“Your name?” the blond Russian asked.
“Field.”
“First name?”
“Richard.”
“You are a police officer.”
“Yes.”
“Which department?”
“S.1.”
“Special Branch.”
“Yes.”
“You believe my men are communists?” Lu spoke in a low monotone, his anger barely restrained.
“No. Of course not. I apologize.”
They were silent.
“It was an accident,” Field said.
“No, Mr. Field, it was a mistake?” Lu shook his head once, curtly, his anger not soothed by Field’s apology. “The good reputation of the police is important to Shanghai. You cannot afford mistakes.” He sighed. “You are a friend of Mr. Lewis?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
Lu frowned.
“Yes.”
Lu suddenly pulled his hands from his sleeves, clenched his right into a fist, then opened it again, as if demonstrating the ease with which he could crush whatever came within his grasp. “You are a fortunate to have such friends.”
“Yes.”
Field tried not to meet Lu’s eye. He caught sight of his own reflection in a large gold-framed mirror that hung behind a small bar at the far end of the room.
“These are troubled times,” Lu said.
Field did not answer.
“Mistakes . . .” He tipped his head to one side. “Mistakes can be costly.” Perhaps it was Field’s imagination, but he thought Lu glanced at Natasha’s bowed head as he spoke. “You are foolish to have done this.”
Field forced himself to say yes.
“We should not meet again,” Lu said quietly. “No, we should definitely not meet again.” He dismissed Field curtly with his hand.
As Field turned, he saw Natasha, her head bowed in supplication, her hair shielding her face.
The blond bodyguard ushered him, none too gently, to the door.
Lewis was waiting for him. He didn’t ask what had happened. “This is Shanghai, Richard, not Twickenham.”
“So he can do as he wants?” Field asked, his anger returning.
Lewis looked at him, still bemused. He took a silver cigarette case from his jacket pocket, lighting up himself, then offering one to Field. “Listen, old man, all good things come to those that wait, if you understand what I mean.”
Field did not respond. A doorman emerged from the club and handed him his trilby, before quickly retreating.
“Bright young man.” Lewis smiled. “You’ll be all right.” He laughed, the cigarette still in his mouth. “Perhaps, one day, you’ll even be able to afford old Natasha, if he’s got tired of her and she’s worth having by then.” Lewis was still smiling. “It’s a joke, old man.”
“You seem to get on just fine with Lu.”
Lewis’s face darkened. “I hope you’re not implying what you seem to be, Field. I want you to be in no doubt that I’d like it very much if Lu didn’t exist, but until we find a way to bring that about, needless friction would serve neither of us. You’d do well not to fight what you can’t change.”
“That may be your philosophy, but it’s not mine.”
“Then you’re going to find life here rather tough going, old man.”
Field didn’t sleep. It was a cooler night, but in the tiny box that was his room in the Carter Road quarters, that made little difference. He lay still, staring at the ceiling, his whole body covered in a thin sheen of sweat. The mosquitoes had no respect for the nets or spray and he watched them gathering in the corners of the ceiling in the half- darkness.
He turned on his side, trying once again to shut out the sounds from next door.
They grew louder, something—Prokopieff’s head perhaps—banging against the wall. There was a low grunt, then a muffled scream, followed by the too-familiar sound of a beating, so that Field was on his feet, his fists clenched tight.
