“It’s almost time.”
“Tomorrow, then.”
The immigration room was closing, a clerk waiting by the door to lock it after the last of the people inside had left. Field slipped through and then ran quickly down the steps outside, into the slightly cooler air of the Bund. He beckoned a rickshaw puller brusquely and climbed in. “Avenue Joffre,” he said. “Church, Russian. Ruski.”
The light was fading when they reached the churchyard, leaving a crimson stain tinting the horizon. He had to look closely at the lettering on the headstones that were not engraved in gold.
Field completed his task methodically. He started in the corner closest to the church and walked slowly down each row. As the light faded, he had to lean closer to each stone.
It was almost dark by the time he found them.
He stood stock-still.
The two graves were alongside each other. The inscriptions were in Russian, but Field could make out the name and date on the first:
The second was newer, the inscription free of moss, the gold lettering still bright:
Field could not understand the rest of the inscriptions, but on both he recognized another name:
Field squatted down. He stared at the graves until his knees and thighs ached.
He put his head in his hands.
At length, he straightened, ran his hand slowly through his hair, then smoked a cigarette in the darkness.
Field had not known her father was a general. He imagined an old man, in fading uniform, trying to cling to his respect in a city that must have damned him at every turn.
Field walked away fast, then broke into a run. He did not know if his haste was driven more by the need to get to her, or to get away from the graves behind him.
Thirty-nine
Field went to the office first to check whether Natasha had left a message. He tried to gather his thoughts.
He told himself that he’d known she was a liar. And he realized it made no difference to him at all.
It was seven o’clock by the time he got to the Special Branch room and it was dark but for his own desk light. Yang had written him a note:
Field pushed the paper aside and saw that there was another page underneath.
Field sprinted to the end of the room and bounced against the wall as he careered down the stairs.
“Rue Wagner. Number 3. Hurry,” he said as he climbed into the rickshaw.
He thought of her curling up beside him in the bed, cradling her fear.
He put his hand on the gun and watched the man’s sinewy back as he pulled, his feet slapping against the road.
Field closed his eyes and tried to think clearly.
As they rounded the corner and he caught sight of the ornate balustrades of Lu’s house, Field shouted at the rickshaw man to stop. “Wait,” he said. The man was confused. Field pulled out a ten-dollar bill and shoved it into his hand, waving to indicate that he wanted him to stay where he was.
There was a light on in the first floor, but Field could not see through the windows because of the protruding balcony. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the flat of his hand, then got out. “Wait,” he said again.
He was at the junction of the street opposite, shielded by the shadow of a sycamore tree. He stepped in closer to the wall and pushed his hat more firmly down onto his head. He looked at the red door at the top of the steps.
Did they keep a watch on the street?
Field took out a packet of cigarettes. He removed one with difficulty, his hands shaking. He lit it, inhaled, then threw it into the gutter in disgust.
Field’s eyes flitted from the door to the window and back again. He could see, in his mind’s eye, the white gown slipping from her shoulders and gathering around her feet.
He could see her slipping out of her underwear, coming forward to allow Lu to run his portly fingers over the smooth, warm skin of her flat belly.
