Field cleared his throat and nodded in response, not trusting his voice.
“Guilt is a heavy burden.”
“I know.”
Field turned around once more, to check again that they were not being followed.
“Just so that we’re clear, the papers were stolen,” Caprisi said.
“From the church? Yes.”
“The girls were buried there, but their papers have been removed.”
“Irina was buried there, as you saw, but the priest didn’t remember Natalya Simonov.”
“Someone is cleaning up,” Caprisi said. He glanced again in the mirror.
Caprisi invited Field to join him for lunch in the canteen. It was now almost deserted, only a few dishes left in the big metal serving trays. Field again ordered beef. He wished, as he sat down, that he’d been able to think of a quick excuse for taking lunch somewhere else.
“Macleod has got two Chinese tecs in plain clothes doing door-to-door down Avenue Joffre,” the American said. “They’ll be less conspicuous and should turn up the Russian girls’ addresses.”
“Good.”
They ate for a while in silence. Caprisi went to get two glasses from the side and a jug of purified water from the end of the table. Field nodded when he was offered some.
“You going to say anything?” the American asked.
Field shook his head. “Probably not.”
“Get out of bed on the wrong side?”
“Something like that.”
“You going to tell me what’s bothering you?”
Field hesitated. He recalled the catch in Caprisi’s voice as he’d talked of the dead Russian girl, and the compassion in his eyes. Then he thought of the telephone call. “Are we right to trust each other?” he asked.
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s just a question.”
Caprisi sighed. He shook his head and leaned back in his chair. “Jesus Christ, Field.”
Field held his stare.
The American gestured with his glass, his dark eyes again intense. “I tell you what. I’m going to make a conscious effort not to be insulted by this, my friend, and, as an act of sentimental generosity, I’m going to put it down to the fact that you’re new to all this.”
Field shifted uneasily in his seat.
“You were making an accusation?”
Field closed his eyes for a moment, exhausted. “No.”
“Just a sense of disillusionment?”
“Yes.”
“It comes to us all.” There was a long silence. Caprisi put his glass down. “You asked about Al Capone.”
“Yes.”
“Everybody knows about Capone, but he started as the lieutenant to someone else.”
Field shook his head.
“John Torrio. After Prohibition, he began bootlegging in Chicago when Big Bill Thompson was mayor. He was clever. Sophisticated and diplomatic, not a thug like Capone. He believed in total control. All officers got bribed according to their rank. All elections were rigged.” Caprisi paused. “They didn’t throw you out if you weren’t on the take, but you couldn’t get anything done, and everyone thought you kind of strange. Prohibition was the enemy. Everyone in the city thought it was crazy, everyone drank. But you know what? That let the genie out of the bottle, and now it’s out, no one will ever get it back in.” Caprisi picked up a forkful of food. “John Torrio retired to Italy last year. Know how much he had in the bank?”
Field shook his head again.
“Thirty million U.S. dollars. Thirty million in five years. No one in organized crime ever made that much money before.”
“Did you know Capone?”
Caprisi shook his head.
“Then why are you telling me about it?”
“I’m trying to explain.”
“Explain what?”
“You don’t understand the nature of this city. Every man who comes to serve here comes to escape or to enrich himself. No one belongs here, so I guess that makes it worse than Chicago. Men come out to make something for themselves and the choice is simple. They can be honest, save a little, go home with a pension and live a modest life. Or they can get rich in a way they never imagined, by turning a blind eye . . . turning their eyes
