"Have you ever been in love, Field?"

"I don't know."

"Then you never have been." Caprisi sighed. "We had what both our parents had, and it was all we wanted and the boy was a blessing. He was a G.o.d-given extra. Do you believe in G.o.d, Field?"

"No."

"There's nothing out there, just darkness?"

"I don't know what's out there, but I don't think it's G.o.d."

"Jane would have tried to convince you. She was a believer. The little boy was so loving, it made everything all right, you know? It was okay that there would be no more. We'd come to accept it, that he would be enough, that that was it. We were a family."

Caprisi was gazing at a point over Field's shoulder. The silence stretched between them.

"We went to a party. A christening. It was bootlegged, of course, and I always went for the whiskey. Jane hated that, but I guess it helped me. I guess it helped me not to think too much about work, about what was going on in the city . . . It wasn't until I got here here that I realized Chicago wasn't the only place justice and truth are in pretty short supply . . ." His voice trailed off. "She didn't want me to drive, but I insisted. We argued; she gave in. She didn't want to fight about it, she said. Not worth fighting about." He looked at Field, his face a mask of pain. "I got out without a scratch." that I realized Chicago wasn't the only place justice and truth are in pretty short supply . . ." His voice trailed off. "She didn't want me to drive, but I insisted. We argued; she gave in. She didn't want to fight about it, she said. Not worth fighting about." He looked at Field, his face a mask of pain. "I got out without a scratch."

"I'm so sorry."

"Everyone's sorry."

"I know, but . . ."

"You're satisfied now?"

Field didn't answer and Caprisi sighed. "That was unfair. I'm the one who should be sorry." He leaned forward. "It seems to me that everyone I've trusted in has been taken away."

"You don't have to protect me, Caprisi."

The American looked at him for a long time and then smiled gently. "Yes I do." His expression hardened. "You need to be tough on her, Field."

Field didn't answer.

"I'm sure you will be." He pushed his tray away. "She's not a child and I should think she's experienced at manipulating people. She was caught doing something that could see her in prison for a long time. If she has information, make sure you get it out of her."

"I understand."

"Do you?"

Field stared at his hands. "It's not wrong to be searching for something better, is it?"

"What do you mean?"

Field looked up again. "I've never had what you had. I'm sorry you lost it-truly sorry-but I've never had anything like that. In all my childhood, I have to really struggle to remember one happy day or moment. Everything was so . . . pressurized. We existed under this cloud that was my father's anger, and the first moment I ever felt free of it-happy-was the day the liner that brought me here docked on the Bund. I got off, breathed that polluted air, saw the grand buildings of the waterfront, and, more than anything, I wanted to put everything everything I had ever known behind me and start again." I had ever known behind me and start again."

"It's all right to want something better, just don't look for it in the wrong place. Be patient. It will come."

Field stood.

"And you need to find out why she's Lu's girl. Don't take no for an answer."

The cells were like everything that was wrong with the worst parts of Shanghai. The smell of the sewers, damp, and decay, undiminished by any kind of flow of air, created a c.o.c.ktail that a.s.saulted his nostrils the moment Field opened the big steel door and began to walk down the stone steps.

Caprisi's remorse and guilt came with him. Field had wanted to talk about love, and about what he felt now, but he knew what he had to say would appear ludicrous to anyone but himself.

He hesitated. What would her reaction be, here?

"Natasha Medvedev," he told the duty sergeant. "Came in about forty minutes ago."

The Chinese officer took out his pen and looked up expectantly.

"Field. S.1."

"She was signed in as C.1. Chen." He pointed at Chen's name, detective number, and signature alongside Natasha's name.

"Correct. We arrested her together, but this is now an S.1 matter."

The man looked doubtful. Field thought how absurd it was that the mistrust between the two elite departments of the force had grown to the point at which ordinary uniformed officers were wary when there was any point of contention.

"It's a joint Crime and Special Branch investigation," Field said. "I'm working with Caprisi."

He signed in. He put the pen down and straightened his jacket as the door ahead of him was opened and he was handed the key to her cell. He stepped into the gloom, hesitating as the iron door was slammed shut behind him. It was a couple of degrees cooler down here, but he slipped his jacket off and loosened his tie.

A man in the cell to his right began to cough and didn't stop, his lungs racked by convulsions, before giving way to wheezy, uneven breathing.

