That's what Mr. Webber just pointed out to you—rubbed your nose in, more like—leaning forward in his squeaky office chair and wagging the crooked index finger of righteousness.

"I say this more in sorrow than in anger, Anwar"—that's how he eases himself into one of the little sermons he seems to get his jollies from. You're the odd one out in his regular client case-load, coming from what they laughably mistake for a stable family background: you're not exactly Normal for Neds. So he harbours high hopes of adding you to the twelve-month did-not-reoffend column on his departmental report, and consequently preaches at you during these regular scheduled self-criticism sessions. As if you didn't get enough of that shite from Aunt Sameena already: You've already got it off by heart. So you nod apologetically, duck your head, and remember to make eye contact just like the NLP book says, exuding apologetic contrition and remorse until your probation officer drowns in it.

But Mr. Webber—fat, fiftyish, with a framed row of sheepskins proclaiming his expertise in social work lined up on the wall behind him—might just have got your number down with a few digits more precision than you'd like to admit. And when he said, I know you want to give Naseem and Farida the best start in life you can afford, but have you thought about the kind of example you're setting them?—It was a palpable strike, although the target it struck wasn't perhaps quite the one Mr. Webber had in mind.

He must have seen something in your expression that made him think he'd got through to you, so rather than flogging the dead horse some more, he shovelled you out of his office, with a stern admonition to send out more job applications and email a progress report to him next Thursday. He didn't bother giving you the usual social-worker crap about seeking a stable life-style—he's already clocked that you've got one, if not that it's so stable you're asphyxiating under the weight of it. (See: Not Normal for Neds, above.)

And so you duck your head and tug your non-existent forelock and shuffle the hell out of the interview suite and away from the probation service's sticky clutches—until your next appointment.

It is three on a Thursday afternoon, and you're out of your weekly probation interview early. You've got no job to go to, unless you count the skooshy piecework you've been doing on your cousin Tariq's dating website—using his spare pad and paid for in cash, which you are careful to forget about when discussing income opportunities with Mr. Webber and his colleagues—and you've not got the guts to go home to Bibi and the weans in midafternoon and hang around while she cooks dinner in that eloquently expressive silence she's so good at, which translates as when are you going to get a real job? It's not like you've been out of Saughton long enough to get your legs back under the table anyway; and on top of that, you're not supposed to use a network device without filling out a bunch of forms and letting Mr. Webber's nice technical-support people bug it (which would tend to rule out your usual forms of employment, at least for the nonce).

Which can mean only one thing: It's pub time.

To be a Muslim living in Scotland is to be confronted by an existential paradox, insofar as Scotland has pubs the way Alabama has Baptist churches. Everyone worships at the house of the tall fount, and it's not just about drinking (although a lot of that goes on). Most of the best jobs you've ever had came from a late-night encounter at the pub—and paid work, too, for that matter. You're not a good Muslim—in fact you're a piss-poor one, as your criminal record can attest—but some residual sense of shame prompts you to try and keep the bad bits of your life well away from the family home. Compartmentalization, Mr. Webber would call it. Anyway, you figure that as long as you avoid the fermented fruit of the vine, you're not entirely doing it wrong: The Prophet said nothing against Deuchars IPA, did he?

The more devout and twitchy-curtained neighbours don't know anything about your private life, and you want to keep it that way: Our neighbour Anwar, he's a good family man, they say. And if you want the free baby-sitters and community bennies, you'd better keep it that way. So you are discreet: You avoid the local boozers and are at pains never to go home with beer or worse on your breath. Which is why you go about your business in a snug little pub that sits uphill from the top of Easter Road, close by the Royal Terrace Gardens, for a wee outing afterwards.

Of course, going to the pub is not wholly risk-free. For starters there's your phone, set to snitch on your location to the Polis—and if they call, you'd better be there to give them a voiceprint. (It's not like you can leave it at home: You've done the custodial part of your sentence, but you're still under a supervision order, and carrying a phone is part of the terms and conditions, just like wearing a leg tag used to be.)

