"I'm fine."

"Call me when you get back to the office."

"Sure."

"And polar bear . . ."

"Yes."

"Be careful with that woman."

"Which woman?"

"You know who I'm talking about."

Field felt his anger flaring.

"You were around there last night, so don't kid me you don't know who I'm talking about."

Field could feel his heart beating hard in his chest. "How do you know?"

"I have my sources."

"I've noticed."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It's funny how they always seem to know what we're doing."

There was another silence.

"What are you saying, polar bear?"

"I'm not saying anything."

"Doesn't sound that way to me."

Field didn't answer.

"You need to wise up. I know where you were, because I can see it coming. It's impossible, Field. Trust me. And dangerous for both of you." Caprisi breathed in sharply. "If you won't believe me, then there is nothing I can do."

"Then do nothing."

"The possibilities are not endless, Field."

"So I'm told."

"Told by whom?"

"Never mind."

"If she is loyal to him, then you are being manipulated. If she is seeking a bit of fun, or if she really loves you and seeks an escape, then you are playing a dangerous game."

Field sighed quietly.

"You may be free, Field, but she is not. By a.s.sociation with her, you come into his...o...b..t. He does not allow his a.s.sets to escape, or behave as they please. She may not be a concubine, but there is no way she is leaving this city if he doesn't want her to. Please tell me you understand that."

"I think I understand perfectly."

"It is too easy to die here, Field. If you anger him, if you make him lose face, he dispenses death with the flick of a finger. Your death, her death, those of anyone connected to you."

"I'll see you later."

Field put the phone down before Caprisi could say anything more. The desk in front of him was neatly ordered, with two wire trays-one IN, IN, one one OUT OUT-in the center, next to a mug full of pens and a stapler.

Field returned to the files. He was still working through the latter half of 1921: 21st November, Ivanov, Dr. Oleg. Change of address: 21c Boulevard des Deux Republiques. Now conducting business from 78a Avenue Joffre. 21st November, Ivanov, Dr. Oleg. Change of address: 21c Boulevard des Deux Republiques. Now conducting business from 78a Avenue Joffre. Alongside this entry, a clerk had written: Alongside this entry, a clerk had written: Information pa.s.sed to SMP S.1 dept upon request. Information pa.s.sed to SMP S.1 dept upon request. Field looked at the name again. He had never heard of Oleg Ivanov. Field looked at the name again. He had never heard of Oleg Ivanov.

He continued with dwindling concentration for another half an hour or so, until he felt himself awash with meaningless names. Eventually, he stood and walked through the still-packed immigration room and then down the stairs to the Bund.

Field crossed the road and strolled under the trees by the wharf, watching the sampans and steamers on the choppy waters of the river. He pa.s.sed a cargo boat that was unloading. It was small, so must have come from upstream, carrying goods from the Chinese hinterland. The coolies and deckhands were shouting at each other, all stripped to the waist, their bodies glistening with sweat. Field put on his hat and squinted against the sunlight. He was not wearing his jacket, and his holster was visible, so he attracted a few curious glances as he pa.s.sed. A fresh breeze from the sea was pushing the pollution inland, and the air here was relatively fresh, save for the ever-present aroma of dead fish.

He ended up in the public gardens, opposite the British consulate. He sat down on a bench facing the sun.

Ahead of him, two young expatriate children-a boy and an older girl-were feeding the birds in the midst of an arrangement of wooden flower boxes and triangular lawns ringed by low iron fences, while their uniformed nanny stood by, holding a packet of seeds. When they had finished, she produced a metal flask from inside her blue pinafore and poured each of them some water in a green mug.

Field was grateful that Chinese were banned from the park. It was a peaceful haven in the heart of the city.

He stood and retraced his steps along the wharf to the Customs House. He glanced up at Big Ching to see that it was already almost two o'clock.

Pendelby was at his desk but did not raise his head as Field came in.

Field returned to his books, soon lost in the rhythm of his quest as his finger progressed down the page.

They did not take another break. They sat like a.s.siduous students, Field almost nodding off in the afternoon heat, wiping his forehead periodically with the back of his hand before returning his finger to the page. It was soon black, so he had to continue the task with the tip of an inch or so above the paper. Frequently, he would realize that he'd not been concentrating and be forced to retrace his steps.

As a result, he missed the entries the first time and only spotted them at the second sweep. Perhaps he'd become too focused on his search for Simonov and Ignatiev.

He stared at the page.

January 21st, 1922, it read. it read. Medvedev, General Feodor. From Kazan on the Volga, via Vladivostok. Temp address: 71 Avenue Joffre, Hostel Margarite. Medvedev, General Feodor. From Kazan on the Volga, via Vladivostok. Temp address: 71 Avenue Joffre, Hostel Margarite.

Field's heart started to thump.

Medvedev, Anna Natalya. As above.

