We tore down the deserted streets, Cherenkov desperately trying to radio various Kazakh commanders, but it was clear he didn’t have the authority to get his message taken seriously.

‘Evacuate the square,’ the driver said.

‘You’d need to evacuate more than half a kilometre,’ I said. ‘People will go straight towards the ambulance. They’ll block the road.’

‘He’s just crossing the M-36 into the centre,’ the man with the satellite feed said. ‘It’s at Sarayshyq Street.’

‘Get them to close the street down.’

After another minute of frustration Cherenkov took the phone from his ear and swore.

‘I can’t establish the chain of command,’ he said. ‘We’re on our own.’

‘Target now on Alash Highway.’

‘We can cut him off on Respublika,’ I said. It was an optimistic, high-risk suggestion. The driver checked his map, swung the car to the right.

The city centre had emptied entirely. The PA system from the memorial service echoed across its streets. We were conspicuous. Four Kazakh troops, heavily armed, waved us down. We ignored them. They released safety catches, caught a glimpse of us and became uneasy. We all exhaled when we we’d gone past without shots fired.

Then the ambulance appeared ahead.

‘There it is.’

There was a silence, save for the clicking of three safety catches.

‘Go easy,’ Cherenkov said.

‘How easy?’

We narrowed the gap between us. Either of the next two turns could take him to the square. I could see the crowd through gaps in the buildings. The street tightened ahead. I thought we could block him at least, but we’d have to move fast.

‘Don’t panic him.’

‘He’s stopped.’

‘Shit.’

‘They’ve stopped him.’

I tried to see what was going on. There were barriers in front of the ambulance, blue uniforms: a checkpoint of some kind. The ambulance’s sirens blared, its lights making the scene pulse. Cherenkov got on the radio and tried to ascertain if the Kazakh soldiers ahead knew who they’d stopped.

Our driver twisted in his seat, staring through the back window.

‘We’re blocked,’ he said.

The Kazakh troops had tailed us and now parked two armoured personnel carriers a metre or so behind our vehicle. They got out, shouting, pointing assault rifles in our direction. The ambulance was also boxed in now, vehicles on three sides, the crowd on the fourth. Speeches continued from the stage. This was it, I thought. He was going to detonate.

I don’t know what sparked the panic. There was no shortage of potential causes.

‘An attack!’ someone shouted. It was followed a second later by an order over the tannoy: ‘Please evacuate the square in an orderly fashion.’

People began to run. They filled the side road.

‘Fuck.’

The only people unfazed appeared to be the men in charge of the roadblock.

‘Jesus Christ, they’re going to let him through,’ Cherenkov said, as the first barrier was pulled aside.