At length, the one closest to Chen stepped aside and waved his gun to indicate they could continue.
Field walked forward.
“Where are you going?” Chen asked. His manner was calm, his words unhurried.
“To the school.”
“You’re going on to the office?”
Field hesitated. “Yes, probably.”
“I’ll ride with you.”
Field got behind the wheel and Chen moved around to the far side, nodding at the Russians as he passed. He slipped into the passenger seat, patting the boy on the head. He raised his hand at the men and smiled. Field moved off.
“They went towards Foochow Road,” Chen said.
“The boy says they took her to the Happy Times block.”
As he turned left, Field put his foot down on the accelerator.
“Not too fast.”
The blood was pounding through Field’s head.
“Slower,” Chen barked.
“For Christ’s sake.”
“Be careful.”
A tram had stopped ahead of them, a small group of people waiting to climb on board. Field began to pull out. “Wait,” Chen said. He turned around. As Field was about to explode, he gestured with his hand. “Go on.”
Chen looked back over his shoulder again. Field drove mechanically, the images around him disjointed and unreal, his gaze fixed on a yellow Chevrolet in front as they drove down toward the racecourse. “Slow,” Chen said, exhaling. “Pull up before Happy Times.”
Field drew up a hundred yards short, behind an old-model Ford that was disgorging a young family, the mother trying to prevent her two young children from running off down the street. Beyond them, Field could see Lu’s men standing by the entrance. Grigoriev was smoking.
Field took the revolver from under his seat and put it back in its holster. “Stay here, Alexei. Don’t leave the car.” He got out and walked swiftly after Chen. He looked back once, but the men had not moved.
Chen led the way round to the back of the building and down a narrow alley. The service entrance was a black steel door, beyond a large bin overflowing with refuse. Chen took out his revolver and gestured to Field to pull the door toward him. They stepped inside.
The stairs led down to a basement and their footsteps echoed. Field fumbled for a light switch.
There were four or five buckets at the foot of the steps, a pile of paintbrushes, and a broom. Field could hear the low rumble of a boiler.
He held up the revolver, his palm slippery against the metal.
Chen raised his hand, his head tilted to one side. Field could feel the sweat gathering on his forehead.
They found the stairwell and emerged slowly into the light of the main hallway. As he opened the swinging door, Field could see Grigoriev standing outside with his back to him. They moved silently across the hall, Field’s eyes never leaving the Russian. The front desk was empty.
They reached the entrance to the staircase.
Once beyond it, they sprinted up the stairs. As he neared the top landing, Field heard her scream.
Fifty-four
Field braced himself and kicked her door, hard, just beneath the handle. “Natasha!” He took aim and kicked once more.
He kicked again and again, until the frame started to splinter.
There was silence within.
The door gave with a crack like a pistol shot. Field crashed through it, raising his gun, Chen behind him. The curtains had been partially drawn. He blinked, trying to adjust his eyes to the patchwork of daylight and shadow.
The flat was silent.
There was the flickering glow of a candle in the bedroom doorway, and Field walked slowly toward it.
He saw her arms first, handcuffed above her head. She was almost naked. Geoffrey half sat, half knelt above her, his knife at her throat.
“Don’t move, Richard.”
He stepped into the room.
