I found the car-hire place on a back street, and picked up a white Hyundai Tucson. Half the vehicles on the road seemed to be Hyundai Tucsons. The man was indifferent as I’d hoped, hands stained with oil, writing my details with a biro he had to smack on the desk to work. Things felt like they were coming under control. I went for a drive.

Multiple state agencies patrolled the city. Police wore fur hats and long, grey jackets that hid their weaponry. Closer to the Presidential Palace you got military in camo fatigues and sky-blue berets. The elite and more shadowy National Security Committee officers wore black tactical vests and carried Russian-made AN-94 rifles. Alertness was high. I saw two cars being stopped and checked.

The British embassy lay within a block of offices on the edge of the business district. No conspicuous security or aerials. The current ambassador, according to Stevenson, was Suzanna Ford, a career diplomat with previous postings in Stockholm, Nairobi and Brussels. No indication that this was MI6 cover, although one never knew. I memorised the vehicles parked in front of it. The place didn’t feel like the sanctuary it would have once represented.

Now I knew the look I stopped at a department store and bought a balaclava, trapper hat, beanie, ski goggles and a reversible down jacket with a hood – which was useful for quick changes of appearance. For the car, I picked up water, food, first-aid kit, two spare phones, a shovel and two litres of vodka.

I drove while I could. Conditions were getting worse. It was time to put a plan into action.

I headed to the address of my missed calls.

The area was all half-constructed new-builds. They looked desolate, the towers haggard. The block I was interested in had a roof, but if it wasn’t for lights in some of the upper windows I wouldn’t have been sure it had been completed. Up close you saw ill-fitting window frames and protection tape. A courtyard remained half-constructed. This was what happened when oil booms came to a crashing halt: grand projects lurched into ruins before they were fully born.

I pushed the entrance door and it opened into a bare concrete entrance hall, walls covered with protective sheeting. The post box for 603 was empty. I took the stairs to establish their viability as an escape route. They smelled of fresh paint, and I wondered if I was the first person to use them. Then, at the fifth floor, I passed an encampment: a man, woman and two children beneath layers of tarpaulin. They were darker than most Kazakhs; refugees, with a propane gas heater. The man watched me pass, stiff with fear. I nodded, kept moving.