Astana’s icons came in and out of view as we approached the centre: the Presidential Palace with its blue dome, flanked by two identical gold cylinders that contained governmental ministries and the offices of the Sovereign Wealth Fund. Half a mile away, the Bayterek tower soared into the sky, crowned by an orb. To the south – facing the Palace across the city – a glass pyramid lit alternately pink and green. We passed three presidential billboards in a row. Across the last, in dripping red paint, someone had written Water freedom with blood.

Two patrol cars sat in front, lights flashing. As if sensing my interest, three men in dark uniforms turned their heads to watch the taxi pass.

‘How are things here?’ I asked. ‘There’s a lot of police about.’

‘Now, yes.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Terrorism.’

‘Have there been terrorist attacks?’

‘No.’

Lion Hotel was in a concrete block that had been painted lemon yellow from the third floor up. The hotel actually occupied the top of the building only. The lift was broken so I walked up, which afforded me a glimpse of a brothel on the floor below, VIP Massage, with women in dressing gowns checking their phones and waiting for the VIPs.

No one on the hotel reception desk. It was brightly lit, with the city’s eager artifice continuing inside: a lot of translucent plastic furniture, an incongruous chandelier spray-painted gold. Tropical fish swam across a 27-inch screen on the wall.

After a couple of minutes I went around the desk and leafed through the reservations book. There was no one else staying here. Eventually a young woman turned up, sleepy-eyed, apologetic, in jeans and a T-shirt; she took my details, gave me a swipe card and rustled up a smile.

‘You are here for work?’

‘Some meetings.’

‘But you will visit Bayterek?’

‘Of course.’

‘This city has many wonders,’ she said. Then: ‘Have you been to the old capital, Almaty?’

‘No.’

‘It is very beautiful. There are mountains, trees. Perhaps you will have a chance to go.’

My room was small, with a painting of a nomad asleep beside a camel on the wall, a view between tower blocks to the business district. I checked the window locks, then the devices currently connected to the hotel’s wi-fi network; I logged on and sent an email, unsecured, to the property developer Olivia Gresham had put me in touch with, confirming arrival, saying I was looking forward to our meeting tomorrow. I logged out, connected to a private network and checked my own messages. Nothing from Joanna, one from Six asking me to confirm my current location.