He hailed a rickshaw and gave the man Katya’s address. He knocked on the back door and waited.
Katya opened it, but only enough to catch sight of his face. “She’s not here,” she said before Field had had a chance to speak.
Katya tried to shut the door again, but Field jammed his foot in it.
“Please, Katya.”
“She’s not here.”
“Then tell me where she is.”
“She doesn’t want to see you.”
“I know the boy was Natalya’s.”
Katya faltered, easing the pressure on Field’s foot.
Ivan said something in Russian behind her. Katya opened the door further, without answering.
“Can I come in?”
“Not here,” Ivan said. He sounded nervous and frail, and his eyes anxiously scanned the garden over Field’s shoulder.
“The boy,” Field said. “She and the boy are in danger. The boy can probably identify Natalya’s killer. The . . .” Field sighed in frustration. Their English wasn’t up to an explanation of the threat posed by the police investigation. If Lu felt they were close to identifying the killer, he wouldn’t hesitate to liquidate the boy. “They are in danger. I have to find them. I have to take them to a safe place.”
They both looked at him with pained disbelief.
“Does she know what happens in that orphanage?” Field cleared his throat, thinking of the picture of the handsome little boy inside. “Boys are taken for Lu to abuse, and then they’re disposed of.”
“Not here,” Ivan said. Field didn’t know if he’d understood any of it.
“Please go,” Katya pleaded.
“I must see her.”
“Not here,” Ivan said, more firmly this time.
“Please get a message to her.”
“She left here,” Katya said, “and told us she would be back to see us soon. We do not know where she is.”
“Is she inside?”
“No,” they said in unison. “No,” Katya added for emphasis.
“She said that she would come here if she was ever in trouble,” Field lied.
“We do not know where she is. Please leave us.”
Field hesitated, then turned away and walked slowly down the path toward the gate, willing them to call him back.
He stepped out into the street, leaned against the railings, and then sat down, his head in his hands, trying to think.
He pushed himself to his feet again and dusted himself down. He lit a cigarette, threw the rest of the pack to a beggar, along with his matches, and strode down toward Avenue Joffre, where he hailed another rickshaw.
He allowed himself to look back once, but there was no one at the gate.
Forty-one
Sergei Stanislevich wasn’t in his apartment, but Field found him in the cafe opposite. He pulled up a chair. The Russian was reading a copy of the
“Coffee,” Field told the waiter. “White, no sugar.”
“Black,” Sergei said.
The man retreated behind the bar.
“Well, well,” Sergei said, blowing cigarette smoke into the air, “this is becoming one of your favorite places.” He smiled to himself. “I saw you here only yesterday, I think.”
“I need to find Natasha.”
“Who doesn’t?”
Field stared at him.
“Everyone is looking for Natasha.” He sighed theatrically, well aware of the impact of his words. “So beautiful, so dangerous.”
The waiter brought their coffee and waited, notepad poised, to see if they would order anything else. Field shook his head as Sergei lit another cigarette from the stub of his first.
“Yes, everyone longs for Natasha,” Sergei continued. “Everyone is in love with her. That is her skill. But only the richest can afford her.”