Your phone copies them on everything you text or read online, and you heard rumours when you were inside—that the Polis spyware could recognize keywords like "hash" or "dosh." You figure that's just the kind of stupid shite paranoid jakies make up to explain why they got huckled for shoplifting on their second day out of prison—but you can't prove it isn't so, which is why you keep a dirty sock rolled over the phone's lower half. (And your real phone is a pay-as-you-go you got Bibi to buy you "for the job hunting.")

But anyway: pub time.

You're in the back room, surfing on a pad borrowed from the bar as you work your way down your second pint, when the Gnome materializes at your left elbow with a pot of wheat beer and a gleam in his eye. "Good afternoon to you, Master Hussein! Mind if I join you?" The Gnome is a vernacular chameleon: Going by his current assumed accent—plummy cod upper-class twit—you figure he's in an expansive mood.

You nod warily. The Gnome is not your friend—he's nobody's friend but his own—but you understand him well enough, and he's interesting company. You've even spent a couple of relaxing afternoons in his bed, although he's not really your type. "Bent as a seven-bob note," the Cardinal pronounced him when the subject of trust came up in conversation: "Yes, but he disnae get caught," you pointed out. On paper, he's a fine, upstanding member of the community; despite looking like the personification of Uncle Fester cosplay fandom, he even managed to get himself elected as town councillor in some deity-forsaken hole in Galashiels. (Probably on the Hairy Twat vote. You can persuade the remaining students at Herriot-Watt's out-of-town campus to vote for anything if you get them drunk enough, and there's precious little else to do out there but drink.) "Have a seat."

The Gnome sighs appreciatively and smacks his lips, then sits in contemplation of his beer for a minute or two. "What brings you to my office today?"

"The usual." You frown. The Gnome claims to work for the university computer-science department, on some big make-work scheme called ATHENA, but he seems to spend most of his time in the back rooms of pubs: You figure he's most likely working on his own side projects. (He maintains that nobody can earn a full-time living in academia anymore, and who's to say he's wrong?) "I've just had my weekly sermon, and I don't need a second serving right now."

The Gnome chuckles, a quiet hiccuping noise like a vomiting cat. "I take your point." He necks another mouthful of beer. "And is business good?"

"Don't be daft, Adam." You switch off the pad. "I've only been out two months; my mobie's running six different kinds of Polis spyware, and I can't even surf for porn without official permission. What do you think business is like?"

The Gnome looks duly thoughtful. "What you need is a line of work that is above reproach," he declares after a while. "A business that you can conduct from a cosy wee office, that is of such utter respectability that if they're getting on your tits, you can complain about how shocked, shocked! you are, and they'll back off."

"I couldna hack the law courseware you pointed me at," you remind him. "And besides, I've got a record now."

He's shaking his head. "No. No-no-no. I was thinking . . ." He cocks his head on one side, as he does when he's hatching one of his malicious little schemes. "I was thinking, how would you like to be an honorary consul?"

"A what?" Visions of a residence on Calton Road and a shiny black BMW hybrid with diplomatic plates clash confusingly with your gut-deep sense that such a scam is beyond even the admittedly impressive grifting capabilities of the Gnome. "Don't be silly, I was born over here, I don't even hold dual Pakistani citizenship—"

"You don't understand." He takes your wrist. His fingers are clammy from his beer glass: "Let me explain. You don't need to be a native. You just need to be a fine upstanding citizen with an office and enough time to attend to the needs of visiting nationals. The high heid yins all have proper embassies staffed by real diplomats, but there are plenty of small players . . . play-states, just like Scotland's a play-state, hived off the old Union for the extra vote in the council of ministers in Brussels and some plausible deniability in the budget. The deal is, we find some nowhere country that can only afford a proper embassy in London or Brussels, if that. They issue you with a bunch of papers and an official phone, and you're on call to help out when one of their people gets into a spot of bother over here. If you're really lucky, they'll pay you an honorarium and the office rent." He winks; the effect is inexpressibly horrifying.

