“Maybe Krauss is wrong.”

Caprisi slammed his fist down on one of the washbasins.

“Prokopieff tailed me there,” Chen said. “How fucking stupid does he think I am?”

Caprisi’s frown deepened. “He tailed you?”

“From here. I went on foot, down Foochow, and he was there… sticking out…”

“Did he want you to see him?”

Chen shrugged.

“All right,” Caprisi said. “This feels to me like we’re going down the same road that led us into trouble before with the opium dens. Wherever possible, we have to work together. If we leave this building to do anything, we should try always to be together, and armed.”

The door opened and a uniformed Chinese officer walked in. He was young-just a constable-and he nodded at Chen respectfully.

Caprisi took Field down to the car but wouldn’t tell him where they were going. They drove through the French Concession and out toward the edge of the old Chinese town before going on foot. The day had lost its heat, but not yet its light. Dust kicked up by the human traffic hung beneath the curved rooftops of the buildings that lined the narrow lane along which they walked.

They turned into a still-narrower alley, passing tiny shops with carved, inlaid wooden shutters, beneath paper lanterns that had not yet been lit. They could hear the sound of a flute, and ahead of them a group of small boys was playing in the dirt. The smell of human excrement made Field gag.

They turned into a tailor’s shop. Every inch of space had been used to the full. A dummy stood in the middle of a square cutting table. There was a mirror on the far wall and only just enough room to stand. Caprisi was smiling. “The best tailor in Shanghai. We’re going to get you out of that suit.”

“I…”

“You can pay me back.”

The old man smiled and held up his tape measure. A young boy stood beside him, his face expectant, and Field felt it was churlish to complain. He allowed himself to be measured while Caprisi talked to the man in rapid Shanghainese. As he watched and listened, he realized how little experience he had with the local people, beyond his day-to-day police work or his living quarters at Carter Road. He admired the ease with which Caprisi slipped into conversation with them.

“He asks if all my friends are this tall,” Caprisi said.

“I got that bit.”

“He’s asking about Lu.”

“I heard his name mentioned.”

“Says Lu’s men boast they control all of the police in Shanghai.”

Field didn’t respond.

“I told him Lu’s men were in for a surprise.”

The old man thrust the tape measure roughly into Field’s groin and pushed him irritably when he did not turn quickly enough. Then he pulled out a book of cloth samples and flicked through it before pointing at the one he thought most suitable.

“I explained that it was for summer use.”

“That’s fine.”

Uneasy about Caprisi’s generosity, and uncomfortable with the tailor’s brusqueness, Field couldn’t wait to get out. He stood in the alley as the American continued to talk to the old man.

“Ready in two days,” Caprisi said when he emerged.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“No really, it was-”

“One good deed deserves another.”

Field looked blank.

“I like having a partner who knows how to fight.”

Field smiled.

“There’s a teahouse around the corner,” Caprisi said. They stepped over a prostrate beggar and walked up to a building with a low entrance and dark wooden panels along its hall.

The tearoom overlooked a small but pretty oriental garden, the delicate sound of its fountain still audible above the hubbub. They were shown to a table and Caprisi ordered.

“You’ve been here before,” Field said when the waiter disappeared.

“A few times.”

“You have Chinese friends here. In the city, I mean.”

“Some.” Caprisi looked at him. “You’ll get there, Field. It’s not just about language.” The American touched his forehead. “You have to want to understand the people, and most foreigners don’t.”

Field lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair. “Doesn’t the poverty bother you?”

“Of course.”

“I worry that it doesn’t bother me enough.”

“There’s poverty everywhere.”

“Yes, but it’s so extreme here.” Field leaned forward again. “And yet, it doesn’t put me off the city. It doesn’t stop me being excited about being here. It doesn’t repel me. I feel guilty about that.”

“You’ll get over it.”

Field looked at the American. “So why do you stay?”

Caprisi sucked on his cigarette. “It feels like home now.”

“I’m not sure what that means anymore.”

The American didn’t answer.

“You won’t go back to Chicago?”

Caprisi shook his head.

“Never?”

“Probably not.”

“You don’t have family there?”

Caprisi’s jaw tightened.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

“It’s all right. I don’t much like talking about the past, that’s all.”

Field nodded and the American’s face softened again. “I understand.” After a few moments Field added, “I feel the same.”

The waiter returned with a tray. He placed a red and gold china teapot in the center of the table and a cup and saucer grudgingly in front of each of them.

“You see?” Caprisi said as he moved away. “We’re foreigners. We’ll always be foreigners.”

Field watched him pour the tea. “It seems to me sometimes,” he said, “that everyone here is escaping, in one way or another.”

“Except for the ones who can’t.”

Field frowned.

“Look at the Russians. The girl I saw you mooning at.” Caprisi smiled as Field’s face reddened. “It’s a gilded cage, but that doesn’t stop it being a cage.”

“I suppose…”

“Where can they go? No visas. No passport. They don’t belong anywhere anymore, and yet they once inhabited a world they had every reason to believe would last forever.” Caprisi fell silent. “You say you feel the same, polar bear, but I don’t think we can begin to understand.”

Fifteen

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.

My dear Richard, Geoffrey had written. It was good to see you again after all these years and to welcome you to Shanghai, albeit belatedly, for which, again, many apologies. I’m afraid the workload of a municipal secretary is rather a burdensome one.

We would be delighted if you could join us for a late supper tonight at home, however. I believe you have the address. About ten should do it, though alternatively you could join me earlier at a function at the headquarters of the Hong Kong Shanghai Bank, and we might manage a drink before dinner. I have a talk to give at eight-some local worthy women-but should be free by nine. It’s in the conference room on the first floor. Mention my name at the door and explain who you are.

Penelope and I would be delighted if you would treat our home as your own during your time here. We know how lonely it can be to be so far away. I’m rarely in during the early evening, but Penelope usually is and would be very pleased to see you whenever you wish.

Fond regards, Geoffrey.

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.