We met in the lobby of one of the sapphire-blue towers in the business district. On the walls hung two framed photos blown up to grand scale: one of the governor of the Mangystau district opening the region’s first supermarket, the other taken inside a Siemens factory close to the Chinese border, with smiling Kazakhs in white coats and hairnets. Dimash Toreali appeared a minute after I arrived, hand outstretched, black polo neck under a grey blazer, thinning hair gelled back.

‘Mr Bell.’ He walked me into the lift and up to the office. ‘You know Olivia Gresham?’

‘Very well.’

‘A clever woman. If she recommends you, you are clever too. And lucky. She says your clients are looking to make significant investments here.’

‘Hopefully.’

‘Worked in Central Asia before?’

‘Not as such. I’ve had some involvement in China.’

‘And you studied in England?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oxford or Cambridge?’

‘Neither, I’m afraid.’

‘I spent a blissful year at Oxford.’

His office was decorated with two portraits of the President, one with a gold shimmer like a novelty postcard. In between them was a poster declaring: The City of the Future is Digital. Toreali beamed at me. I was reminded of Moscow in the Noughties, the excitement of money when it’s flowing free and there’s no end in sight. But I also got a sense that Toreali ran a tight ship.

He talked about entrepreneurship, a rising middle class, Kazakhstan as a link between China and Europe. As evidence of the country’s appetite for modernity he described his flagship development, Khan Shatyr – ‘Tent of the Khan’ – Astana’s biggest retail complex and, technically, the largest tent in the world. Its sloping glass walls were suspended by cables from a central spire. The shopping centre was modelled on a traditional Kazakh yurt, he said, and I gazed across the promotional images and nodded. Gap, Zara, Occitane; an air-conditioned paradise where history came to die. The upper levels were encircled by a jogging track and monorail. On the top floor was a beach with sand imported from the Maldives.

‘Did you know Astana had a beach?’ He smiled.

‘I might have read about it.’

‘Open until midnight. You can relax on the sand, minus 40 outside. Locals love it.’

‘I’m sure.’

After another twenty minutes the bottle and glasses came out. Ten-thirty a.m. I’d had worse. And I respected the tradition. The vodka in the drawer was like a confession: Of course, none of this is really bearable. It made you conscious of its absence in Western offices, and wonder what psychopathy replaced it.

We raised a toast to the unbreakable friendship between Kazakhstan and the UK, then one to peace, understanding and friendship.

I raised a toast to the President, then he said, ‘Let’s go for a drive.’