I filled the tank, got some food at a café with plastic furniture and unshielded neon bulbs, waited for midnight. I checked the exit routes I’d marked on my map: exits from the city, then from the country. The scenario I was hoping for was one in which we had to get out fast. Kazakhstan had China to the east, across mountains. Russia to the north, a long, porous border, the only downside being that on the other side was Russia. Uzbekistan to the south was a strong contender for exit of choice. I had connections there; it led deeper into the ’Stans, into a complexity where you could hide. To the west was the Caspian Sea, boats crossing to Azerbaijan. Shipping routes were always useful: chaotic, bribable, potentially off-radar. Spies like boats. But it was all difficult terrain. All a lot of steppe away.

The café served only one dish: lagman, noodle soup, with a few pieces of mutton floating in oily broth, but it tasted better than the Hotel Ukrainya’s steak and potatoes, which was almost all I’d eaten in the last twenty-four hours. As customers came in, I studied how people looked at each other – eye contact among strangers, use of mobile phones, hands-free mics. I hadn’t seen anyone using a phone indoors yet. People were reserved. Men and women interacted coolly, glances were quick. You could tell someone was unfamiliar to them but only just. I couldn’t hear any other foreigners about.

What none of it told me was how much of a mistake I was making by being here. I sensed I was doing precisely what someone intended me to do. I had made mistakes before. A bad day at the office for a field operative can be a very bad day indeed.

At quarter to midnight, I returned to the cathedral. Floodlights around its base caught the snow dancing furiously, seeming to race back up into the sky. I parked beyond the edge of the light, with a view in all directions. This was as clear an observation point as I was going to get. I turned off the interior lights and watched the snow.

No one showed.

I waited, feeling conspicuous, checking my messages every few minutes. At 1 a.m. I drove back to the block on Malakhov Street.

I parked well away from it, covered my face, took a set of bump keys, which worked on 90 per cent of locks. I used the lift this time, wary of witnesses. The sixth floor was unchanged. I knocked again, then went to work on the lock. It gave after a minute.