Field was silent. The image of Natasha Medvedev hugging her sister and father in front of their home was imprinted on his mind. He recalled the easy warmth that showed in their faces and body language-perhaps, he thought, because it was so at odds with his own experience of family life. He could not match the woman in the picture with the one who could put up with the dour extremism of the office they had just left.

After they had got back into the car, Field leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes, recalling his father’s face with complete clarity and then his mother’s-the two of them kneeling in church on Sunday.

Instead of anger, Field felt only a deep, painful sorrow that life had not somehow turned out differently. It was true, he thought, that they were not bad people, just fallible beings, bowed down by the weight of expectation; his father ashamed of his business and social position, expecting and demanding more of himself than had ever really been possible; his mother wanting more from the love she had sacrificed so much for than he had been able to give.

For a moment Field felt at peace, but the anger at his father soon returned. Expectation was not a burden placed upon you by others; it was a choice you made for yourself. His mother had not made excessive demands; she’d just wanted some sign of the love she’d sacrificed her relationship with her own parents for, because otherwise what was the point in her life?

Expectation was a choice you made. If Albert David Field had demanded less of himself and put less pressure on all of them, then happiness would have been within reach. They had all been punished because he viewed himself as a failure, a judgment based on criteria that mattered to no one but himself.

By the time Field had finished with this train of thought, he hated his father all over again.

Rugby was usually a game for the winter in Shanghai, as it was in Europe. Field had not really considered this until he arrived in the changing room at the police academy. As he pulled on his black shorts and thick woolen socks, he remembered Caprisi saying that it was supposed to be an endurance test, a trial of strength between the two competing branches of the force. Last year an overweight Italian had collapsed in the heat and been carried from the field unconscious.

Field didn’t recognize at least half the men in this room, and realized most of them had been drafted in from outside the force, to improve the odds. He introduced himself to a burly Irishman from Belfast who turned out to be one of the managers of the Cathay Hotel and, Field assumed, a friend or acquaintance of Granger’s.

He laced his boots, then walked through to the shower area and poured himself some water from the purified jug in the corner. He washed his hands and looked in the mirror, grateful that he’d had his dark hair cut very short the previous week. The clean-cut face that stared back at him hadn’t changed much, though he felt he’d aged more in the last few months than in the previous five years.

He wondered what was going through Natasha’s mind as she attended Borodin’s meetings. What he hated most about the Bolsheviks, and about extremists in general, was their overwhelming certainty.

The tunnel emerged at the bottom of a wooden stand and Field turned to see Granger sitting with his wife about three rows up, wearing a trilby and a dark brown trench coat. Granger beckoned him over and Field turned, his boot studs making him unstable on the stone steps.

“Caroline, this is one of my new boys,” Granger said, standing and taking off his hat. “Field, this is my wife.”

The woman smiled. She reminded him of Penelope Donaldson, but was broader and plumper, her face and smile warmer. She had black bobbed hair and wore vivid lipstick and a bright red dress. She was a vibrant and, judging by the gold bracelet on her wrist, wealthy woman. Field wondered who the blond girl in the Cathay Hotel had been.

“Good luck,” Granger said, his voice low as he turned and saw Macleod rounding the far corner of the stand. “And watch the Yank.”

Field walked back down the steps and out onto the pitch. He nodded to Macleod as he passed, without any visible sign of response. The grass was thin, the earth beneath it hard.

The man from Belfast was throwing the ball to one of his colleagues, and Field jogged over to join them in the far corner. No one from the opposing team had yet emerged.

“David,” the man said, “this is Field, our open side flanker.”

Field was thrown the heavy leather ball and caught it, then kicked it into the air.

After a few minutes they jogged down the pitch, passing the ball along the line and back again.

At the end, Field found he was perspiring gently. He was grateful that the white-and-black-striped shirt he’d been given was made of cotton. He caught the Irishman’s eye. “Too much time on the boat and not enough exercise since.”

“When did you get here?”

“Three months ago.”

“You’re the picture of bloody health compared to the rest of us. We’ll watch you do the running.”

Some of the opposition emerged, Caprisi among them. The American was tying the knot on his shorts as he approached. “Ready for this, Field?” he asked quietly.

“I suppose so.” He hesitated. “The prints are in. They came up to me for some reason. They’re in my tray. No obvious match from the bedroom, Ellis says, and he’s still working through the living room, but at least we have them if we can find a suspect.”

Caprisi didn’t answer. He was looking at the referee, who had just ambled out of the tunnel. Field watched, too, as the man put his whistle slowly to his lips and blew loudly.

“The search begins,” Caprisi said.

“The search?”

“The search for knives.” Caprisi’s expression was a mixture of weary cynicism and amusement. “An Italian team got razors onto the pitch a couple of years ago, so now everyone gets frisked.”

Field’s captain was Eccles, the fly half, an Irish inspector from the Hongkew district with a fearsome reputation for drink and a nose to prove it. He exhorted them to “show the fuckers who’s in charge of this force.” His breath reeked of whiskey.

There was no discussion of tactics. Everyone automatically assumed his position as the whistle went and the ball was kicked high into the air in Field’s direction. He called “mine” loudly, caught it, and looked up to see the oncoming wall. He dodged an enormous lock forward and ran back toward the center of the pitch, only to see Caprisi sprinting toward him, his ears pinned back and his mouth open, like a predator closing in for the kill.

Field attempted to prevent the tackle, but Caprisi caught him around the middle and he lost his balance, hitting the earth hard. Both sides piled on top of them.

Field tried to free the ball but couldn’t. Caprisi tugged at it with one hand and pushed hard into his face with the other. Field was kicked in the leg, the knee, the groin, the stomach, and then the head. Someone grabbed his hair, someone else had an arm around his neck.

He waited for the whistle, but it didn’t come, and the ball was wrenched from his grasp. The figures on top stood and ran off one by one, leaving him facedown in the dirt in more pain than he could remember.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and was hauled to his feet. He turned to see Caprisi.

The American smiled and patted him on the back.

Two hours later Field was sitting in a chair in the corner of a tavern, clutching a full tankard of beer and feeling dizzy from exhaustion and alcohol.

Patrick Granger was standing on a table in another corner of the room, reciting, in full, Yeats’s “Easter 1916.” His melodic voice was resonant with emotion, as the last of the evening sun filtered through the frosted glass window, touching the side of his face.