‘Ambulances came?’ I tried both Russian and Kazakh. He lifted a hand as if to say ‘Wait’, went into the mosque and returned a moment later with a torch. He guided me towards the farm.

Blades of abandoned threshing machines lay around – dismembered combines, tractors. An air of desolation hung over the place. We went through to a long, breeze-block shelter, with rusted doors sealing it shut. The chain that had sealed them lay on the floor. The caretaker gestured for me to help him pull the doors open, and they scraped over the concrete.

The darkness inside was undiluted. He clicked a torch and pointed it. Hessian bags, more rusted metal, a stained floor. Then, in the furthest corner, a pile of medical kit: stretchers, a wheelchair, a drip stand, dressing pads, boxes of latex gloves.

There had been an ambulance here. It had been stripped; even the seats had been ripped out. There were also approximately forty canisters of petrol lying in a pile. The petrol would have been transferred to breakable containers, probably mixed with nails or other shrapnel. I estimated the volume of an ambulance as around 400 cubic feet, which would hold a horrific amount of explosive power.

My phone rang as I ran back to the stolen Honda. Number withheld. I answered.

‘Elliot, this is Suzanna Ford. We understand the various complexities of your situation. Right now we’re focused on preventing this attack. I’m sure that’s your priority too.’

I got in the car, started the engine.

‘He’s using an ambulance,’ I said. ‘That’s all I know. What resources do you have to stop it?’

‘I’ve got a four-man team here. We’re equipped.’

‘That’s not going to do it. Track me.’

‘Elliot—’

I called the number on Cherenkov’s business card. He answered.

‘I have what you want,’ I said. ‘We need to be quick.’

FIFTY-THREE

He told me to head straight to the Russian embassy. I was stopped 10 metres before the gates by three men in Russian military uniform, one with a pistol drawn. Joanna’s laptop was taken, along with my phone. I was patted down, steered down a driveway, pushed into the building.

Embassy stucco, pastel walls, pictures of Putin. Cherenkov sat in a reception room with oil paintings of forests, a prissy suite of antique furniture and one incongruous computer. He welcomed me without taking his eyes from the screen. He looked unslept but smarter than usual, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up, absorbed in clicking his mouse. He turned the monitor towards me. It contained multiple images: more CGI versions of the room in the Triumph of Astana; me and Serik Ten; then me, Joanna and Serik Ten. Then low-quality images from other locations: my body on the ground with a spread of blood across my shirt; Joanna hanging from a belt in a toilet cubicle. Me and Joanna unconscious in the front seats of an SUV.

‘Sit down.’