He thought of the deep gashes in Lena’s stomach.

He thought of Natalya’s body, twisted in a last, futile attempt to protect herself.

Natasha would be able to do nothing.

She had been a victim ever since leaving Kazan and would die like the others, abandoned and alone.

Geoffrey. How blind Field had been. Truly a fool, imagining as his investigation progressed that he was achieving some mastery of a city where each truth only hid a deeper deceit.

The Russian in the front of the car turned away, and without thinking, Field began to raise his revolver.

The bodyguard beside him took a step closer. “The girl-she was with you?”

Field shook his head. “Waiting for the boy’s mother. Always late!” Field forced himself to smile. The man did not respond.

“Is it a traffic problem?” Field asked.

“Not traffic.”

“Do you mind if I get out and smoke?”

The man shrugged. Field pushed the revolver beneath his seat, then forced himself to get out. He took the packet of cigarettes from his pocket and offered it to both men. The one closest accepted and Field struck a match.

“It’s a traffic problem?”

“Not traffic. You were with the girl?”

Field raised his hands, palms up. “Mon fils est à l’école. Tard. Toujours en retard.”

The man shook his head. His French was clearly little better than his English.

The minutes crawled by. A light wind had got up and was creating small circles of dust along the edge of the sidewalk. Field pictured the deep craters in Lena’s vagina and the thin strands of white skin strung across the top of them. He thought of the marks around her wrists and ankles where the handcuffs had rubbed as she’d struggled to break free.

In his mind’s eye, he could see Natasha writhing and turning away to protect herself. He could hear her screaming in his head.

The men spoke in Russian again. Field could see Alexei’s small, frightened face through the windshield.

He turned to face Lu’s door, squinting against the sunlight and watching the burning ash as he sucked deeply on the cigarette.

He closed his mouth and exhaled, pushing the smoke through his nostrils.

Geoffrey couldn’t kill Natasha.

Even as he tried to cling to the thought, he wondered at his own naiveté. He had placed Natasha’s fate in the hands of a man he thought he had grown to understand, and yet did not know at all.

He could see Geoffrey’s warm smile as he swept a hand calmly through his hair, the quiet confidence and authority he projected with every movement. He could feel the warmth of his handshake and the reassuring calmness and affection of his fatherly demeanor, the promise of a home away from home.

As the anger swelled within him, Field tried to conjure up an image of Natasha’s face, but suddenly could not. He could see the wound on her chest, blood welling and flowing across her skin, but not her face.

He turned.

The Russians had not moved.

Field took a pace toward them, then forced himself to adopt an air of studied indifference. A man in a long khaki raincoat emerged from the street behind them. It was a moment before Field realized that it was Chen.

When he came level with the Russians, the Chinese detective affected to notice Field for the first time. He crossed in front of the two bodyguards as though they were not there. “Richard.”

Field shook his hand and tried to smile.

“What are you doing here?” Chen asked, staring at him intently.

“Just taking my son to school. I’m… we’re late. I’m not quite sure what the problem is.”

Chen turned toward the Russians, speaking to them in their own language.

“They say you were with a woman.” Chen was frowning, as if not having any idea what the men were talking about.

“No, no. I’m just…” Field cleared his throat and pointed at the car. “Taking my son to his school.” He exhaled. “We’re very late.”

“Some woman, big trouble,” Chen said. “They are worried you have something to do with her.”

Field shook his head emphatically.

One of the men spoke directly to Field, in Russian. Chen translated. “He wants to know why you are taking your boy to school at lunchtime.”

“Doctor. Doctor’s appointment.”

This time the conversation took several minutes, the Chinese detective no longer bothering to relay what the Russians were saying. Eventually, he turned back to Field. “A big problem, they say.” Chen changed tack. “How was Allenby when you saw him last night?”

Field looked at him, confused, until he saw Chen’s mouth tighten. “Oh, he was fine. You know. Just fine.”

Chen’s tone with the bodyguards became more forceful. He pointed repeatedly to both Field and the boy in the exchange that followed. “I’ve said you’re a good friend of some very important people in the Settlement,” he explained without turning around.

The Russians seemed unsure. They could no longer talk to each other without being understood, so stood in sullen silence, glancing up from time to time at the bright sun, as if the solution to their problem might suddenly reveal itself.

At length, the one closest to Chen stepped aside and waved his gun to indicate they could continue.

Field walked forward.

“Where are you going?” Chen asked. His manner was calm, his words unhurried.

“To the school.”

“You’re going on to the office?”

Field hesitated. “Yes, probably.”

“I’ll ride with you.”

Field got behind the wheel and Chen moved around to the far side, nodding at the Russians as he passed. He slipped into the passenger seat, patting the boy on the head. He raised his hand at the men and smiled. Field moved off.

“They went towards Foochow Road,” Chen said.

“The boy says they took her to the Happy Times block.”

As he turned left, Field put his foot down on the accelerator.

“Not too fast.”

The blood was pounding through Field’s head.

“Slower,” Chen barked.

“For Christ’s sake.”

“Be careful.”

A tram had stopped ahead of them, a small group of people waiting to climb on board. Field began to pull out. “Wait,” Chen said. He turned around. As Field was about to explode, he gestured with his hand. “Go on.”

Chen looked back over his shoulder again. Field drove mechanically, the images around him disjointed and unreal, his gaze fixed on a yellow Chevrolet in front as they drove down toward the racecourse. “Slow,” Chen said, exhaling. “Pull up before Happy Times.”

Field drew up a hundred yards short, behind an old-model Ford that was disgorging a young family, the mother trying to prevent her two young children from running off down the street. Beyond them, Field could see Lu’s men standing by the entrance. Grigoriev was smoking.

Field took the revolver from under his seat and put it back in its holster. “Stay here, Alexei. Don’t leave the car.” He got out and walked swiftly after Chen. He looked back once, but the men had not moved.

Chen led the way round to the back of the building and down a narrow alley. The service entrance was a black steel door, beyond a large bin overflowing with refuse. Chen took out his revolver and gestured to Field to pull the door toward him. They stepped inside.

The stairs led down to a basement and their footsteps echoed. Field fumbled for a light switch.

There were four or five buckets at the foot of the steps, a pile of paintbrushes, and a broom. Field could hear the low rumble of a boiler.

He held up the revolver, his palm slippery against the metal.

Chen raised his hand, his head tilted to one side. Field could feel the sweat gathering on his forehead.

They found the stairwell and emerged slowly into the light of the main hallway. As he opened the swinging door, Field could see Grigoriev standing outside with his back to him. They moved silently across the hall, Field’s eyes never leaving the Russian. The front desk was empty.