"They said they had been looking for me. They made a telephone call. I only had a few minutes . . . less. I took as much as I could." She paused, the fear returning to her eyes. "Where is Alexei?"

"He's hiding in the car." Field stood. "We must go."

He leafed through the pages until he found the most recent entry: SS Saratoga, Saratoga, then today's date and the sum of $750,000 Shanghai. then today's date and the sum of $750,000 Shanghai.

Beneath it was a list of names and opposite each, a figure. Field ran his finger over the characters as he tried to decipher them.

She moved alongside him.

"Macleod," he said.

"Yes."

"Five thousand dollars."

"Yes."

"Geoffrey Donaldson, twenty-five thousand."

"Yes."

"Commissioner Biers, ten thousand."

She nodded.

"There is no mention of Lewis." Field handed Chen the pages and watched as the Chinese detective cast his eyes over them.

"Lu will not sleep until he gets these back," he said. "We must go now." now."

Field did not move.

"His men will turn the city upside down."

They heard a vehicle screech to a halt outside, followed by the sound of shouting and running feet. Chen ran to the window, Field half a step behind him. He saw Sorenson getting out of the front of a truck, in full protective gear, helmet on and a Thompson machine gun by his side.

A black Buick pulled up behind him, and Macleod stepped out onto the sidewalk. Another car stopped in the middle of the street, disgorging four of Lu's men, each also armed with a machine gun.

Chen opened the door to the balcony, stepped out, and fired twice in Macleod's direction, scattering the men below as they darted for cover. Then he walked past Natasha and out into the hall, letting off two more shots in the stairwell, before reloading his revolver with one hand. "The roof?"

Natasha looked puzzled.

"Up to the roof?" he barked. "How?"

"From . . . in the hallway."

There was a closet in the corner of the landing. Chen rattled the padlock briefly before stepping back, taking aim with his revolver, and shooting it off.

Inside, a bamboo ladder was stacked alongside a brush, a bucket, and a selection of cloths. Chen took hold of the ladder and pushed it at Field. "You must go."

"I can't."

"Otherwise, none of us will stand a chance. No one, Field." There were more shouts from below. Chen ran to the door and fired twice more into the stairwell. "If we are caught here, we will all be killed. You get out, and Lu cannot be sure what you have done with the ledger pages. That way, we all have a chance."

"The boy. I can't-"

"We have no time." time."

They could hear voices again, coming up the stairwell.

Field pushed his revolver into the waistband of his trousers, took the ladder, placed it against the edge of the hatch, and began to climb. Natasha was staring upward, her face expressionless.

The stairwell was silent.

Field climbed out onto the roof and spun around. "The ladder," Chen whispered. "Take "Take it." it."

It was almost weightless. Field hauled it up and threw it to his right. He took hold of the hatch cover. For a moment Natasha's eyes were fixed upon his.

Field hesitated. He could see she was certain that she would not see him again. He shook his head slowly.

"Go," Chen hissed.

Natasha turned away. Chen began firing again and Field heard a scream. He dropped the hatch cover and straightened.

The roof was flat and covered in gravel. Smoke from three tall brick chimneys drifted toward the tower above the race club. He could see the dome of the Hong Kong Shanghai Bank in the distance.

Field turned. The breeze tugged at his shirt as he made his way to the side of the building, climbing over a series of telegraph wires. There was no wall or parapet. He stepped onto the edge of the roof, making a conscious effort not to look down. The building opposite was a foot or two lower, but it was a long jump. He thought the gap was about ten feet, perhaps a little less.

The roof he was aiming for had no ledge around it, either. A line of steel chimneys along its center billowed smoke in his direction.

Field looked down. It was a long, straight drop to the alley through which he and Chen had entered the building. Three armed police officers crouched down by the service entrance, next to the refuse bin. Another two were flattened against the wall behind them.

Field turned before they had a chance to look up. The telegraph wires left him with only five or six feet of roof. It wasn't enough to make the jump.

He heard more shots below and then a volley of machine-gun fire.

Field focused on the roof opposite. He moved back as far as he could go, until the telegraph wires were stretched taut against the back of his legs. He closed his eyes for a moment. He felt dizzy.

There was more shouting below. Field took his revolver from his belt, opened his eyes, and ran, his feet thumping against the gravel, the leap, the glimpse of the alley beneath him, frozen in his mind before his feet smacked down on the roof opposite and he tumbled onto his good shoulder, trying to protect the gun and stop himself from screaming with the pain.

He stood, unsteady, bits of gravel stuck to his shirt. There was more gunfire from inside the building behind him, followed by the steady thump of machine-gun bullets.

A rusty iron ladder led up to a raised platform on the far side of this roof. Field climbed onto it, the tower above the race club still visible to his right.

He clambered over another line of telegraph wires and walked to the edge.

The next building was taller, beyond his reach, except for one small section directly ahead of him around a pair of chimney stacks. There was a ledge on this side where he would need to launch himself, making it impossible to get a running start, and only a foot or two of s.p.a.ce where he could land, but he had no choice.

Field stared at the gap between the chimneys opposite him and the edge of the roof. There was a small rim along the edge, not more than the height of a single layer of bricks, but enough to grip hold of.

