“I think you will do what you want.”
Field put his jacket over the edge of the mattress. His polished shoes looked out of place.
Natasha was still wearing her raincoat, but she’d taken her shoes off and he found himself staring at her feet. Her toes were unusually long, their nails painted dark brown, or perhaps green.
“What are you going to do to me?”
“I don’t know. What were you doing there?”
“You saw what I was doing.”
“Why were you doing it?”
She didn’t answer.
“Your father was a tsarist officer. A proud man, from the way he looked in the photograph I saw. How can it be that you’re—”
She had begun to cry, her eyes closed and mouth screwed up tight.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
She wrapped an arm around each shoulder, as she had on the day he’d first seen her, until her body stopped shaking. She wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve. “You English . . . so damned polite.”
Field waited. “You’re going to have to help us.”
“Help you? How can I help you?” She was staring at him in disbelief. “Don’t you know anything?”
“Then you’ll go to prison.”
He saw the anger in her face. “You think you can send me to prison?”
“You’ve committed a crime.”
“And you think you’ll find witnesses prepared to—”
“I am a witness. So are my colleagues. We’re not impressed by Lu’s intimidation.”
As quickly as it had come, her defiance evaporated and she dropped her head.
“You will face a trial in the mixed courts, you’ll be found guilty of spreading Bolshevik propaganda, and—I would guess you’re looking at fifteen to twenty-five years. We can ensure that you serve it in one of our prisons here so that Lu cannot bribe the guards and get you out.”
Natasha put her hands to her temples, as if trying to prevent this information from sinking in. She stared ahead, without answering, and then slowly crumpled. She rested her head against the wall, closed her eyes, and cried with a pain that Field had never seen in anyone before.
“Who was Lena seeing?”
She wiped her eyes again. “I don’t know.”
“Did Lu murder her, or one of his associates?”
“I don’t know.”
“What about Natalya Simonov?”
There was terror in her eyes.
“Did you know Natalya Simonov?”
She shook her head violently.
“Did you know Irina Ignatiev?”
“No, I . . .”
Natasha rested her head on her knees again.
“I’m going to ask you one more time,” Field said, his voice tight with frustration. “Did you know Natalya Simonov?”
“No.”
“Did you know Irina Ignatiev?”
She shook her head.
“For Christ’s sake!” He was on his feet. “You’re all from Kazan. Do you think I’m an idiot?” He took a step closer. “Aren’t you frightened, Natasha?”
She began crying again. This time Field moved instinctively to her. He put his arms around her and she moved against him, without resistance, placing her head on his chest.
He tightened his arms, hugging her.
He eased the pressure, lifted his right hand, and touched her head, smoothing the hair back from her forehead, calming her until the crying had lessened and then ceased, all the time keeping his eyes on the iron grille in the door.
“It’s all right,” he said.
She was quiet and still, but he did not let go. She pressed her head deeper into his chest and reached around to grip the sleeve of his shirt with her hand, as if clinging to a life raft.
