It wasn’t clear what happened next. I removed the shard, then it seemed that the man beside the water fired at my assailants. There was the fizz of a pistol with silencer. Glass smashed. They turned, releasing me. A girl screamed. I threw myself through the doors and kept running.

A BMW pulled out behind me when I got to the road. I headed to the riverbank, then down the bank to the ice, heard the car stop and saw its lights above me as I crossed the river. The left bank had police driving past. I kept to the darkness, clambering up snow to dry land, wondering where to lie low. I needed somewhere badly placed for murders, with the cover of other people. I looked around and saw the neon sign for The Rocks.

The doorman nodded me in. The young barman came out from behind the bar to shake my hand. I took my drink, moved into the darkness at the back, leaned against the bricks and watched the door. It was filling up, the first tentative forays onto the dancefloor. Green lasers cut through the artificial smoke like targeting systems.

‘Rahmat says you’re from England.’ A girl’s voice startled me.

‘Rahmat?’

‘The barman.’ She was twenty, maybe twenty-one, made-up like an advert. Training told me not to trust her, but instinct suggested she was genuine. She spoke English. She was drunk, eyes narrowed.

‘That’s right.’

‘You look serious. Do you think my English is good?’

‘Very.’ I saw her friends giggling in the background.

‘I am a television presenter.’

‘I bet you’re a good one. Where are you from?’ I asked.

‘Astana.’

‘Really? I didn’t think anyone was born here.’

‘Yes. I wish I could go to London.’

She bumped a hip drunkenly against me. I watched the room reflected in the mirrored walls.

‘Let me ask you a question,’ I said. ‘Who would you choose as President?’

‘Nazarbayev.’

‘I mean after Nazarbayev.’

‘Someone modern.’

‘Is it important to you to vote?’

This was funny to her. ‘Loosen up. It’s, like, a party here.’ She disappeared into the smoke. I looked around. The man with the leather jacket sat at one of the barrels, staring at me.

There were enough bottles and glasses around, if I needed weapons. The club had only one exit and he’d positioned himself between me and the door. I was outnumbered but we were in a crowded bar and people would pile in sooner rather than later if a fight broke out. Then I saw Sergei Cherenkov, Assistant to the Cultural Attaché, Russian Embassy, walking out of the dry ice towards me.

He wore a waistcoat over a white T-shirt, hair gelled back. He held two bottles of lager, gave me one.

‘Was that one of your people? With the gun?’

‘No.’

‘Well, someone’s protecting you.’