I ripped a photo of a young man from the internet – out of courtesy, I chose one safely domiciled in Toronto – and set up a profile on the Kazakh social network, Zuz.kz. Adilbek Antropov was twenty-seven years old, an engineer, loved Italian cars, European football, Kazakhstan. I sent some friend requests, then linked to a piece in the Washington Post about kleptocracy in Central Asia. After five minutes it was still up and I hadn’t been arrested.

Dictatorship is sometimes hard to put your finger on. People don’t go around visibly fearful or furious; you have to attune your senses. Water freedom with blood. Now I remembered where it was from: a poem by Taras Shevchenko. Bury me, be done with me, rise and break your chain; water your new freedom with blood like rain. 1880s, maybe 1890s. He was Ukrainian, exiled to Kazakhstan when he started agitating for independence. It was a select few who knew Shevchenko’s poetry these days, and not many of those painting graffiti.

The door chimed. A man walked into the café: clean-shaven, in his forties, a pale, sullen face – European, maybe English. He ordered a water in passable Russian, took a seat at a table in the corner. Beneath his smart grey winter coat was a pale, slightly crumpled suit. In Europe he would have been a perfect grey man, utterly unnoticeable, but not here. I gave it another moment, then finished my coffee and left.

I crossed the Presidential Park, then doubled back, over a low barrier into the grounds of the Keruen shopping mall. Shopping malls are good for counter-surveillance. It seemed Astana had a fine selection of them. A lot of the world was inhospitable a lot of the time, but that wasn’t going to stop consumerism.

I rode escalators up, then down again, with a nice clear view of faces. No indication the pale man had followed. The mall was still quiet. A kiosk at the back sold cigarettes and bus tickets. I bought a packet of Chung Hwa and two lighters.

‘And a travelcard, please; something that gets me on buses across the city.’

She slid one across the counter.

‘How long does this last?’

‘One week.’

‘Any bus? Unlimited?’

She nodded, palm waiting for coins.

I returned to the hotel. What I really needed was someone who had access to police files, an ear to the street, a local journalist or detective. Instead, thanks to the kindness and connections of Olivia Gresham, I had an appointment with a property developer. But that was better than nothing. He was local and would be sensitive to political currents, ones that could pull someone under.

I ironed a shirt, brushed my teeth, thought, Toby Bell. Economic opportunity.