“I see inequality, but I’m not a Bolshevik.”
“A reformer, then?”
Sergei nodded.
“You’d like better conditions for the workers. Shorter hours, better pay.”
Sergei sucked his teeth nervously.
“Do you think the system can be reformed, or does it have to be changed entirely?”
“I don’t live in the Settlement.”
“Have you attended meetings at the
The Russian frowned. “No.”
“Can you explain why Lena was doing so? After all, her father was an army officer.”
“I’m not a Bolshevik.”
Field paused. “I never said that you were.”
“Their hearts were not in it.”
“Their hearts?”
“Lena . . . Natasha.”
“Why were they doing it?”
He shook his head.
“Presumably they were gathering intelligence for Lu?”
Sergei sneered. “No one would ever tell them anything.”
“Then why was Lu paying for their apartments?”
He smiled again. “They are women.”
“So it’s about sex?” Caprisi asked.
“Isn’t everything?”
Caprisi stood. “We’ll want to speak to you again.” He walked toward the door. “And next time, you’re coming down to the Settlement.”
Outside, Caprisi lit up first, inhaling deeply and running his hand through his hair. He paced to and fro by the car, occasionally glancing up at the window above the Siberian Fur Shop. Field scanned the signs in Russian script outside the shops that stretched away down Avenue Joffre. They were all small concerns—one selling Shanghai borscht, another a hairdressing salon, a third specializing in wedding dresses.
“Jesus, you get yourself worked up,” Caprisi said.
Field didn’t answer.
“I thought you were going to hit him.”
Field put his cigarette to his lips. He couldn’t see Sergei in the shadows behind his window, but he knew the Russian was there. “I don’t like it when women aren’t treated right.”
“Then maybe you should go someplace else.”
Field sighed. “My father hit my mother, all right? I don’t like the way Sergei talks.” He tried to change the subject to cover his embarrassment. “Did Lu not know she was coming down here? Is that why Sergei is so nervous?”
Caprisi resumed his pacing, then leaned back against the side of the car. “I can’t see Lena taking that sort of risk.”
“Unless she was desperate to have something—anything—that stopped her feeling like a whore.”
The American looked up at Field. He flicked his cigarette away into the street.
“Is that why Lu killed her?” Field asked.
Caprisi shrugged, then shook his head. “I doubt it.”
Fourteen
Caprisi instructed the driver to take a detour down the Nanking Road and wait for him alongside the Wing On store.
Field opened the window an inch or two as the American got out. He took off his jacket, loosened his tie, and undid the top button of his shirt, holding it away from his body to try and dry the large patches of sweat. He took off his holster and placed it on the seat beside him, then pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his brow.
“Hot,” the driver said, smiling.
“Yes.” Field wondered how old he was. It was hard to tell. The average life expectancy for a Chinese was only twenty-seven, and many of them looked old before their time.
“Summer . . . hot!”
Field nodded and grinned, fanning his face theatrically. Then he reached for his cigarettes and got out.
