Pendelby nodded. He tugged awkwardly at his mustache.
“Thanks for your assistance. I appreciate it.”
Pendelby nodded again, then, without speaking, got up and disappeared down one of the corridors between the files. He emerged a few moments later with four thick, leather-bound ledgers. “The first half of 1920,” he said.
Field took the top book down, opened it, and began reading. All entries in the ledger were chronological. He soon realized that the best way to proceed was to run his finger over the names, so as to be certain he wasn’t skimming, but even so, it was difficult. The book provided a record of information about nonresident country citizens: every arrival, every departure, every change of address. Resident country citizens had their passports examined upon arrival and did not have to attend Customs to register officially, but nonresidents—like Russians— had to wade through a mine of bureaucracy for years. Every time they moved, they were required to inform Customs, and failure to do so could result in heavy fines and even imprisonment. Some names appeared frequently as a result, and many, if not most, were Russian. It made it a tedious task.
Field kept on having to go back on himself. He told himself that all he needed was one address to begin a proper hunt for Irina Ignatiev or Natalya Simonov.
After about half an hour—at a guess, since he did not have a watch—he stepped outside and had a cigarette.
When he returned to the room, Pendelby looked up and smiled at him again, before continuing with his own work.
Field glanced again at the columns in front of him:
Field had reached June 1920 by the time the woman returned, and he recognized that he was too tired to continue.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Field,” she said gently. “You can come back tomorrow, but we must lock up.”
“Of course. What time do you open?”
“At eight.”
“I’ll be here.”
Field dozed on his bed at Carter Road for two or three hours.
Swinging his legs off the bed when he awoke, he tried to rub the tiredness from his eyes. He washed his face in the basin at the other end of the corridor.
He nodded at the steward sitting nearby, then walked down the stairs and slipped out into the heat of the night. He wondered where Lewis had gone to school. Eton, almost certainly.
Field was carrying his jacket over his arm, no longer bothering to conceal his holster, which slapped against his chest as he walked. He put on the trilby Geoffrey had given him.
He thought he ought to go and see Geoffrey and Penelope. He wanted their wisdom and support and experience. But he no longer felt entirely in control of his own actions.
It was clear tonight, but close again, and there were damp patches under his arms by the time he reached Foochow Road.
The light was on in her apartment.
He stood in the shadows, away from the streetlamp on the far side, and lit a cigarette, rarely taking his eyes from the balcony above.
The door onto the balcony opened and she stepped out, a glass in her hand, the sound of jazz from the radio drifting out into the night. She bent over to water a plant, then straightened again. She was wearing a loose, bright yellow dress. She turned and looked down at the street.
His heart pounded.
Was she looking at him?
Natasha stood motionless. Then she turned swiftly away and stepped inside.
Field threw the cigarette into the drain. He took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
He walked quickly across the street and into the lobby. In the lift he saw the heat in his face, the sweat on his chin and lips and forehead.
The sound of the radio was louder in the hall outside her flat, and Field stood in the semidarkness, listening to his breathing. He stepped forward and was about to knock when the door opened.
She seemed taller, fiercer, more beautiful, her dress split almost to the waist.
He took another pace forward, their noses touching, then their lips, her mouth warm, her hands running through the wetness of his hair and wiping the sweat from his forehead.
Her skin was cool to the touch.
“I’m—”
“I’m weak,” she said.
Thirty-six
