Penelope waited at the bottom, fumbling in her purse for some cigarettes. She took one out and offered him the lighter. “You want one?” she asked as he lit it for her.

“No thanks.”

She was drunk now, but so was he. Drunk and disoriented and angry.

A car pulled up and she led the way out to it. As he climbed in after her, Field could not help looking up toward the Happy Times block. There was still a light on in Natasha’s apartment. Would Lu go up there later?

Penelope placed a hand on his leg. “Be a dear and open your window.”

Field sat up straighter, trying to prompt her to take away her hand, before leaning forward to do as she had asked.

She slipped off her shoes, swept her feet around and placed them on his lap. She smiled at him. “Be a love. They get so sore dancing.”

Field found himself taking two of her toes between his fingers and massaging them gently before moving down to the base of her foot. The skin was soft, her nails neatly painted. She leaned back and groaned. “Dancing in those shoes is bloody agony.”

Penelope’s head was on the armrest beneath the window, her eyes shut, as she slid her other foot against his groin. Field tried to push himself farther back into the seat.

As they pulled up outside the house in Crane Road, Penelope picked up her shoes. “Come on.”

“I’m bushed. I think I’ll-”

“Don’t be silly. Geoffrey will be very disappointed not to see you.”

Field hesitated for a second before stepping out after her. The number one boy opened the door as they climbed the steps of the veranda.

“Let me take your jacket,” she said.

“No, I’m…”

“Come on, Richard. You’ve been boiling all night.”

Field handed it to Penelope, who gave it to the servant. “Is the master in?” she asked, but he shook his head.

Penelope was already walking through to the sitting room, but Field hesitated again, looking first at the front door, which had been shut, and then at his jacket, which was being taken through to the cloakroom.

“Penelope.”

She didn’t answer. He followed her obediently through to the living room. He stood between a grandfather clock and an antique teak desk, beneath thick oil paintings of the English countryside, not dissimilar to those at the country club.

She had poured him a drink.

“You know, I don’t want to be a bore…”

“You are being a bore.”

“I have a very early start.”

“But you’re young and fit and Geoffrey will be furious with me if you are not here when he gets back.”

Field looked down at his glass. She drank, but he couldn’t face any more whiskey. Through the haze of his own inebriation, he had the feeling that she was nervous.

“Come.” She took his glass and placed it with her own on a low Chinese table before grabbing his hand and leading him toward the door to the hallway. “You’ve got to see our greatest treasure.” He resisted at first, then once again found himself following her, this time out into the hall and up the stairs. “It’s a giant gold Buddha,” she said, and as soon as he entered the room, he saw it beside the bed.

She turned to him. “What do you think?”

“It’s magnificent,” he said without enthusiasm.

“Would you hold on a minute?”

She stepped into the bathroom, slipped her dress from her shoulders, and stepped out of it as it fell to the floor.

She was wearing a white garter belt and stockings, but no underwear, the patch of dark hair at the base of her belly smaller and neater than he’d imagined, her breasts rounder and more upright than they’d seemed when she’d leaned toward him at the club.

She reached behind the door for a long silk dressing gown. She wrapped it around herself and looked up, catching his eye. He realized she had known he was watching.

“Richard…”

“I’m going to go now.”

“Of course.”

“Thank you for a pleasant evening.”

“Richard, you can kiss me good night.”

He didn’t move.

“I’m not that unappealing, am I?”

She walked over to him, flicking his lapel with one long finger, as Natasha had done two nights before. She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek.

“Are you in love, Richard?”

He didn’t answer, his face burning.

“I sense a man in love, Richard. Isn’t that so?”

He stepped back. “I don’t know,” he said, turning to go.

“Richard?”

“Yes.”

“Do I disgust you?”

“Of course not.”

“Then your haste does you a disservice.”

“You are my uncle’s wife.”

“And you’re ashamed of me?”

Field sighed deeply.

“Your uncle hasn’t fucked me for years. Did you know that?”

Field turned away again and walked down the stairs.

“Good night, Richard.”

Twenty-two

The car pulled up in front of the station in Little Russia. Field watched through the window for a moment as three priests, with long black beards and metal crucifixes, crossed Avenue Joffre and walked slowly in the direction of the Russian church. They passed a small group of Chinese children begging, without a glance.

He asked the driver to wait and got out of the car. He stretched, every muscle in his body aching after his exertions on the rugby pitch the previous afternoon.

The police station stood between, but twenty yards back from, two rows of shops. On one side was a tailor’s, on the other another fur shop. Sergei’s apartment was not more than a hundred yards away.

Inside, the station felt almost like a gentleman’s club. A wide hallway was filled with tropical plants, their leaves swaying gently under the ceiling fans. A Vietnamese constable in a clean, freshly pressed uniform stood behind the front desk. Field introduced himself, produced his identification, and waited while the constable went to find the officer in charge.

He tried to control his impatience.

The lieutenant was like a caricature of the colonial Frenchman. He was almost as tall as Field and wore jodhpurs, riding boots, and an open-necked, loose-fitting white cotton shirt, which emphasized the depth of his suntan. His hair was dark, his nose big and broken. His posture and easy manner reminded Field of Lewis. “I am Givreaux,” he said, his handshake firm.

“Field, S.1.”

“How can I help you, Mr. Field?”

“I’m trying to trace the whereabouts of an Igor Mentov, whom we believe used to live on Avenue Joffre.”

Givreaux shrugged. “I don’t know him.” He spoke with only a slight accent, but “him” was still clipped.

“We think he was here for only a short period, but our understanding is that he was arrested for an offense, possibly a minor one, at this station on or around May 1.”

Givreaux shook his head and exhaled noisily. “More than a month ago… I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Would it be possible to look through the incident reports for that day?”

“It is necessary for you to liaise with our intelligence section. They will fill out the papers, come down with you.”

“My secretary has prepared the paperwork. I understand it will be on its way today, but our intelligence is that this man is going to board the train for Harbin tonight. Time is running out for us.”

Givreaux looked less sure. “How will it help to look at an old-”

“It’s about being sure of who he is and what he’s been up to before we close in. He is part of a conspiracy.”

Givreaux pursed his lips. “I will have to call them.”

“Of course.”

“Please have a seat.”

Field sat in the rattan chair beneath one of the fans, enjoying the flow of cool air. He crossed his legs and lit a cigarette, glad to be out of the office. The question of the fingerprint file gnawed away at him. He heard Granger’s voice in his head: “It’s a time for knowing who your friends are.”

Givreaux came back into the room, his leather boots echoing on the old wooden floorboards. “All the officers are out,” he said. “I should make you wait, but…” He seemed to make a decision. “It is not such a big deal,” he said, mostly to himself. “The constable will go down with you. Put your head around the door when you are finished.”