"Get away with you!" You take another mouthful of beer. "You're winding me up."

"No, lad, I'm serious."

"Serious?"

He chugs his pint and smacks his lips. You roll your eyes: You recognize a shakedown when you see one. "Mine's a Hoegaarden," he says, utterly unapologetic.

Five minutes later, you get back from the bar and plant his new pint in front of him. "Spill it."

"What, the beer"—he kens you're not amused and shrugs, then takes an exploratory sip. "All right, the job. I have a mutual acquaintance who happens to work for a, shall we say, small player's diplomatic service as a freelance contractor. They're a very new small player, and they're hiring honorary consuls for the various Euro sub-states—"

You've had enough of this bullshit. "Do I look like I was born yesterday?"

"No." His brow wrinkles. "Here's the thing: Issyk-Kulistan is a very new state. It used to be part of Kyrgyzstan, but five months ago there was a vote on independence, and they seceded, with official recognition . . ." You stare at him. The Gnome has a warped sense of humour, but he's not crazy. He's got dozens of fingers in scores of pies, some of them seasoned with very exotic spices. And right now he's got that intense brow-wrinkling expression he gets on his gizz when he's desperately serious, or trying to pinch a jobbie in the lav. He's droning on: "No budget to speak of, but they're soliciting recommendations. The angle is, they're dirt-poor—all they've got is a played-out gas field and a bunch of collective farms. Their capital city's smaller than Stirling; in fact, the whole country's got the same population as Edinburgh. I believe the real story is that Issyk-Kulistan was let go by Kyrgyzstan because unemployment's around 40 per cent and the big man in Bishkek wanted an excuse to cut their bennies. Think of it as national downsizing, Anwar—Kyrgyzstan's got a budget deficit, so what are they going to do? Cut overheads! Anyway, the Independent Republic of Issyk-Kulistan can't afford a real diplomatic corps. Indeed, there's probably nae cunt from Karakol in the whole of Scotland. Or Latvia, Iceland, or Moldova, for that matter. Which is the reason—"

You look the Gnome in the eye and utter three fateful words: "Adam: Why. Me?"

What follows is blether: masterful blether, erudite and learned blether, but blether nonetheless. You swallow his flannelling. It's all sound and fury, signifying naught; but you've got a scooby that there's more to this than reaches the eye. The Gnome knows you, and he wants someone he knows in that shiny black diplomatic limo with the IRIK plates, which means he's got some kind of caper in mind. And you know Adam, and you know this about him: He may be bent as a seven-euro note, but he disnae get caught. Ever.

Which is why . . .

Three days later, you are certain you're about to die.

You are twenty-eight years old and a miserable sinner who has been a bad husband to his long-suffering wife and a terrible father to his two children. (To say nothing of having failed to even think about making the hajj, liking beer and other alcoholic beverages altogether too much, and indulging in such unspeakable perversions with other men that Imam Hafiz would swallow his beard and die of shame if he heard about them). You deserve to die, possibly, probably—for God is Great and he knows exactly what you're thinking—which is probably why he has seen fit to inflict this destiny upon you, seeing you strapped into a business-class seat in an elderly Antonov that rattles and groans as it caroms between clouds like a pinball in the guts of the ultimate high-score game.

The Antonov's cabin is musty and smells of boiled cabbage despite the best efforts of the wheezing air-conditioning pack. Here, up front in business class, the seats are tidy and come with faded antimacassars bearing Aeroflot's livery: But behind your uneasy shoulders sways a curtain, and on the other side of the curtain you swear there is an old lady, headscarf knotted tightly under her chin, clutching a cage full of live chickens. The fowl, being beasts of the air, know exactly what's in store for them—they squawk and cackle like nuns at a wife-swapping party.

