Satayev got filthy rich. And like any business person who finds themselves sitting on several million dollars he expanded. Guns, oil; most of all, he controlled men. His money funded the armed wings of various criminal enterprises in Iraq, Afghanistan, Kyrgyzstan and Kazakhstan. He was a blissfully unidealistic fulcrum of several shit-storms, which made him as appealing to MI6 as he was to anyone else. His routes were precisely those along which NATO wanted to move armies. So I set up shop beside the historic Jayma bazaar in Osh – buying cheap cotton for a fictitious textiles company – and in less than a month I was sharing boiled sheep’s head and negotiating pay-offs.

Like a lot of barely literate, power-hungry criminals he had an instinctive grasp of international diplomacy. It had been a while since his name did me any favours. He might decide to kill me anyway but there was a shred of comfort in being killed by someone who knew at least one of my lives.

‘A ghost,’ Satayev said.

‘It’s good to see you, Akan.’

‘Are you sure?’

He studied my damaged face. The wars and deaths since our last meeting had carved a depth behind his eyes. He retained some of that aura of the rich, of moving through the world in a slightly slicker substance, but there was a gravity there, a melancholy that I associated with military figures more than with criminals or businessmen, both of whom could go a long way without knowing the names of those killed on their behalf.

My phone and gun were on the table. The table’s polished black surface reflected the plastic vine leaves above us so that they seemed to reach up like pond weed. A decent restaurant suggested some habitations nearby. I considered the scale of the place, the distance driven – a town between Semey and Pavlodar.

One guard stood to the side of Satayev. Another took the doorway, gun on me.

‘It looks like you have trouble,’ I said. ‘Maybe I can help.’

‘You were sent to find me?’

‘To assess the situation.’

The vagueness was reassuring, it seemed. He ordered my cuffs removed and sent the guards away with orders to bring water and tea.

‘Is this a good place to talk?’ I said.

‘That is why we’re here.’ The drinks arrived. He stirred a sugar cube into his tea.

‘What do the Russians want?’ I said.

‘What do you think?’

I let this ride, curious.

He continued: ‘There have been drone strikes on my men, my vehicles.’

‘From across the border?’

‘We think so. Russians closed the border, set up checkpoints. Said they were a “local militia” defending ethnic Russians against fanatics. Bullshit. They have seized my relatives, my money. There is no law, nothing.’

I let his outrage at lawlessness pass.

‘So you got some jihadis,’ I said.

He dismissed the word. ‘I don’t believe you’ve become that naive.’