Medvedev, Natasha Olga. As above.

He felt as though he had been punched in the stomach. Natasha had arrived here with her father in 1922. He had not died at sea, nor been buried in Harbin.

Field swung around. "Pendelby?"

The man looked up, startled by the sound of a human voice. "Russians have to inform Immigration of a change of address, but only for a few years?"

"Three years."

"So, after three years, if they haven't informed you of a change of address in the meantime, they have to come and tell you and that's it?"

"Yes."

"So if I find the entry of an arrival, then go forward three years and work back, I should find a recent address."

"In theory. Did you find something?"

"Not what we were looking for; something else."

Pendelby looked disappointed and Field turned back to his ledgers. He went forward three years and then began to work backward.

He did this for about twenty minutes, then stood. "I'll be back," he said.

"It's almost time."

"Tomorrow, then."

The immigration room was closing, a clerk waiting by the door to lock it after the last of the people inside had left. Field slipped through and then ran quickly down the steps outside, into the slightly cooler air of the Bund. He beckoned a rickshaw puller brusquely and climbed in. "Avenue Joffre," he said. "Church, Russian. Ruski."

The light was fading when they reached the churchyard, leaving a crimson stain tinting the horizon. He had to look closely at the lettering on the headstones that were not engraved in gold.

Field completed his task methodically. He started in the corner closest to the church and walked slowly down each row. As the light faded, he had to lean closer to each stone.

It was almost dark by the time he found them.

He stood stock-still.

The two graves were alongside each other. The inscriptions were in Russian, but Field could make out the name and date on the first: General Feodor Medvedev.

1.4.1871-7.6.1923.

The second was newer, the inscription free of moss, the gold lettering still bright: Anna Natalya Medvedev.

1.7.1896-1.5.1926.

Field could not understand the rest of the inscriptions, but on both he recognized another name: Natasha Olga Medvedev. Natasha Olga Medvedev.

Field squatted down. He stared at the graves until his knees and thighs ached.

He put his head in his hands.

At length, he straightened, ran his hand slowly through his hair, then smoked a cigarette in the darkness.

Field had not known her father was a general. He imagined an old man, in fading uniform, trying to cling to his respect in a city that must have d.a.m.ned him at every turn.

Field walked away fast, then broke into a run. He did not know if his haste was driven more by the need to get to her, or to get away from the graves behind him.

Thirty-nine.

Field went to the office first to check whether Natasha had left a message. He tried to gather his thoughts.

He told himself that he'd known she was a liar. And he realized it made no difference to him at all.

It was seven o'clock by the time he got to the Special Branch room and it was dark but for his own desk light. Yang had written him a note: Patrick called. You are invited to dinner tomorrow night. Penelope rang, please call back. Stirling Blackman telephoned from the Patrick called. You are invited to dinner tomorrow night. Penelope rang, please call back. Stirling Blackman telephoned from the New York Times. New York Times. He said you'd know what it is about. He said you'd know what it is about.

Field pushed the paper aside and saw that there was another page underneath. Natasha telephoned. She said it is tonight at seven at the usual place. Natasha telephoned. She said it is tonight at seven at the usual place.

Field sprinted to the end of the room and bounced against the wall as he careered down the stairs.

"Rue Wagner. Number 3. Hurry," he said as he climbed into the rickshaw.

He thought of her curling up beside him in the bed, cradling her fear.

He put his hand on the gun and watched the man's sinewy back as he pulled, his feet slapping against the road.

Field closed his eyes and tried to think clearly.

As they rounded the corner and he caught sight of the ornate bal.u.s.trades of Lu's house, Field shouted at the rickshaw man to stop. "Wait," he said. The man was confused. Field pulled out a ten-dollar bill and shoved it into his hand, waving to indicate that he wanted him to stay where he was.

There was a light on in the first floor, but Field could not see through the windows because of the protruding balcony. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the flat of his hand, then got out. "Wait," he said again.

He was at the junction of the street opposite, shielded by the shadow of a sycamore tree. He stepped in closer to the wall and pushed his hat more firmly down onto his head. He looked at the red door at the top of the steps.

Did they keep a watch on the street?

Field took out a packet of cigarettes. He removed one with difficulty, his hands shaking. He lit it, inhaled, then threw it into the gutter in disgust.

Field's eyes flitted from the door to the window and back again. He could see, in his mind's eye, the white gown slipping from her shoulders and gathering around her feet.

He could see her slipping out of her underwear, coming forward to allow Lu to run his portly fingers over the smooth, warm skin of her flat belly.

Field could see her beneath him, her mouth tightly shut, her body frozen . . .

Or was her pleasure real?

Field turned to the wall and then back again, his mind grappling with dramatic, confusing images of duplicity and debas.e.m.e.nt. Was this the end? Was this what she had antic.i.p.ated? Was he beating her now, a prelude to a far more violent death?