This territory was home to several criminal gangs, some with jihadist connections. I wondered if they were involved. I could see how Russians encroaching on Kazakhstan would be a provocation to them. I could see how jihadists encroaching on Kazakhstan would be a provocation to the Russians. Could see, with sickening clarity, why they’d cut my throat with nonchalance.

A rifle butt slammed into my face. I thought it might have broken a cheekbone and experimentally moved my jaw and checked my sight. I was intact for now. I was made to squat with my back against the wall, thighs parallel with the ground, while the boss questioned me: Name, commanders. Which unit, which battalion? Why no uniform?

‘You are Russian.’

‘English.’

‘The jeep—’

‘I stole it.’

‘What are you doing here?’

In training you’re told to ride out the first few hours, when the situation’s new and everything’s terrifying. But then things become known and it’s not always uplifting.

‘Where is the man you took?’

They seemed to think I was involved in the abduction of one of their men. I wondered who was. I had nothing for them. I’d stumbled into a war zone, it seemed, but was playing catch-up. We kept going around in circles. Why are you here? What are your plans?

After a while the questions stopped. A new length of rope was looped around my hands and tied to a bolt in the wall. A guard was left to watch over me, one of the youngest of the men. I hadn’t been fed or watered, which meant they were probably intending to kill me. They wouldn’t spend a second night here, and I was a travel liability.