I knocked. The door opened. He wasn’t in the dark suit, but it was him – the man in the clip. He wore a white shirt, open at the neck, sleeves rolled up, beltless black suit trousers, leather slip-ons. He glanced at the case.

‘Come in.’

He asked me to take the battery out of my phone. The place was over-carpeted and overheated. I followed the corridor to the room where I had supposedly been filmed.

It was the same room: same view, same cupboard with mirrored panels. The rug had gone and there was a new sofa: brown where the one in the clip was pale. A TV was on: shots of troops marching. The assassination opens up a Pandora’s box as Russia, China and Turkey contest for control of the region. An emergency summit had been called in Brussels. The first crowds had appeared across Kazakhstan, holding images of Nazarbayev.

‘We must be quick,’ he said.

I glanced up to where a camera might be. I couldn’t see anything, or anywhere you’d hide one. I walked over to the mirror, ran a thumbnail over the crack, then stood back and looked at myself in it. I had the case gripped in my hand.

‘Who are you?’ I said.

‘A friend of Akan Satayev.’ He watched me curiously.

‘I don’t work with people I don’t know.’

‘You don’t need to work with me,’ he said.

‘Do you know who I am?’ I asked.

‘Akan says you can be trusted.’ The man wanted this over, but was cautious. He didn’t offer a drink. Someone wanted me here, I thought. I checked the view from the window. ‘We don’t have long. Show me what you have.’

I lifted the case to the coffee table, slipped the locks and nudged it towards him. He checked a couple of the blocks then went and made a call, moving stiffly.

I looked for papers, post, anything with a name, pressed the pedal of a bin in the corner but it was empty. I picked up a jacket slung over the arm of the sofa and retrieved a receipt for a Visa card in the name of B. Golovkin. Golovkin, if it was him, remained in deep discussion in the kitchen. He spoke in Arabic. I heard the words ‘two hours’ and ‘cleaning up’. I messaged the name to Reza Nikfar, picked up an open laptop beside the table. No folders or documents saved, just news streaming: Turkey had stopped a Russian ship from passing through the Bosphorus Strait. NATO vessels from Spain and Italy were moving towards Georgia. Saudi Arabia had described Kazakhstan as a friend, and any threat to the country’s independence and integrity as unacceptable. There were Chinese troops at Khorgos. The ruble had sunk to 59 per dollar.

West united in warning to Russia. Territorial integrity is the foundation of international law.

The man returned and nodded.