The banners above him swayed gently as two trams passed each other in the center of the street, but the air was still. A buxom, middle-aged woman walked out of the Wing On with an armful of boxes and headed for a gleaming Buick. Her driver leaped out of his seat to open the back door for her, and a small Pekingese escaped, yapping around her feet as she settled herself on the cream buckskin seat.
A Chinese woman thrust a baby toward the open door. The driver pushed her to the ground, swearing loudly, then spitting on the pavement.
Field made to intervene, but thought better of it. He lit up as he watched the beggar retreat to the side of the store.
Unusually, she appeared to be on her own, so he reached into his pocket, walked over, and pushed a one- dollar piece into her hand. She was young, her eyes expressionless. It was a moment or two before he realized that the baby she was holding was dead.
Field turned back to the car. His breathing had quickened. The driver was shaking his head. Field threw away his cigarette and took refuge in the car again. He leaned against the side window and closed his eyes.
Caprisi pulled the door open and clambered in. He was carrying a brown paper bag. “Central,” he said, tapping the driver on the shoulder.
“Get what you wanted?” Field asked.
“Sure.” Caprisi paused. “When we get back, you’ll go and see if there is a file on Sergei, right?” The American looked at him, his gaze level. “You know, about back there. I hear what you say, and I understand about your father and I’m sorry, but Lena was a prostitute, you know.”
“So it doesn’t matter?”
“I didn’t say that. I just don’t think it is a good idea to get so worked up about it.”
Field looked out of the window again. “You care about it.”
“But I’m looking at you all hunched up in there, with bunched fists, looking like you’re going to kill that little fucker.”
Field didn’t answer.
“You won’t survive in this city if you make everything personal.”
Field looked at him but didn’t respond.
There was a file on Sergei Stanislevich. Like Lena and Natasha, he was from Kazan on the Volga and had attended meetings at the
Field was flicking through the contents when Prokopieff came in. The Russian nodded at him. “The Lentov file,” he told Danny. Field noticed he hadn’t bothered to fill out any paperwork.
Prokopieff leaned back against the desk, crossing his legs. He was wearing long black leather riding boots that looked to have been standard issue for the Cossack officer he said he’d once been. Field realized he was no longer prepared to take anything at face value.
“Where did you learn to punch like that?” the Russian asked.
“School.”
“You punch like a boxer.”
“I was a boxer.”
Prokopieff smiled. “I would stay away from Sorenson. He’s not happy about his jaw.”
Field didn’t answer.
“How is the prostitute?”
“Still dead.”
The Russian shook his head. “Grow up, Field. That’s what happens to little Russian princesses. They get fucked, and then they get dead.”
“You don’t talk like a Cossack officer.”
Prokopieff didn’t react.
Field stood and put the file back down on the desk. “Stanislevich.” Prokopieff clicked his tongue. “Mr. Nobody. You think it was him?”
“No.”
“Put it down to an angry client.”
“Because she was a prostitute, or because she was a Russian?”
Prokopieff looked at Field sourly. “Because she doesn’t matter.”
“And what if there have been others . . . if there will be others?”
The Russian leaned forward, and Field could smell the alcohol on his breath. “It’s an English expression: you make your bed, you lie in it.” He laughed. “You fuck in your bed, you get fucked in it.”
Field knew that Prokopieff was trying to provoke him, but it was still a struggle to tear himself away. He walked to the door and closed it quietly, resisting the temptation to slam it. He took control of himself with each step down to the first floor, where Caprisi had said they would find Chen.
As Field passed, two scantily dressed Chinese girls were being booked by the duty sergeant.
Caprisi was talking to Chen by the entrance to the toilet on the far side of the room, and they both nodded as Field approached. The bench beside them had civilian clothes hanging along it, and the floor was covered with wooden truncheons, which a clerk had obviously been sorting through. Each one had a leather strap, though most
