Forty-one.

Sergei Stanislevich wasn't in his apartment, but Field found him in the cafe opposite. He pulled up a chair. The Russian was reading a copy of the New Shanghai Life. New Shanghai Life.

"Coffee," Field told the waiter. "White, no sugar."

"Black," Sergei said.

The man retreated behind the bar.

"Well, well," Sergei said, blowing cigarette smoke into the air, "this is becoming one of your favorite places." He smiled to himself. "I saw you here only yesterday, I think."

"I need to find Natasha."

"Who doesn't?"

Field stared at him.

"Everyone is looking for Natasha." He sighed theatrically, well aware of the impact of his words. "So beautiful, so dangerous."

The waiter brought their coffee and waited, notepad poised, to see if they would order anything else. Field shook his head as Sergei lit another cigarette from the stub of his first.

"Yes, everyone longs for Natasha," Sergei continued. "Everyone is in love with her. That is her skill. But only the richest can afford her."

"Natasha is not for sale."

Sergei leaned back in his chair and laughed, harshly and without mirth. "If you say so, Detective. Have you seen her apartment? Of course you have. I'm sure she will be content with a life of poverty, an honest cop by her side."

"We need to know where she is, Sergei."

"I've no idea."

"Is there anywhere-"

"How can I know?" He raised his hands, palms up. "These girls . . . they . . ." He breathed out smoke. "Sometimes they like a Russian man inside them again-I told you-maybe just to hear the language and feel their betrayal, so I do them." He smirked. "Lena-sometimes Natasha-they all want to be done." Sergei ground out his cigarette and leaned forward, conspiratorially. "They want to be done, so I make them pay. I make them scream!"

"You've slept with Natasha Medvedev?"

"Only when she begs me to."

Field had grabbed the Russian by the collar of his jacket before he had even thought to control himself. The table careered into the side of the bar, their coffee cups smashing on the stone floor.

Field had the Russian up against the window, his feet off the ground and flailing vainly, then kicked his upturned chair to one side and dragged him by the scruff of his neck past the astonished owner and into the street. He waited for a tram to pa.s.s, then crossed over to and climbed the narrow set of stairs beside the Siberian Fur Shop. Sergei no longer struggled or made a sound.

When they got to Sergei's rooms, Field kicked the door down, then picked the Russian up by his collar again and hurled him onto the unmade bed.

"Now," he breathed in deeply. "Sit up!"

Field heard the sound of footsteps pounding up the stairs and turned. He drew his revolver, only to see Caprisi appear in the doorway. They looked at each other for a moment and then Field replaced his gun and turned back to face Sergei.

He reached for a spindly wooden chair and sat down in it. He took out a cigarette, but neglected to offer one to the pathetic figure who now perched on the edge of the bed, his head bent. Caprisi didn't move from the doorway.

"Now, let's start again," Field said. "Where would I find Natasha Medvedev?"

Sergei shook his head, his face twisted in contempt. "How should I know?"

Field stood and took a step forward, his fist raised.

"All right." Sergei recoiled. "What do you want?"

Field was aware of Caprisi's eyes on him but could not stop himself.

"Who are her friends?"

"I only saw her at the Majestic and with Lena."

"Did you see her with anyone else?"

"No."

"You've never seen her outside the Majestic?"

Sergei hesitated. "I don't think so."

"You don't think so, or definitely not?"

Sergei shook his head again. "I don't really know her," he said plaintively.

Field took a deep breath and rubbed his hand across his chin. He sat down again, not looking at Caprisi. "Who was Lena Orlov seeing during the two months before she died?"

"I don't know."

"Let's try again, Sergei. Who was-"

"I don't know!"

"I thought you were her boyfriend?"

"I told you, only sometimes. It's what I said. Sometimes she wanted a Russian boy." He looked up. "Lena," he added warily, "that's what she said-to hear her own language."

"So who was the other man?"

He shook his head again. "She wouldn't say. English. Wealthy. Powerful." For the first time, he managed a look of something approaching sincerity. "That's why she was happy at the end."

Field straightened. "He was English?"

"Yes."

"The man who came to see her?"

"Yes."

"He was certainly English?"

"That's what I said, yes."

"He wasn't Chinese? There was no way she could have been covering up for-"

"Why should she cover up that? Everyone knew Lu owned her. Owned her apartment, her clothes, her-"

"So it wasn't Lu?"

"You're not listening. Englishman."

"There is no chance that you are mistaken?"

"She was drunk, I not so much. She did not intend to tell me and knew, once she had done so, that she should not have. But she did not worry. She trusted me."

"Did she give any clue as to this man's ident.i.ty? Did she mention the company he worked for? Did she mention Fraser's?"

He shook his head. "No. Rich, powerful. Decent. That's what she said. He had promised her a new life. A pa.s.sport-a British pa.s.sport-money, a new life somewhere outside Shanghai." Sergei looked at Field soberly. "She believed him. She wrote to her sister in Harbin, to get her-"

"That's what Lu had on Lena?"

Sergei looked puzzled.

"Anything Lena did wrong would be taken out on the sister?"

Sergei nodded slowly. "She sent the girl to Harbin, but she knew Lu could find her if he wanted. She said he believed in insurance policies."

"The Englishman," Field said. "He was a businessman, a taipan?"

"I should think so. Even when she was drunk, she would not say."

"Tell me about the shipments."

"What shipments?" Sergei began to get up.

"Sit down."

"I want some water."

"In a minute." Field stood. "Hidden in Lena's apartment was a list of shipments-consignments of sewing machines bound for various European cities. There's one leaving this weekend. The Saratoga." Saratoga."

Sergei's eyes darted left and right. "I don't know."

"Yes you do."

"I know nothing about them."

The Russian was looking down at the floor again, and Field moved swiftly, taking a pace toward him and smacking him across the side of the face before Sergei had had a chance to protect himself.

He lay whimpering on the bed, curled up in a ball. Caprisi still didn't move.

"Jesus . . . Jesus . . . ," Sergei groaned.

"Quickly."

"I don't know." Sergei was crying now. "Drugs. That's what she said. The best opium."

Field pulled him upright. "We've worked that out, but what's the deal?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean what's the deal, Sergei? How does it work?"

"It's a syndicate. It's about connections. Lu provides the opium and then they stack it into the machines and import huge quant.i.ties of it into Europe. The authorities here, the police . . ."

"Who?"

"I don't know. She just said it was cast iron, that they knew they would never be caught, because they had everyone at every level tied down, all the way through to the destinations."

"Why was Lena making these notes?"

"What do you mean?"

"What I said, Sergei. Why was Lena taking notes? How was she finding this stuff out, and why was she keeping a note of it?"

The Russian was shaking now. "I don't know. Her lover told her, or she overheard. I don't know. It was her attempt at an insurance policy. She would go to the press, she said, if they didn't give her what she wanted, but I said . . . you know, I told her, these people are dangerous, maybe they even control the press."

Field heard the siren of a French police car in the distance, getting rapidly closer. "f.u.c.k," he said, feeling for his holster and checking that he still had his revolver.

"That's the-"

"Shut up," Field said. "Is there a back way out?"

Sergei shook his head.

"A window?"

"From the bathroom you can jump onto the roof of the store below."

"Did Lena say that she'd seen some records of these shipments?"