Forty-five

The first glimmer of dawn awoke him and Field lay still, every muscle in his body screaming at the discomfort of the night. It took him a few seconds to remember where he was. He lifted his cheek from the cold marble floor and rubbed his eyes. His shoulder was cramped against her door.

Natasha had not been home.

He turned and paced from one side of the hall to the other.

Field took the notepad from his pocket and his father’s fountain pen. For a moment, as he tried to think what to say, he wondered if this is what his father had felt for his mother. Was it love that ruined you?

Field wrote: Please call. I will be in the office. Central 26522, extension 79. He almost added, I know about the boy, but thought better of it. He did not sign it.

Slowly, he opened the door to the stairwell and began to descend to the street. It was still early, a hint of color on the rooftops, the air heavy and close. He felt the stubble on his chin. He thought he could still taste Penelope in his mouth and it disgusted him. His clothes were a mess.

Field passed a line of bodies huddled against the wall of the race club and then stopped by its entrance and turned back one last time. As he swung around, a short Chinese in a pinstripe suit and black trilby stopped about twenty yards behind him.

Field looked at him, but the man made no attempt to hide, or to pretend that he was doing anything other than following him.

Field began walking again, listening to his own footsteps and the echo behind him. He felt for his revolver.

He kept a steady pace, skirting the race club and waiting for a solitary tram to pass before crossing the road. His pursuer maintained his distance.

In Carter Road, Field had thought to try and lose him, but as he walked past the church, the graveyard of which he would have used to shake off his pursuer, he saw another man reading a newspaper on the far side, and a third standing at the intersection ahead.

He slipped his hand inside his jacket and took hold of his revolver, then stopped. The footsteps halted behind him, but neither of the men ahead moved. He was ten yards beyond the church. He could feel his heart thumping in his chest.

His brain was clear. They would have shot him by now if that had been their intention.

He started walking again. The man on the far side of the road continued to read his newspaper; the one at the intersection ambled away down the street.

Field kept going until he reached his quarters, standing silently in the hallway beyond the porter. He took out his revolver and checked that all the chambers were full before turning into the common room and forcing himself to breathe more normally.

He poured himself a cup of coffee from the jug on the sideboard, took the copy of the North China Daily News next to it, and sat at one end of the dining room table in the middle of the room.

One of the boys came through the white swinging doors, but Field shook his head. “No cook.”

“Bacon?”

Field shook his head.

“Eggs? Very good. Build you up.”

“No thanks.”

The boy wiped a corner of the table that had not looked dirty with his tea towel and withdrew. Field sipped his coffee, then picked the mug up and went and sat in one of the leather chairs at the far end of the room. Pulling open his newspaper, fighting to concentrate, his eyes strayed to a picture of Bebe Daniels advertising her latest picture, Miss Bluebeard. He thought her mouth and nose were like Natasha’s.

He put the newspaper down and went upstairs to change. In the corridor Prokopieff was pulling up his suspenders.

“Good morning, Field,” he said, his accent thick and sarcastic.

“Good morning.”

“Getting up early.”

“Yes.”

“And getting out of bed on the wrong side.”

Field stopped. He looked at the Russian’s bald head and sallow eyes. “Been busy, Prokopieff?”

He shrugged.

“What are you working on?”

“Working hard, my friend.”

“Granger’s orders?”

Prokopieff looked at him intently. “Not everything is Granger’s orders.”

Field held the Russian’s stare, then unlocked his own room and slammed the door shut. He took his revolver out of its holster, placed it on the bed, within easy reach, then took some fresh clothes from the closet and put them on. His shirt had been neatly ironed by the hall steward, but was still musty and slightly damp.

He sat down, smoked a cigarette, and wondered if he should stay put. He decided that Natasha would not know where he was. He stood again and told himself that, if their intention had been to kill him, they would have done so earlier, when fewer people were around.

Field came out of the Carter Road quarters confidently, his hand tucked into the pocket of his jacket, gripping the butt of his revolver hard. He saw them immediately. Two were leaning against the iron railings opposite, a third waiting farther up toward the top of the road.

Field walked briskly, ignoring them. The man ahead drifted forward and allowed him the space to do what he’d intended, which was to turn into the churchyard.

He moved with less haste through the graveyard, as though he had come to visit a dead relative. He entered the front of the church.

Field had only been to one service here, but it was enough for him to be familiar with the layout. He sprinted down the center aisle, past the pulpit, and out into the vestry. The door was locked, but he opened a narrow window next to it and squeezed through. He climbed the wall behind and dropped down into the street.

He was about to run when he noticed another man standing on the opposite side of the road. He was wearing a white trilby and was not one of the three Field had seen before.

An expatriate woman walking her dog shot Field a curious and concerned glance, surprised at his sudden emergence, perhaps sensing his unease. Field brushed down his suit and began to walk again. The man followed and Field turned back once to see two of the others swiftly rounding the corner, the third climbing over the wall behind him.

Field waited for a black Buick to pass before he crossed the road. He thought there were four or five of them, if not more.

Inside the lobby at Central, a group of uniformed Chinese officers was waiting by the stairs, their Thompson machine guns propped up against the wall. Field passed them and climbed up to the S.1 office.

As he entered, he could see Granger standing by the window in his glass office, the telephone to his ear, almost hidden in a cloud of smoke. Prokopieff was at his desk, leaning back in his chair, the suspenders of his trousers hanging down beside his knees, his scuffed boots against one cubicle wall, his head against the other. He was reading a newspaper, a blue censorship pencil in his hand. He looked at Field steadily.

Yang stood from behind her desk. She had a note in her hand, and Field’s spirits surged until he read, Penelope called. It was timed ten minutes ago.

“Richard?” Field looked up. Granger was half out of his door. “Have you got a minute?”

Field folded up the sheet of paper and slipped it into his pocket. He noticed Yang was avoiding his eyes.

He shut the glass door behind him, banging the blind.

“I’ll take you up in a minute,” Granger said as he sat behind his desk.

“Take me up where?”

“I don’t blame you, Richard, but I would have expected to be informed.”

Field frowned.

“This is not a cowboy operation. We are entirely reliant on the council for funding, and to go in riding shotgun, accusing someone like Charles Lewis…” Granger shook his head. “We’ll go up in a minute. I’ll come and find you.” Granger pointed Field toward his desk. “You’re still coming tonight?”