Field's footsteps were noisy on the stone floor.

Natasha's cell was at the end of the corridor. She was sitting on her bed, with her feet pulled up and her head on her knees, face down. Field watched for a second through the grille and, when she didn't look up, put the key in the lock, opened the door, and stepped in.

He waited, hands in his pockets. There was an open drain in the corner, next to the tin bucket that was supposed to be used as a toilet. The smell here was much worse than outside.

She lifted her head, spinning her hair back and away from her face. Field saw fear, not defiance, in her eyes. He pulled over a chair. "Do you mind if I sit down?"

"I think you will do what you want."

Field put his jacket over the edge of the mattress. His polished shoes looked out of place.

Natasha was still wearing her raincoat, but she'd taken her shoes off and he found himself staring at her feet. Her toes were unusually long, their nails painted dark brown, or perhaps green.

"What are you going to do to me?"

"I don't know. What were you doing there?"

"You saw what I was doing."

"Why were you doing it?"

She didn't answer.

"Your father was a tsarist officer. A proud man, from the way he looked in the photograph I saw. How can it be that you're-"

She had begun to cry, her eyes closed and mouth screwed up tight.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly.

She wrapped an arm around each shoulder, as she had on the day he'd first seen her, until her body stopped shaking. She wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve. "You English . . . so d.a.m.ned polite."

Field waited. "You're going to have to help us."

"Help you? How can I help you?" She was staring at him in disbelief. "Don't you know anything?"

"Then you'll go to prison."

He saw the anger in her face. "You think you can send me to prison?"

"You've committed a crime."

"And you think you'll find witnesses prepared to-"

"I am a witness. So are my colleagues. We're not impressed by Lu's intimidation."

As quickly as it had come, her defiance evaporated and she dropped her head.

"You will face a trial in the mixed courts, you'll be found guilty of spreading Bolshevik propaganda, and-I would guess you're looking at fifteen to twenty-five years. We can ensure that you serve it in one of our prisons here so that Lu cannot bribe the guards and get you out."

Natasha put her hands to her temples, as if trying to prevent this information from sinking in. She stared ahead, without answering, and then slowly crumpled. She rested her head against the wall, closed her eyes, and cried with a pain that Field had never seen in anyone before.

"Who was Lena seeing?"

She wiped her eyes again. "I don't know."

"Did Lu murder her, or one of his a.s.sociates?"

"I don't know."

"What about Natalya Simonov?"

There was terror in her eyes.

"Did you know Natalya Simonov?"

She shook her head violently.

"Did you know Irina Ignatiev?"

"No, I . . ."

Natasha rested her head on her knees again.

"I'm going to ask you one more time," Field said, his voice tight with frustration. "Did you know Natalya Simonov?"

"No."

"Did you know Irina Ignatiev?"

She shook her head.

"For Christ's sake!" He was on his feet. "You're all from Kazan. Do you think I'm an idiot?" He took a step closer. "Aren't you frightened, Natasha?"

She began crying again. This time Field moved instinctively to her. He put his arms around her and she moved against him, without resistance, placing her head on his chest.

He tightened his arms, hugging her.

He eased the pressure, lifted his right hand, and touched her head, smoothing the hair back from her forehead, calming her until the crying had lessened and then ceased, all the time keeping his eyes on the iron grille in the door.

"It's all right," he said.

She was quiet and still, but he did not let go. She pressed her head deeper into his chest and reached around to grip the sleeve of his shirt with her hand, as if clinging to a life raft.

"It's going to be all right," he said.

"No," she said. "It can never be all right."

He released her gently and stood. She was leaning forward now, still wiping her eyes periodically with the back of her hand. She looked frail, almost childlike in her vulnerability, a world away from the cynical sophisticate of his first acquaintance.

"What will you do with me?"

"I spoke to someone who knows you well," he said quietly. "And she said that, of all the Russian girls here, your circ.u.mstances were the most impaired."

"Mrs. Orlov, from the Majestic."

"What did she mean?"

Natasha lowered her eyes. "I don't know."

"If you don't help me, I cannot help you."

She looked up, the hurt deep. "No one can help me, Richard."

"You're wrong."

"No I'm not."

"In what way are your circ.u.mstances impaired?"

She shook her head. "Do what you want with me, but please don't ask me any more questions about it."