Walker sighed. ‘The phone line’s secure,’ he said. ‘Sigma troops have begun taking hostages. Call Satayev, tell him we need him. Unless it turns out you do favour Moscow. If so, I’d find a way of moving there.’

He walked out. I picked up the phone, called Craig Bryant instead. I was surprised that he answered. He sounded like he’d been drunk but sobered by my call.

‘Toby, what’s happened?’ he said.

‘Why? You okay?’

‘The company’s had some problems.’

‘What problems?’

‘Big problems. You struck me as a guy who might hear things. Have you?’

‘Nothing. I don’t understand.’

‘Shit, Toby. You work somewhere like this and you know it’s not going to be Houston, but I’m not equipped to operate in a jungle.’

‘A jungle?’

‘We spoke about that woman, Vanessa. Ever hear anything else?’

‘The documentary maker? You think she caused you problems?’

‘This town, Toby … ’ It sounded like he dropped the phone. I heard him shuffling around, then his voice returned. ‘Are you going to the party later?’

‘Maybe. Are you?’

‘If I don’t make an appearance people will talk.’

‘What will they say?’

‘They’ll say I’m not there. See you later, Toby.’

I studied the annexation map, then social media: a burning building, the first clips of refugees, cars laden with mattresses and furniture and mirrors. It looked like Bosnia to me, but the licence plates were Kazakh. I went to the window. The dome of the Presidential Palace shone blue through the snow. The Triumph of Astana muscled into the horizon beyond it.

I called my contact for Jan Jágr, the Slovak arms dealer, and once the contact had called back I spoke to Akan Satayev.

‘Jágr’s on. If you can find somewhere for a plane to land, he can get you the equipment you need. My people can cover the cost.’

‘And for us?’

Satayev named his price: 1.5 million dollars in cash, hand-delivered to his man in Astana.

‘I’ll ask. If they do agree, that’s going to take some time.’

‘The Russians are not taking their time. More men are coming in every hour.’ He lowered his voice. ‘They have spoken to me. They have reached out.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

I left a message for Walker:

1.5.

When I tried to leave the HQ it turned out I needed an escort: the lifts were pin-code entry. I was searched before I entered them, my phone checked for photos. I watched Carter march back from his call with the Foreign Secretary, poker-faced.

I thought of the Herald Tribune clipping I’d seen at Elena’s: Both rivals and shareholders claim he has paid well over the odds on a quixotic and personal mission. Lucky gamble, I thought. Choosing Kazakhstan as the place to drill, buying up Saracen, billions of his own money thrown in. The chips were stacked high, the ball spinning.