Field saw the light of a candle flare briefly in Katya’s kitchen window. He waited for the door to open. The moon was brighter now, leaving only the fringes of the garden in shadow. A dog barked and was swiftly answered by others nearby.
Field knocked again.
“Ivan, Katya, it’s me. Please, I must speak to her.”
Ivan opened the door. He had put the candle out, his face ghostly in the moonlight.
“I must find her.”
“She has gone.”
“Gone where?”
He shook his head.
“I’ve been given an ultimatum. I must find her quickly.”
“She has gone.”
“Gone home?”
“Not home.”
“Then where?”
Ivan shook his head.
“Is Katya here?” Field heard a rustle and saw movement behind him. “Katya. For God’s sake, please help me.”
“She has gone,” Katya said, her voice firm. “We do not know where she is.”
Field pushed the door suddenly, forcing both of them back. Ivan stumbled. Katya was by the stove, beneath a row of saucepans, and Field could see the fear in their faces. “I know she’s here,” he said, but could tell immediately that this was not true. “Where is she?”
“We do not know.” Katya was tired.
“Where can I find the boy?”
Katya shook her head.
“Please, there is no time.”
Katya clasped her hands across her chest, and Field recognized the fatigue of people who have known fear too often and for too long.
“I must leave the city by noon tomorrow. There is a chance for her
Field took a step back. They closed the door slowly, without answering him, their eyes fixed on his. For a few moments he stood in the darkness, praying that she would come.
There were no lights on above the front veranda of the house in Crane Road, but Field did not know where else to go. He rang the bell.
He was about to turn away when he heard the familiar shuffle inside, and a sober, tired-looking Geoffrey opened the door. “I thought it would be you,” he said.
“I’m sorry. It’s late, I know.”
“Come in.” Geoffrey beckoned him over the threshold, placing a paternal hand on Field’s shoulder. “We hoped you’d come back. Penelope is still up. We’ve had to sedate Caroline. Out of the question for her to stay at home. Come on through.” Geoffrey caught sight of the wound on his arm. “Christ, man, have you not been to the hospital?”
Field said, “I think it’s all right.”
“Of course it’s not.”
Geoffrey took hold of him and led him through the house. He eased him onto the sofa opposite Penelope. She looked up, her eyes red, a glass of whiskey in her hand.
“The boy’s not been to hospital,” Geoffrey said quietly. “Tell Chang we need antiseptic, clean water, and bandages.”
Penelope got up. She did not acknowledge Field or meet his eye and seemed to be moving as if in a dream. Geoffrey followed her, unsure she was even capable of such a simple task, and he came back in alone, a bowl in one hand and some dressings in the other.
Field tried hard not to wince as the wound was cleaned.
“It’s a good thing you came here,” Geoffrey said as he pushed a swab into the wound. “It’s only a nick, but would have turned nasty. Infections set in fast in this heat.”
When he’d finished, Geoffrey wound a bandage slowly around the top of Field’s arm and secured it with a safety pin. Field watched his face, which was a study in concentration.
“You did this in the war,” he said quietly.
“Many times.” Geoffrey stood. “You’ll be fine,” he said, misinterpreting him. “I’ve dealt with a thousand worse.”
Field nodded. “Macleod is behind it all.”
Geoffrey frowned. “You’ll need a drink.”
