“Bien sûr.”

The priest studied them for a moment and then quietly turned away. Field felt unreasonably tense and thought that Caprisi was, too.

“You explained?” the American asked.

“He has the papers. He seems cooperative-he’s just gone to look them up.”

Field wanted to smoke but thought it would be inappropriate here.

After about ten minutes the priest returned, walking with his head down, as if deep in thought.

“Mais non-Irina, elle, je me souviens, je me souviens faire les papiers, mais ils n’existent plus. Pardon.”

“Les papiers sont… disparus?”

“Il m’apparait que oui.”

“Translate, please,” Caprisi said.

“He remembers Irina, but her papers have gone.”

“Mais, vous vous souvenez de l’ecrire?”

“Oui.”

“Vous vous rappelez l’addresse d’Irina?”

“Non.”

“Et Natalya?”

“Je ne me rappele pas. Peut-être un autre prêtre.”

“Nous pouvons voir les papiers?”

The priest shrugged. “Servez-vous.”

“Come on,” Field said.

“What?”

“He says we can look at the papers.”

They were led into a cramped office with a desk and three metal filing cabinets. It had a picturesque view of a garden through a mullioned window, and was much lighter than the church. The priest opened a drawer and gestured with his hand. Field stepped forward and began to flick through the papers. They were filed in alphabetical order. He looked through “I” and then “S,” which was in another drawer. He pulled out the forms on either side of where “Ignatiev, Irina” and “Simonov, Natalya” should have been and handed them to Caprisi. They were all the same, written in black ink, with the name at the top and an address next to the section that was headed Residing at. The names of close relatives were listed in the bottom right-hand corner. The next of kin for each of the deceased had signed at the foot of the page. For some, this section had been left blank.

Field took the forms from Caprisi, put them back into the cabinet, and pushed the drawer shut. He turned to face the priest. “Nous vous remercions pour votre assistance-y-a-t’il un autre moyen des apprendre?”

The priest shrugged again. “Je suis désolé.”

Field and Caprisi walked slowly through the church, the priest following them noiselessly. As they stepped outside into the bright sunlight, he stood behind them and pointed toward the corner by the gate. “Là-bas.”

“Irina?”

“Irina, oui. Là-bas.”

They found her in the far corner, the earth newly turned around her grave. It was shorter than Field had imagined, with gravel scattered on top and a simple, black stone. Irina Ignatiev, the inscription read, 1899-1926.

Only the year dates were given, and there were no homilies or expressions of affection, regret, or loss. It was as if she had never really existed. They looked at the grave in silence. In the center was a small stone flowerpot, but it was empty.

“Give me a minute, will you?” Caprisi asked.

Field hesitated.

“Alone.”

Field walked to the gate, lit a cigarette, and smoked it. Caprisi had moved over to a grave, two or three rows in from the far wall. As Field watched, the American sank to his knees, his head bent in prayer.

Field felt like a voyeur and turned away. He finished his cigarette, smoked another, then waited with his hands in his pockets.

Caprisi walked back in silence.

As they got back into the car, they both saw the gray Citroën parked opposite. Two men in suits sat in the front seat, with the windows shut.

“French?” Field asked, looking over his shoulder as they drove off.

“Seems like it. The French police are in Lu’s pocket. Maybe he has set them onto us.”

“How did they find out we were here?”

Caprisi stared at him. “Perhaps there is a leak.”

Field felt his face reddening again and turned back to face the road. The Frenchmen had not followed them.

“To save you having to go back to look,” Caprisi said, “I did meet someone else here. Her name was Olga and she thought I wouldn’t propose to her because she was a Russian tea dancer, but she never understood that it was about Jane, or rather that it was about me. I wanted to keep a sense of distance. I couldn’t bear any more loss. She got pneumonia, but her friends say she died because I had said I would never marry her and she’d given up hope. Was that selfish of me?”

Field saw the hurt deep in his colleague’s eyes. “I don’t know.”

“Her friends didn’t tell me she was ill, and by the time I found out, she was dead.” The American shook his head slowly. “That’s why I say be careful. Sometimes, if you’ve suffered as much as they have, love can create an unbearable sense of expectation, of hope.” Caprisi appeared almost to be pleading with him. “Do you understand, Field?”

Field cleared his throat and nodded in response, not trusting his voice.

“Guilt is a heavy burden.”

“I know.”

Field turned around once more, to check again that they were not being followed.

“Just so that we’re clear, the papers were stolen,” Caprisi said.

“From the church? Yes.”

“The girls were buried there, but their papers have been removed.”

“Irina was buried there, as you saw, but the priest didn’t remember Natalya Simonov.”

“Someone is cleaning up,” Caprisi said. He glanced again in the mirror.

Caprisi invited Field to join him for lunch in the canteen. It was now almost deserted, only a few dishes left in the big metal serving trays. Field again ordered beef. He wished, as he sat down, that he’d been able to think of a quick excuse for taking lunch somewhere else.

“Macleod has got two Chinese tecs in plain clothes doing door-to-door down Avenue Joffre,” the American said. “They’ll be less conspicuous and should turn up the Russian girls’ addresses.”

“Good.”

They ate for a while in silence. Caprisi went to get two glasses from the side and a jug of purified water from the end of the table. Field nodded when he was offered some.

“You going to say anything?” the American asked.

Field shook his head. “Probably not.”

“Get out of bed on the wrong side?”

“Something like that.”

“You going to tell me what’s bothering you?”

Field hesitated. He recalled the catch in Caprisi’s voice as he’d talked of the dead Russian girl, and the compassion in his eyes. Then he thought of the telephone call. “Are we right to trust each other?” he asked.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s just a question.”

Caprisi sighed. He shook his head and leaned back in his chair. “Jesus Christ, Field.”

Field held his stare.

The American gestured with his glass, his dark eyes again intense. “I tell you what. I’m going to make a conscious effort not to be insulted by this, my friend, and, as an act of sentimental generosity, I’m going to put it down to the fact that you’re new to all this.”

Field shifted uneasily in his seat.

“You were making an accusation?”

Field closed his eyes for a moment, exhausted. “No.”

“Just a sense of disillusionment?”

“Yes.”

“It comes to us all.” There was a long silence. Caprisi put his glass down. “You asked about Al Capone.”

“Yes.”

“Everybody knows about Capone, but he started as the lieutenant to someone else.”

Field shook his head.

“John Torrio. After Prohibition, he began bootlegging in Chicago when Big Bill Thompson was mayor. He was clever. Sophisticated and diplomatic, not a thug like Capone. He believed in total control. All officers got bribed according to their rank. All elections were rigged.” Caprisi paused. “They didn’t throw you out if you weren’t on the take, but you couldn’t get anything done, and everyone thought you kind of strange. Prohibition was the enemy. Everyone in the city thought it was crazy, everyone drank. But you know what? That let the genie out of the bottle, and now it’s out, no one will ever get it back in.” Caprisi picked up a forkful of food. “John Torrio retired to Italy last year. Know how much he had in the bank?”