‘Whatever’s being thrown at us online is part of a concerted operation,’ she said. ‘It’s at scale, and individuals within UK intelligence are interested. I don’t know if that works in our favour or not.’

‘Are the intelligence services going to be at the meeting today?’

‘Not to my knowledge.’

We approached a group of people outside a police station. I saw, too late, that they were holding placards, and that Elena Yussopova stood to the front. Our eyes locked as she stared through the Bentley’s windows. I turned away, swore.

What were the consequences of that? I didn’t have my identities clean, that was the problem. I was floundering.

We stopped on Nurzhol Boulevard before I had a chance to attempt any more questions. Cafestar was a restaurant on the grand avenue running between ministerial buildings and elite apartment blocks. It was encased in snow. In season, no doubt, the café’s terrace would be shared between high-end escorts and ministerial wives showing off Paris fashion and international school English. All that seemed to relate to another world right now.

‘Ms Piper.’ A big grin from the young waiter on door duty. He beckoned me through. A GL5 guard stood inside like a sullen maître d’, jacket fastened over his gun. A nod at Piper, a hard look at me. Callum Walker sat with a man and woman at a circular table in the centre of the room: white napkins, heavy cutlery, bowls of fruit and cafetières. There were no other customers; either the place had been cleared especially or it wasn’t popular with the morning crowd.

I was introduced as a Russia expert assisting Piper Anderson. No one seemed to want to mention Vectis by name. The man beside Walker was Tom Chambers, former foreign secretary, now lobbying for Saracen. I could have done without active Westminster around. He was silver-haired and freshly shaved, in a tailored navy suit, silk tie and handmade Italian shoes. With him was Lynn Cook from Saracen in a blue Chanel suit. We all shook hands. I took a seat next to Chambers. On the table, among croissant crumbs, smashed blueberries and bowls of granola, were copies of yesterday’s media coverage of the trip and a timetable for today.

Chambers took an iPhone from Walker, glanced at the screen, passed it to Cook. She raised an eyebrow, passed it to me. It showed a dead man on a mortuary slab, face blackened with bruises, mouth a mess of broken teeth. His left ear hung on by a flap of skin.

‘He was arrested last night at the protest in Semey,’ Walker said. ‘Died in the police station. His brother got the photo.’

Piper took the phone. ‘Has it gone international?’ she asked.

‘Not yet.’

She shut her eyes, opened them, passed the phone back to me. ‘What do they want, these protesters? No drilling? Human rights?’