Field thought about the pictures of the two women's families at home in Russia.

"Do you believe Natasha's account of how she found the body?" Caprisi went on.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because, if she heard or witnessed or was party to the murder, why would she wait so long before calling the police?"

"To allow the cleanup operation to be completed."

This opened up an area Field did not want to consider. "I don't know how close they could have been. Perhaps their past drives them apart, rather than bringing them together. Are they ashamed to be reminded of how life used to be? Or is the nostalgia what keeps them alive?"

"Both," Caprisi said as he watched the crowds hustling down the street. "There's something wrong with this." He swung around toward his companion. "Lu's men abducted the doorman, under our noses, a full twelve hours after Lena had been murdered. Does that make any sense to you?"

"What do you mean?"

"If Lu was behind the murder, why not remove the doorman at once, in the middle of the night?"

Field couldn't think of a simple answer and found himself instead thinking about what Maretsky had told him-or not told him-about Slugger Davis.

"Are you married, Caprisi?"

The American's intense, dark eyes rested on Field. "You're persistent, d.i.c.kie."

"I was once told it was my only attribute." Field tried to smile. "It's hard to know someone if you know nothing about them."

Caprisi turned back to the window and the street outside.

"You don't have to mistrust me," Field went on.

"I never trust Brits."

"Why not?"

"I just don't."

"Macleod is a Brit."

"He's a Scot."

"So it's the English?"

Caprisi didn't respond.

"How come you ended up with Macleod?"

Caprisi frowned at him.

"You're an Italian American Catholic. By rights, you should be with Granger."

"Some things transcend the small-minded . . ."

"Like what?"

"I was in crime. In Chicago. Macleod is a detective."

"You mean it was decided on a professional basis."

A thin smile tugged at the corner of the American's lips.

"So you came out here for a bit of adventure?" Field asked.

"There was enough adventure at home."

"Al Capone?"

Caprisi smiled again, a gesture that brought deep creases to his cheeks.

"So what brought you out here? I mean . . ."

"Jesus, you don't give up, do you?"

"I'm curious."

"Well, that's how you're going to stay."

"How old are you?" Field asked.

"What's it to you?"

"I just had a bet with myself, that's all."

"And what did you put your money on?"

"Thirty-five."

Caprisi's smile grew broader, his body breaking into a momentary chuckle. "Then you'd better stick to policing, d.i.c.kie Field, because my mother tells me I'm twenty-seven."

"Twenty-seven?"

Caprisi was looking out of the window on his side. "Yes, my friend, twenty-seven. Too much experience of the dark side, that's what it is." He turned back to Field, his expression suddenly serious. "We call them the cabal."

Field frowned.

"You don't understand, so I'm offering you an explanation."

Field waited until he realized the American wasn't going to expand. "Those who . . ."

"Belong to Lu. He buys influence any way he can and it's spread like a cancer. In the force we call them the cabal."

Field tried to decipher exactly what Caprisi was saying. "Who is we? You said we we call them the cabal." call them the cabal."

"Macleod, Chen."

"That's it?"

"One or two others. Most in our department are clean."

"But the rest of the force is dirty?"

Caprisi was staring at him. "Not all, Field, but more than you might imagine."

"How does it work?" Field asked.

"Someone runs the group from the inside. The commissioner is a joke, but is probably paid for his silence."

"You don't know who runs them?"

"We don't know for certain."

"Is it Granger?"

"He's your boss, Field."

"You think Granger heads this group . . . the cabal. He orchestrates . . ."

"He's your boss, Field."

"I'm asking you."

Caprisi shrugged. "Have you seen the way he dresses?"

Field stared out of the window.

"Last year it came to a head. We were closing down opium dens on Foochow Road. Lu didn't like it and neither did the cabal. For each raid, we needed uniform support, and every time we went out, even if we'd planned it at short notice, they were expecting us. We started to find we were being followed after work-all of us. By Lu's men, mostly, but they always seemed to know where we were going and what we were doing. And then they struck without warning. We were ambushed on our way out to a raid. Two of our detectives were killed, and Macleod ordered a tactical retreat, but he's not forgotten and neither have I."

"Is that when Slugger . . ."

Caprisi shook his head. "That's enough."

Field sighed and returned to looking out of the window. "It would be easier if you trusted me," he said.

There was a long silence, until Caprisi said, "I do."

"Why?"

"I don't know. Instinct."

Field took out his cigarettes and offered one to Caprisi, who shook his head.

"Macleod hates Granger," Field said.

Caprisi didn't answer.

"Because he thinks Granger is head of the cabal."

"Yes, but it's more than that. Macleod was brought up by his mother, in one of the roughest parts of Glasgow. He has a pathological hatred of disorder and decay and greed. His father was a womanizer and gambler, who ran off with a prost.i.tute and left them in poverty. So if you take a look at Granger, I think you'll get the picture."

"Is Macleod married?"

"Yes."

"Yes . . . but?"

"He married a Chinese girl, but the council disapproves, so he never talks about it, or allows anyone to meet her."

Field turned back to the window.

"He seems rough, Field, but he's loyal to those he cares about."

Field faced his colleague again. He sensed he was expected to give an answer. "I can see that," he said.

The Majestic was empty, save for two elderly Chinese women who were scrubbing the floor on their hands and knees, lonely figures in front of the big mirrors at the far end of this cavernous room. The porter led Field and Caprisi through a wooden door in the far wall and up a steep, narrow staircase.

At the top was a tiny balcony, with an empty hatstand.

The porter knocked once on the door and a woman answered, "Come."

It was an attic room, painted red, with long sloping ceilings and a single small cas.e.m.e.nt window, both sides of which were open. The woman sat at her desk, dressed elegantly in black, a silver chain around her neck, her white hair-long, like Natasha's-tied up at the back of her head.

"You've come about Lena," she said.

"Yes, but . . ."

"I've been expecting you."

She turned her chair, her big, bony nose less prominent face-on, and gestured for them both to sit. All around the walls, Field saw pictures and posters of theatrical productions, mostly from Moscow and St. Petersburg.

"You knew her, obviously."

"Poor Lena." She sighed. "Yes, Lena was one of my girls."

Caprisi took out his notebook and pencil. "Could I take your name, Miss . . ."

"Mrs. I'm Mrs. Orlov." Caprisi looked up at her. "No relation."