By the time Field came out of the station, the day was fading fast. A rich red shroud had settled upon the buildings around him, the banners silhouetted against a darkening sky.
He walked quickly, gripping his holster, his jacket draped over his arm. He still had his tie undone and was grateful for the faint breeze.
Field hesitated at the entrance to the Carter Road quarters. He didn’t relish spending the evening in a ringside seat at Prokopieff’s circus.
But the Russian was out, and Field found, as he entered his own room, that a letter had been pushed under the door.
The envelope boasted the crest of the Municipal Council, and his name had been written in blue ink in a flowing hand.
Field looked at his watch and then at the dinner jacket that hung from a line of cord he’d strung in the window. It didn’t sound like the kind of occasion at which a dinner jacket would be required, but he put it on to be on the safe side, then walked out and hailed a rickshaw.
If anything, the dinner jacket was hotter than his suit, but the wind had risen again, and as he turned onto the Bund, it was strong enough to keep him cool for the first time that day.
The waterfront was still busy. A crowd milled about on the sidewalk in the semidarkness beneath the trees on the far side by the wharf. A bright moon now shone above the well-lit buildings, which were decorated in honor of the king’s impending birthday. The Union Jack on the dome above the Hong Kong Shanghai Bank twisted and snapped in the breeze. Field paid the rickshaw man and walked through a line of parked cars. A group of Chinese children was patting one of the bronze lions guarding the bank’s entrance. Local superstition encouraged them to believe that it would give them strength.
Inside, the huge wooden doors through to the main hall were padlocked, so Field turned back and walked to the rear entrance. A wide stone staircase led up to the first floor and, at the top, a sign announced that Geoffrey Donaldson, secretary of the Shanghai Municipal Council, would be giving a talk entitled “The New Jerusalem.”
Two stout women in dark jackets sat behind a trestle table, next to a uniformed bank security guard.
“I’m Richard Field, Geoffrey Donaldson’s—”
“Yes, of course. He said you might be coming.” The woman smiled and wrote down his name, then handed him a leaflet. The doors to the room had been thrown open and he could see Geoffrey already at the lectern.
It looked like a ballroom. The carpet was crimson, and huge gilt-edged mirrors lined the walls.
“Here,” he heard his uncle say as he moved closer, “we are privileged to have an eyewitness view of the future. And this is the future, let no one be under any illusions about that. China is a developing market, on a scale undreamed-of in the history of commerce. And which nation leads the charge into this land of promise? As the secretary of the Municipal Council, I should perhaps not be partisan, but I hope you’ll forgive me a little native pride.” He smiled, surveying his audience. “British companies are leading this charge. Thirty-eight percent of all foreign holdings in China are British, and three-quarters of our 600-million-pound investment is here in this great city.
“But let me put back ‘my secretary of the Municipal Council’ hat. We are not technically part of the British Empire here, as you know all too well. And I know you share my frustration that we do not always get the support from Washington and London that we feel is our due.
“Anglo-Saxon values have built the greatest empires the world has ever known: decency, honesty, integrity, justice, a sense of fair play. A society based on all of these principles is what we are building so successfully here.”
Geoffrey shifted his weight from his good leg for a moment. He touched his mouth with his hand before smoothing the hair around one of his temples. “All of us are, I know, offended at times”—he had changed his tone and was speaking more quietly—“by the poverty we see on the streets every day, and may I say again, I am not alone in admiring the Volunteer Corps of Shanghai for the tireless work it does—you all do—in alleviating some of the suffering, but this, let me tell you is the rub . . .” He leaned forward onto the lectern, a finger pointing toward the ceiling. “Every man jack out there in this city knows that if he works hard and is honest, then he can pull himself up by his bootstraps and secure his family a better future. That is what we are about here. That is why there is no city that has a future as golden as Shanghai’s. That’s why, I believe, we have every right to say that this is the New Jerusalem. A profitable city, of whose values we can be justly proud.”
There was a momentary pause and then the applause was thunderous, almost everyone—perhaps three or four hundred people—getting to his feet. Geoffrey raised his hand modestly. “I’m afraid . . .” He waited for the noise to die down. “I’m afraid I was intending to take questions, but have inevitably run on and . . .” He waited again. “I’m sorry to say I have some council business to attend to upstairs, so if you’ll forgive me . . .”
Geoffrey walked as swiftly as he could down the side of the room. Field found it almost painful to watch him. He followed him out of the room and into the lift. As he pulled the door shut, Geoffrey breathed a sigh of relief. “Sorry, a bit jingoistic, but got to fire up the audience, if you know what I mean.”
Field looked at the leaflet. There was a picture of Geoffrey in uniform and details of his career: Cambridge, service in the trenches, his Victoria Cross and beyond.
