The cigarette burned his fingers. He threw it out of the window, wishing the American detective were with him now.

Field looked up toward Lu’s bedroom again.

Had he killed her today, as surely as if he’d pulled the trigger himself? He thought of Caprisi’s warnings and was haunted by the look of pain that he’d seen so often in the American’s eyes.

He looked at his watch. It was ten past one. “Shit,” he whispered. He wiped his forehead. “Shit.”

Alexei had not taken his eyes from Field’s face, but a creeping sense of hopelessness prevented Field from meeting the boy’s eye.

The two children crossed over and spun their hoop along the sidewalk outside Lu’s front door. They were both well dressed, the girl’s blond hair in a pigtail, the hem of her white dress twirling as she turned to chase the hoop. The boy shouted something and ran after her. The Chinese servant who had been sweeping leaves through the back gate of his master’s house stopped to watch them.

Field checked the windows again, but there was no movement. He could almost hear the minutes tick by.

Then he saw her. She had pulled the curtain back. She raised her hand, let it fall, and was gone.

Field stared at the curtains, willing her to reappear.

A Chinese woman in the uniform of a nanny or cook walked up to the front entrance and knocked. She was carrying a wicker basket filled with groceries. The door was opened. The children moved off down the road with their hoop in the direction of a well-dressed Frenchwoman who was leading a tiny dog, a large hat shielding her face from the midday sun.

The curtains did not move again.

Field expected to see her now. If she had got to the room and reached the ledgers, then it should be only a few minutes at most before she would leave.

It was half past one.

He tried not to think of what they would do with her if she was caught. Would they kill her in the house or take her somewhere else?

The full magnitude of what he had set in motion threatened to overwhelm him. She had always been a survivor, but he had forced her to risk her life for him, for what he wanted.

He had forced her.

Field gripped the revolver still harder. He wound down the window a fraction, but there was not a hint of wind. The street was deserted, save for the Chinese servant who had returned to sweeping the back entrance to his master’s house with the slow, methodical action of one who has no leaves left to sweep.

Field wiped his forehead with his sleeve and looked at his watch again. One-forty. He could feel the tension in his neck and back and legs as he looked up at the windows again. There was no sign of her.

Should he go in himself?

He glanced at Alexei. The boy was staring at him, desperation in his eyes.

“I had a wooden airplane,” Alexei said.

Field turned back to the house.

“When I went to the orphanage, they took it away.”

Field didn’t want Alexei to talk. He could feel a muscle at the corner of his eye start to twitch.

“I asked if I could see his car. He always said ‘soon.’ I would still like to see it. I think it is a big one. He is very rich and has many airplanes. Mama said one day soon we will go away from Shanghai, to a better place, and then we will be rich and be able to go on airplanes and have our own car and everything will be very good.”

“Come on,” Field said to himself, willing the door to open.

He realized that he had no idea how she would get the ledger out of the house. It would be too big to conceal.

“Mama said he is very rich and can go on an airplane anytime he wants and he gave me one. A big one. I wish Father Brown had not taken it away.”

The car was starting to feel like a furnace.

“What did they do with it, do you think, sir?”

Field tried to smile. “It’s ‘Richard.’ ”

“What do you think they did with it?”

It was one-fifty.

“I wish I had gone in his car. I think it was a big one.”

“Come on, come on, come on,” Field said under his breath, his eyes fixed on the door. He was cursing her now.

“I do not understand how he could have driven the car, though. He was not like you.”

The children had returned and were playing with their hoop right outside Lu’s front door.

“He only had one leg.”

Field felt the rush of blood in his head.

“What? What did you say?”

Alexei did not answer.

“He only had one leg?”

“Yes.”

“The man who gave you the airplane?”

Alexei nodded.

“He had one real leg and one wooden leg?”

“Yes. He was funny about it. I liked to knock it.”

“He had sandy hair, with some gray. Flecks… little bits of gray?”

“Gray hair, yes.”

“And he shuffled… with a wooden leg?”

“Yes.”

Lu’s car pulled up and the bodyguards jumped off the running board. Before Field could move, Lu got out and went inside, his men following him. Field began to push open his car door, then checked himself.

His every nerve end screamed at him to do something.

He forced himself to wait. The door opened.

Grigoriev led Natasha down the steps, a hand gripping her arm. She did not look up before she was shoved into the back of the car.

They drove off.

Field registered that there were two bodyguards left behind as he put his foot on the low speed pedal and pulled away from the curb. As he reached the turn, one of the men stepped out into his path, his machine gun leveled at the windshield.

Field stopped and the man came around and tapped his gun against the window. Field wound it down and tried to smile. The sweat was stinging his eyes. “Taking my boy to school. Mon fils à l’école.”

The man glowered, his machine gun inches from Field’s face. The second bodyguard had moved to the front of the car, his Thompson aimed through the windshield directly at Alexei.

“I must-”

“Attends, attends,” the Russian said sharply.

Field could see Lu’s car disappearing, and his brain was screaming at him to do something. “My boy. L’école est ici, là-bas.”

“Attends!” the Russian barked.

“Mon fils, là-bas.”

“Attends!”

Field took a deep breath. “May I go up and turn?” He forced his revolver between his knees and pointed to a side street.

The man shook his head. “Wait.”

“I must-”

“Nyet!” The man hit Field in the face with his fist, then stepped back, his gun raised. Without lowering the barrel, he turned toward his colleague. They began speaking in Russian.

“What are they saying?” Field whispered.

Alexei was white with shock.

“What are they saying?”

The boy did not answer. Field gripped the handle of his revolver.

The Russians laughed, but the one standing in front of the car was alert, the barrel of his machine gun still pointing at Alexei’s head.

“ ‘Another one for the Happy Times block,’ they said,” Alexei whispered.

“What do they mean?”

“The man has been waiting for his appointment. I do not understand.”

“They have taken her to the Happy Times block?”

“Silence.” The man closest to the window stepped forward. He pointed the muzzle of his gun at Field’s head. “Tais toi.”

They continued speaking to each other in Russian. Field understood the word “Grigoriev,” but nothing else.

“They are talking about when Grigoriev will be back,” Alexei whispered, his head down.

Field’s throat was dry. Bright pinpricks of light swam before his eyes. A kaleidoscope of images: white sheets, red blood, the glint of light on handcuffs, the downward arc of a knife’s blade. He tried to sweep them from his mind. Natalya. Irina. Lena. Natasha.

Natasha. He would force her to dress in the underwear he liked. He would clamp her ankles and wrists to the brass bed. He would look at her. He would take his time. He would hurt her. She would be frightened. She would be wondering where Field was and would not know that he was unable to help her.