Field stood on the ledge, bent his knees, and then hesitated. His stomach lurched in the way it did when he was about to launch himself from a high diving board.

It was too far.

He looked around him. A window was open in the top-floor apartment of the building opposite, its lace curtain fluttering gently in the breeze. The alley beneath him was blocked at one end by a wall, so that there was no entry from Foochow Road. Lines of brightly colored washing were strung across it.

He could no longer hear gunfire.

Field closed his eyes briefly, then opened them, bent his knees and jumped, hurtling toward the ledge.

He hit it with the top half of his body, his hands scrabbling in the gravel and slipping, before catching the parapet. His legs dangled in s.p.a.ce; one arm and shoulder fought to stay on the roof while the rest of him hung down the side of the building.

Field gradually pulled himself up, but then slipped farther, his shoulder on fire.

He tried not to look down but couldn't help himself. He saw only his feet and then the long drop to the alley below.

He managed to raise himself again, tearing his fingernails on the gravel, scrabbling for some kind of purchase with his feet, managing finally to get the inside edge of the sole of his right shoe into a small crack in the mortar. He put some weight on it, but a piece of the brick gave way and he fell farther, so that he was now hanging down vertically.

Field closed his eyes and pulled, willing the strength into his arms.

It was slow, and infinitely painful. He grunted, pushing his feet against the wall to relieve some of the pressure on his arms and shoulder, trying not to lose his grip on the ledge.

He got his good arm onto the roof and searched again for somewhere to put his feet. He found another tiny hole with the tip of his shoe and this time put less weight on it, pulling himself up slowly until both elbows, then shoulders, and finally his entire upper body were over the ledge.

He swung his legs around and then rolled over onto his back, staring up at the sky.

Field got to his feet. He waited until he had regained his balance, then climbed onto the chimney stack and rolled over onto the roof.

There was a hatch directly ahead of him, but before touching it, Field walked to each side of the building to get his bearings. The front of this building was directly opposite the racecourse, and he could see the truck and cars still parked in the street below.

A small group of uniformed officers stood behind a wall beyond the entrance to the Happy Times block, but Field couldn't see any sign of them on the other side or at the back.

He returned to the hatch, lifted the edge with his foot, and then tipped it off. He ducked down.

He could hear a baby crying but couldn't see anyone. He waited for a few moments, then climbed down a metal ladder bolted to the wall. The baby's wails echoed around the circular stairwell.

Field stepped onto the stone landing and waited again, breathing deeply. A mother or nanny was trying to soothe the child, but it cried still louder.

He put his back against the wall and began to walk down the stairs, the revolver in his good hand, his eyes straining in the gloom. He saw a Chinese woman sitting with the baby, soothing it, caressing its forehead, rocking it from side to side. Field kept his revolver up, the sound of his footsteps echoing on the stone steps as he came down toward her.

The child's crying lessened. The woman caught sight of him but did not move or recoil, her eyes steadily on his. Field saw something in her look, compa.s.sion perhaps, then realized it was a warning.

"Stay where you are, Field. Lower your gun."

Prokopieff emerged from the shadows, the barrel of his revolver pointing at Field's forehead.

"Lower your gun."

Field hesitated. The Russian's expression was hard and cold. Field imagined that this was the way he looked when he hurt the girls he brought back to the station house.

"Your gun."

Field slowly lowered his arm. They stared at each other. He thought fleetingly about turning and trying to run.

Prokopieff shook his head. "Shot in the back while trying to escape."

"I'm not escaping."

"Not yet." The Russian smiled.

"You've done this before."

Prokopieff nodded. "I have done this before. Do you still believe an officer of the law can afford to be an idealist in this town?"

"Someone has to try."

"Well, now is your chance." The Russian looked down. "I'm the only one here."

Field shook his head, not clear what the Russian meant. The adrenaline still pumped through him.

"You're a fool, Richard Field."

Field didn't answer.

"But a fool is better than a liar." Prokopieff gestured with his revolver. "Put the gun in your belt. You will need it."

Field frowned.

"This city makes liars of us all, Field. Liars and cheats." Prokopieff straightened, putting his gun back in its holster. His face was suddenly weary. "What good would it do me to kill you?" he said. "Perhaps you still have a chance to do something useful with your life. Just don't throw it away making bad choices." He turned and led Field down the steps. "Through here is a side entrance. All the buildings are being watched front and back, but I alone watch this alley, so go quickly."

"So Granger was right," Field said, almost to himself, "about everything."

"Granger was a man to follow, but now he is gone. And all you can do is run while you have the chance."

The Russian put a hand on Field's shoulder and then pushed him out into the sunlight, the steel door banging shut behind him.

Field walked away in a daze, his eyes half-closed against the sudden glare. He expected to hear a volley of shots and feel the sudden, devastating pain of their impact, but the alley was silent.

Fifty-five.

The number one boy recoiled at the sight of him in the doorway at Crane Road. Field entered the house without further invitation and walked through to the living room at the back.

A record was playing. The mournful sound of a jazz band drifted through the open door to the veranda. Penelope was curled up in a ball in the corner of a wicker sofa, like a small child, staring at the lush green of her near-perfect lawn.