I thought back to that night, which had been a memorable one in and of itself. Wilton Park was an eighteenth-century mansion in Buckinghamshire, used by the Foreign and Commonwealth Office for strategic forums, mostly focused on international security, bringing together big names from politics, business and academia. It had originally been commandeered as a site to interrogate German prisoners after the Second World War. I was thinking about this as I arrived and saw the place.

Helicopters on the lawn; inside the house, a sweeping staircase, an ornate room with Greek gods painted across the ceiling. Beneath the gods, international political figures, former heads of banks, energy companies, retired military.

Talks were self-regarding, centred on fantasies. Fantasies of Russian schemes and capabilities, of our capacity to respond, and visions of various futures in which it was too late. With the décor and candlelight, the whole thing felt like a strange form of court masque, an attempt at decorating power with ideas. It was a waste of my time, and I wondered why Alastair Undercroft had suggested I attend. After the final speech I moved to the bar, feeling superstitious and wanting to clear the foggy visions away with whisky. I was looking forward to getting back on a plane to Kurdistan. I met Callum Walker. His eyes were bright with drink. His business card was in my hand when I next sat down.

I checked Google’s cached pages for archived versions of the EFF website, then Wayback Machine, which preserved old or deleted websites. The Eurasian Futures Foundation website was there. It listed events, sponsors, speakers, attendees. I was scanning down names when one caught my eye in the list of sponsors: Talon.

Hugh Stevenson had been on his way to their offices when he was killed.

I called the number for Talon. A receptionist answered.

‘I believe someone at your company wants to speak to me,’ I said. ‘I’m not sure who. My name is Elliot Kane, and I believe they want to speak to me about Hugh Stevenson. It’s urgent, and I’d appreciate if you could identify the relevant employee.’

I thought I sounded insane. The well-spoken woman on the other end remained polite. She said she’d see what she could do. I didn’t believe her. I gave a number to call.

My phone rang in less than two minutes.

‘You know I can’t tell you much.’ It was a woman’s voice, rich, soaked in decades of power. I could hear birds chirping in the background.

‘Who is this?’

‘You don’t need my name. Hugh suggested you might call. He said if anything happened I should speak to you. You have to understand, I am not part of the privileged circle. But I was at the initial meeting. At the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, 1st March 2014.’

‘What happened?’