The smell of paint mingled with expensive perfume and canapés. The crowd was mostly business, the power circuit, a few sharper, younger Kazakhs. The art was modern, one room darkened for video installations, one involving bean bags and headphones. The stated theme of ‘Nostalgic Futures’ was offset by models in tight black T-shirts distributing Armani goodie bags. The Russian bank co-sponsoring the show kept a lower profile.

If Bryant felt any sheepishness about our last encounter he didn’t show it. He introduced me to Dr Zyabkina. Zyabkina, Bryant explained, was a psychologist working with the Health Minister to tackle the problem of radicalisation.

‘How interesting,’ I said. ‘The Health Ministry.’

‘It is a public health issue like any other,’ she said. ‘That is how it must be treated, like an epidemic.’

I glanced around for Aliya Savinova as I fell into conversation, found myself studying the crowd. The white-painted space was still novel enough to inspire deference. Older attendees circulated obediently; the middle-aged recognised it as a new kind of fun like fast food and rock music. A lot of the young were checking their phones.

‘See the St Petersburg mall?’ Bryant said.

‘Awful.’

‘Maybe I was wrong in my judgement of this place.’

‘Places change.’

‘There’s going to be a lot of attention on Kazakhstan now.’

‘You think?’

‘It’s going to be tense times. As if this place didn’t have enough going on.’

‘Right. You would have thought Islamism could bring Russia and the West together,’ I said.

‘That’s the real enemy, right? That’s the happy ending they can agree on: kill some terrorists.’

Then I saw her. A young woman with black hair, magenta lipstick, glasses. It felt like seeing a celebrity, with an extra frisson of shared secrets. There was a poise to Aliya that made her seem, on first impression, older than her twenty-three years: cool, sceptical eyes, black jeans, white blouse. She took photos of the exhibits. Twice, she checked her phone and typed something.

She was accompanied by two female friends. I waited for her to move away from them, saw which way she was circulating, then told Bryant I’d be back. I took a fresh glass of wine and placed myself two works ahead. A semi-abstract painting incorporating symbols from Kazakh rock art. A sign on the wall said that the artist grew up in Mongolia, completed her education in Utah, where she became interested in a new idea of nomadism involving fluidity.

Aliya Savinova browsed a few metres away: a wall-hanging woven from fragments of sportswear; a vitrine of old ID cards. I watched her reapply her lipstick, checking her face in her phone. She was someone with layers, I thought; hidden aspects and desires, which was what you looked for in a potential agent. Espionage, like any vice, is a weapon against mundanity, against being unnoticed or unworthy of notice. Contrary to expectations, you sought the attention seekers.