The plane drops sickeningly, then stabilizes. There's a crackle from the intercom, then something terse and glottal in Russian. Your phone translates the word from the cockpit: "impact in ten minutes." You're almost certain you can hear the chink of vodka glasses from up front. (The stewardesses haven't shown themselves in hours; they're probably crashed out in the galley, anaesthetized on cheap Afghani heroin.) You yank your seat belt tight, adjust the knot of your tie, and begin to pray. Save me, you think: Just let me walk away from this landing, and I'll give up alcohol for a year! I'll even give up cock, for, for . . . As long as I can. Please don't let the pilots be drunk—

There is a sudden downward lurch, a jolt that rattles the teeth in your head, a loud bang, and a screech of tyres. One of the overhead luggage bins has sprung open, and there is an outbreak of outraged clucking from the economy-class area behind the curtain as a small, terrified pig hurtles up the aisle towards the cockpit. Now you see one of the cabin crew, her beret askew as she makes a grab for the unclean animal—she wrinkles her nose, and a moment later a horrible stench informs you that the animal has voided its bowels right in front of the cabin door.

"Bzzzt." Your phone helpfully fails to translate the electronic throat-clearing noise. "Welcome to Issyk-Kul Airport, gateway to the capital of the Independent Republic of Issyk-Kulistan. This concludes today's Aeroflot flight from Manas International Airport, Bishkek. Adhere to your seats until she reaches the terminal building. Temperature on the ground is twenty-nine degrees, relative humidity is 80 per cent, and it is raining."

The Antonov grumbles and jolts across cracked ex-military tarmac, its turboprops snarling rhythmically at the sodden atmosphere. At least it's Aeroflot. You're not a total numpty: You did your leg work before you came here and you know that the local airlines are all banned from European airspace on grounds of safety (or rather, the lack of it). And you're up to date on your shots, thanks to Aunty Sam's abortive attempt to arrange a family reunion in Lahore last year. You also know that the unit of local currency is the som, that it is unsafe to wander round the capital at night, and that your hosts have booked you a room in the Amir Hotel.

The only important bit of local nous you've not got straight is what the capital's called—is it Karakol, or Przewalsk? They change the name whenever there's a coup d'état, as long as there's an "r" in the month. It should be Przewalsk—but how do you pronounce Przewalsk, anyway?

As the airliner taxis the short distance to the stand, you take enough shuddering breaths to get over your conviction that you are about to die—but now a new anxiety takes hold. You've been told you'll be met at the airport, but . . . What do you really know? A dodgy Skype connection and the promise of a car ride: that and five euros will buy you a Mocha Frescato with shaved glacier ice and organic cream to go. For all you know, the Gnome's idea of an amusing jape is to ship your sorry ass to an ex-boy-friend of his who runs a leather bar in Almaty frequented by former US Marines, where they'll steal your passport and tie you face-down to a pommel horse—

You're walking through the humid rain-spattered air towards a terminal building, your shirt sticking to the small of your back. I must have zoned out, you realize nervously. You can't afford to do that: not here, not with the job interview that's coming up. Ahead of you the doors are flung open on a dusty arrivals hall. A porter shuffles past you, leading a motorized baggage trolley out towards the small Antonov. There's a bored-looking crowd just beyond a rope barrier at the far side of the hall, and among them you see a man with an upraised sign: ANWAR HUSSEIN.

"Mr. Hussein?" A broad grin and a bushy salt-and-pepper moustache: firm handshake pumping up and down. "I am Felix Datka." He speaks English with a heavy Russian accent. "Welcome to Przewalsk!" So that's how you pronounce it. "Have you had a good journey from Scotland? Please, let's fetch your suitcase, and I will drive you to your hotel."

You have arrived in the Independent Republic of Issyk-Kulistan. And you relax: because now you know you are among friends.

"And that was the worst part of it," you tell him, wiping your moustache on the back of your wrist.

