And then the door was closing, she was smiling, and reality, once again, was spinning away from him.
Caprisi was standing by his desk, his holster on. “I’ve been waiting,” he said. “The manager finishes at six.” He pointed upstairs. “Granger was looking for you.”
“I’d better go and check in.”
“Come on, Field.”
“I’ll be quick.” He sprinted upstairs to his own office.
Yang was packing up to go and she eyed him without comment. Prokopieff was bent over a pile of newspapers, his jacket on the back of his chair, his thick suspenders off his shoulders. “Lucky bastard with that Medvedev woman,” he said. “You get all the luck.”
Field knocked on Granger’s door and pushed it open.
Granger was on the phone, his feet on the desk. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Yes, sir.” He put down the receiver and raised his eyebrows as he turned toward Field. “Department is using too many paper clips; the commissioner’s very worried.” He lifted his hand and lowered his feet. “It’s a joke, Field. You look anxious.”
“No, just in a hurry.”
“What’s the rush?”
Field hesitated. “We’re just going down to this factory.”
“Which factory?”
“One of Fraser’s . . . an electrical company.”
“Where?”
Field hesitated again. “Yuen-Ming Road, I think.”
Granger frowned.
“It’s to do with this Orlov girl. She made some secret notes about a shipment—sewing machines. We don’t know why it’s significant.”
“Well, be gone, man. Give me a shout later, tell me what you’re up to.”
Once they were in the car, Caprisi asked him what had happened.
Field explained, as far as he could. “She’s frightened of Lu,” he said.
And then, as if responding to the flick of a switch, there was the roar of thunder and the heavens opened again, the rain falling with such force that the driver had to slow to walking speed. Field watched people scurrying for cover.
It took them about thirty minutes to find the factory in Yuen-Ming Road, the driver frequently stopping and placing his face up against the windshield in an attempt to get his bearings.
There was a sign and then a blue iron gate, open just enough to allow a car through. The front wheels dipped into a large puddle as the car turned off the road.
“Stop,” Chen said, and the driver did so instantly. The Chinese detective was suddenly agitated. “There’s no security at the gate, why isn’t anyone here?” He raised the machine gun and placed the tip of it against the window. Both Field and Caprisi pulled out their revolvers. Field’s heart was pumping fast.
“Go on,” Chen told the driver. The man looked around. He was much younger than Field had realized, and he was frightened.
They edged forward slowly.
“Come on,” Chen said, his voice tense. The driver revved up and they shot through the gate. The entrance to the factory loomed ahead of them, its doors pulled back wide.
“Run,” Chen said. They threw open the car doors and Field followed him. Caprisi was two paces behind.
Water was dribbling down Field’s face, his feet and clothes soaking from the short sprint to the awning. He raised his hand, revolver pointing forward.
The roof was high; metal lamps hung down on long metal poles. In front of them, there were hundreds of wooden worktops, to their right a line of heavy machines. In the far corner, an iron staircase led up to a glass box that Field assumed was the supervisor’s office.
Chen’s face was harsh, his mouth pursed with aggression as he walked forward, swinging his machine gun in a wide arc.
He stopped and looked at his watch. “Not yet six and no one here.” He turned to his right and touched one of the big machines. “Still warm. They got out quick.” He dropped to his knees, and as he did so, there was the sudden roar of an engine and a loud bang as a car smashed into the side of the factory door.
Field was blinded by headlights as the first bullets whipped into the metal behind him. He dropped to the floor, deafened by the sound of the ricochets, crawling away as Chen and Caprisi were doing, trying to find cover behind one of the big machines.
Chen got there first and rolled onto his side beneath it. Caprisi slid beyond him as the bullets pinged off the metal. The rest of the fire was indiscriminate, glass from the windows high on the wall showering them like confetti.
There was a momentary lull. Chen pulled his knees up underneath him, jumped to his feet, and returned fire. Field tried to follow, but Caprisi took hold of his sleeve and shouted over the noise for him to stay still.
Chen fell back, hitting one of the machines and landing on his side, his machine gun clattering on the floor in front of them. The Chinese detective clutched his arm, grimacing in pain. Caprisi lunged forward and tried to pull him to safety. “All right,” Chen said through clenched teeth. “Arm. All right.”
There was silence.
