: modern, open-minded. Isn’t that the holy grail?’

‘Where’s the synagogue?’

‘Almaty. There’s even close ties to Israel. You don’t have to draw too much attention to that, but it’s true.’

‘Like Turkey used to be,’ Piper said.

‘Sure, but less complicated. A young, optimistic Turkey without Kurds.’

‘What are you doing tomorrow morning?’

‘Why?’

‘Some of the delegation are unconvinced about British involvement here – they see it as high-risk. I could do with them meeting someone articulate, with a few facts at their fingertips. A little brunch to get the British government onside.’

‘Brunch is good,’ I said, conscious that I was being swept along by my own acting ability. We swapped numbers. Piper took another suck of vapour, and sized me up.

‘You should meet Galina. She’d like you.’

‘The President’s daughter?’

‘She likes English men.’

‘Why not? I’m a sociable guy.’ We shook hands. I stood up. ‘Can I ask a weird question?’ I said.

‘Sure.’

‘What was in the time capsule?’

‘Time capsule?’

‘At the ribbon-cutting ceremony.’

‘I don’t know. An iPhone, a football shirt, I think. Some poems by local children, their hopes for the future. Why?’

‘What are their hopes?’

‘Their hopes? I have no idea. It was all in Kazakh.’

THIRTY-ONE

Stefan messaged that afternoon: Eagle landed.

I checked that there was no lookout in the Hilton’s lobby, then walked through to the back stairs, up to the room I’d booked for him, and knocked.

‘I’m going to get some food,’ I said, using our usual code.

He opened the door in shorts and a hoody, headphones around his neck. It was good to see him.

‘Elliot,’ he said, when the door was closed, gripping my hand. ‘Where the fuck am I?’

‘Winter wonderland. I appreciate you stopping by.’