"It was?" The Gnome blinks rapidly, as if there's a mote in his eye.

"Yes. Once he told the porter to give my suitcase back and we escaped from the pickpockets, or the police—I'm not sure who were which—he had a black Mercedes SUV! Well, it was mostly a Mercedes and mostly black—bits of it were made locally in this car factory they've got that runs on chicken feathers and corn husks or something, and the paint didn't match—" Just like the shite your neighbour Jaxxie runs up on the DRM-hacked fab in his garage—"but from there it was an hour's drive into town, and then dinner in a traditional Kyrgyz restaurant"—actually a McDonald's, after Mr. Datka tipped you the wink that most of the posh restaurants in town were Russian-owned and not halal: But you don't want the Gnome's pity—"the next morning, he picked me up and drove me to the Ministry building. Big concrete slab full of bureaucrats with boxy old computers, sitting around smoking." Your nose wrinkles at the memory.

"The Ministry." The Gnome hums and strokes his chin. "Hmm. Indeed. And how did it go, then?"

"It was a job interview." You shrug. Back in your normal drag, jeans and a sweat-shirt and your favourite Miami Dolphins jacket, it's all mercifully fading into a blur: the stiflingly close air in the aircon-less conference room, you in the monkey suit your cousin Tariq sourced for you from an Indonesian tailoring dotcom, sweating bullets as you tried to answer questions asked in broken English by the bored bureaucrats on the other side of the table. "They asked me lots of questions. How long I'd lived in Embra, what was my citizenship status, what I did, did I have a criminal record, that sort of thing."

"Did you tell them the truth?" The Gnome lays his hand on your knee, very solemnly.

"I lied like a rug." You weren't sweating bullets because of the questions (you realized it was a shoo-in when you clocked you were the only candidate they'd bothered to fly out for the interview): you were sweating bullets because it was hot. Even the criminal-background question was meaningless. If they didn't already know the answer to the question, they weren't networked well enough to detect a lie.

You shrug again: "Who're they going to call, Europol?" You let his hand lie: This is safe space, as safe as it comes, and you're still wound up from the nervous tension of a flight into the unknown. "They flew me to Moscow economy class! Look, you said they've got no money. So what's your angle?"

You don't bother with what's in it for me? because that much is clear. You have got: a bunch of blank passports and a toytown rubber stamp set; a steel-jacketed data key locked to your thumbprint and loaded with encryption certificates; documents telling the government of Scotland that you are hereby authorized to act as the legally responsible consul on behalf of the embassy of the Independent Republic of Issyk-Kulistan to the EU in Brussels; and a corporate credit card. Yes, you've come up in the world. But as you feel the warm weight of the Gnome's hand on your thigh, you can't shift the feeling that there's more to this than him doing one of his on/off boy-friends a favour. You try again. "What's your angle?"

The Gnome sighs. "I wish you wouldn't ask awkward questions," he says, a trifle querulously. "But if you must know, I'll tell you." He leans across the table, and you instinctively lean towards him, until his lips brush your ear. "The angle, dear boy, is money—and how you, and I, and a couple of friends, are going to make a great steaming pile of it. Legally come by, no more and no less—and there'll be nobody to say otherwise." You can feel the heat of his Cheshire-cat grin on your cheek: You can smell his yeasty breath. You lean a bit closer, tensing expectantly. "The pen-pushers in Przewalsk want you for a sparkly consular unicorn. I think that's a grand idea. And I think it would be especially grand if you'd keep me informed of developments, as and when they happen . . ."

Where to preorder:

Amazon US: [ Hardcover edition ][ Kindle edition ]

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Signed copies: Transreal Fiction in Edinburgh will have signed copies of "Rule 34" and can ship them internationally. For details, email Transreal Fiction. (Note: signed copies may be back-ordered between July 20 and August 20 because I'll be traveling overseas and stocks may be low.)