“That’s what I said, yes.”
“He wasn’t Chinese? There was no way she could have been covering up for—”
“Why should she cover up that? Everyone knew Lu owned her. Owned her apartment, her clothes, her—”
“So it wasn’t Lu?”
“You’re not listening. Englishman.”
“There is no chance that you are mistaken?”
“She was drunk, I not so much. She did not intend to tell me and knew, once she had done so, that she should not have. But she did not worry. She trusted me.”
“Did she give any clue as to this man’s identity? Did she mention the company he worked for? Did she mention Fraser’s?”
He shook his head. “No. Rich, powerful. Decent. That’s what she said. He had promised her a new life. A passport—a British passport—money, a new life somewhere outside Shanghai.” Sergei looked at Field soberly. “She believed him. She wrote to her sister in Harbin, to get her—”
“That’s what Lu had on Lena?”
Sergei looked puzzled.
“Anything Lena did wrong would be taken out on the sister?”
Sergei nodded slowly. “She sent the girl to Harbin, but she knew Lu could find her if he wanted. She said he believed in insurance policies.”
“The Englishman,” Field said. “He was a businessman, a taipan?”
“I should think so. Even when she was drunk, she would not say.”
“Tell me about the shipments.”
“What shipments?” Sergei began to get up.
“Sit down.”
“I want some water.”
“In a minute.” Field stood. “Hidden in Lena’s apartment was a list of shipments—consignments of sewing machines bound for various European cities. There’s one leaving this weekend. The
Sergei’s eyes darted left and right. “I don’t know.”
“Yes you do.”
“I know nothing about them.”
The Russian was looking down at the floor again, and Field moved swiftly, taking a pace toward him and smacking him across the side of the face before Sergei had had a chance to protect himself.
He lay whimpering on the bed, curled up in a ball. Caprisi still didn’t move.
“Jesus . . . Jesus . . . ,” Sergei groaned.
“Quickly.”
“I don’t know.” Sergei was crying now. “Drugs. That’s what she said. The best opium.”
Field pulled him upright. “We’ve worked that out, but what’s the deal?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean what’s the deal, Sergei? How does it work?”
“It’s a syndicate. It’s about connections. Lu provides the opium and then they stack it into the machines and import huge quantities of it into Europe. The authorities here, the police . . .”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. She just said it was cast iron, that they knew they would never be caught, because they had everyone at every level tied down, all the way through to the destinations.”
“Why was Lena making these notes?”
“What do you mean?”
“What I said, Sergei. Why was Lena taking notes? How was she finding this stuff out, and why was she keeping a note of it?”
The Russian was shaking now. “I don’t know. Her lover told her, or she overheard. I don’t know. It was her attempt at an insurance policy. She would go to the press, she said, if they didn’t give her what she wanted, but I said . . . you know, I told her, these people are dangerous, maybe they even control the press.”
Field heard the siren of a French police car in the distance, getting rapidly closer. “Fuck,” he said, feeling for his holster and checking that he still had his revolver.
“That’s the—”
“Shut up,” Field said. “Is there a back way out?”
Sergei shook his head.
“A window?”
