‘So, an Englishman in Astana. You are either rich or here to get rich.’

‘I am here to see history being made,’ I said. ‘To broaden my mind.’

My companion looked sceptical. She touched a hand to her necklace as if it might protect her. Her cocktail was down to slush. She smelled of Miss Dior and was being watched by a man at the bar wearing a concealed handgun.

‘People from England come here for business.’

‘This is a young place,’ I said. ‘There are not many of those. Once or twice in a lifetime, if you’re lucky, you get to see somewhere being born rather than dying.’ I gestured at the room. ‘This is the future.’

‘The future’s drunk,’ she said.

As if on cue, the UK’s Secretary of State for Business, Energy and Industrial Strategy roared with laughter, followed a few seconds later by some unsteady Chinese pipeline engineers and a man with a greasy smile who did PR for the Kazakh government.

‘And you?’ I said to my companion. ‘What brings you here?’

‘I am a translator.’

‘A noble career.’ If there were Russians trying to seduce me, I wanted to know. If she was innocently attached to Russians, with potential access, I was equally curious. I leaned closer. ‘I’m glad I met you,’ I said. ‘I was slightly dreading this whole thing. I have a suspicion that you’re one of the more interesting people in the room.’

She studied my face, then leaned back into the sofa. I considered my next move. The party was going to seed. Sushi congealed on platters, and condensation from the ice buckets had made a soggy carpet out of brochures about renewables. A raucous foursome from KazMunaiGaz, the state energy company, were raising toasts by the bar. They knocked into the gunman, oblivious, but he didn’t react. The holster was strapped crossways under the man’s jacket; he was overweight and kept his jacket buttoned, which meant it was tight on his back when he turned. He wore the gun on his right hip, making him sit twisted on his stool. The holster suggested a licence, someone official or well connected, as did getting past the scanners downstairs. He used the mirror behind the bar to watch the crowd. The local offices of Chevron and Merrill Lynch had turned out in force, as had representatives from the French and German embassies.

Robert Carter made his speech, sweating hard, coloured lights reflecting off his face.

‘In the words of Abai, your excellent national poet, Kazakhstan should be a convivial meeting place of Russia, the West and Islam. Ambitious, perhaps but, as I believe he also said, “A clever man can set fire to the snow.”’

Polite laughter rippled. The President said something to the UK Minister. Galina beamed and would have clapped if she hadn’t been holding a glass of champagne. Carter smiled gratefully.