Chapters (58)
- Cover
- Also by Oliver Harris
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- FIFTY
- FIFTY-ONE
- FIFTY-TWO
- FIFTY-THREE
- FIFTY-FOUR
- FIFTY-FIVE
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
‘Not everywhere can be European.’
‘Can I ask you, as one investor to another, how stable you think things are here? A country like this, with its oil, its location, it must be a magnet for unrest and interference.’
‘It is very stable.’
‘Do the Russians cause any trouble? This is their backyard, right? How do you manage that?’
There was a hesitation that made me curious.
‘They know not to push it. The Russians can play a clever game when they want to.’
‘Cleverer than the West, perhaps.’
‘They have shown that.’
I had the sense, as often, arriving in a country, of waiting for the key to decrypt it: the one that made sense of things and brought disparate pieces together. It was always a shared narrative – not the events that made it into the papers, but the prism through which they were viewed; the stories told at home. The meeting had gone well in so far as proving to myself that I could live my cover. I didn’t feel any closer to understanding what I was doing here.
‘And the police – are they cooperative? Trustworthy?’
‘No more or less than the UK. We are not Nigeria.’
I nodded, gazing across a country that wasn’t Nigeria and considering the world’s gradations of prejudice. Then one looming building caught my eye. More than a building, a sprawling residential fortress on the horizon. It stood away from the others, slightly monstrous, centred on a tower with a spire, additional wings of various heights appearing to have conglomerated around it, each with its own battlements. It would have been chilling at the best of times, but it had an extra layer of uncanniness here. I thought of the CGI clip.
‘What’s that?’
‘That building? That is the Triumph of Astana.’
‘Know anyone who lives there?’
He laughed.
‘I have always wondered who lives there. People making money and people making trouble. It is not a place I have ever been.’
THIRTEEN
When I was back in my hotel room, I watched the clip again, studying the view beyond the window, the glimpse of exterior visible, the shape of the room’s own windows. Money and trouble. We were in the Triumph, I felt sure.