He talked about different nationalities in the city – Saudis, Turkish, Iranians – and about good places to eat and drink, where to find the political class and where to avoid them. He had a story about the President’s daughter demanding satellites from an oil company so she could run a TV station. I could see why he was good for background intelligence: atmospherics, as the Americans called it. I could see other reasons Joanna might have taken solace in his company. He was good-looking and overconfident, and a bad choice in terms of her operation, all of which had piqued her interest in the past. There was a wryness to him that I liked, a dark shadow to the optimism. I had come across unadulterated optimism all too often in Iraq and Afghanistan: American men with the same Brooks Brothers suits, fuelled by a faith that the world wanted to grow towards the innocence of their childhoods. It grew sour in the end. Bryant drank with a thirst I suspected had developed since he arrived.

‘Is it safe here?’ I asked. ‘Expats had any issues? That’s what a lot of my clients ask.’

‘Mostly safe, yes.’ He hesitated. Something made him check his phone. He put it away, glanced around. ‘There’s ten men for every woman here. Are you up for moving on?’

‘Sure.’

‘Ever been to Chocolate?’

The Chocolate Room was a nightclub by the river, tucked into the base of the Radisson hotel. I drove us there, parked a few metres away from the luxury cars outside the club itself. There was a commotion going on when we got there: the side window of a Porsche had been smashed. I caught a glimpse of figures running across the street, bouncers giving chase while on radios. We were inside before I had a chance to see any more.

The place was large and conspicuously expensive, with a stage and a dancefloor, booths around the side. On the stage, topless women sat in giant gold picture frames that swung on chains. People on the dancefloor paid them little attention – daughters of oligarchs dancing with practised moves as if they were auditioning for a part. Bryant asked for a table in the corner. For the price of a bottle of champagne and six shots we got a red velvet booth from which you could watch the show and talk undisturbed. He waved away some escorts.

‘See that outside?’ I said.

‘Yeah.’

‘Get much of that?’

Bryant shrugged, sipped his Cristal.

‘Not yet,’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘This country has a problem: it’s called forty-dollar barrels. The price of oil has sunk. That means the sweetener’s running out, economic brakes slammed on. Which is fine for those strapped in.’ He gestured at the dancefloor. ‘But the people outside … People start to care about democracy when they can’t buy what they want.’

‘Right.’

‘The government needs a deal from somewhere.’