Chen stood, firing at the second man as he was still trying to scramble clear. The first shot punched a hole in his forehead, the second buried itself in his neck, spinning him back into the corridor.

Chen moved forward to check that they were dead, his shoes scuffing the wooden floor.

Field looked for a moment more at his uncle’s face, then got slowly to his feet.

The keys to Natasha’s handcuffs were on the table, next to the candle. Field wiped the blood from his hands on her sheet, then picked them up and sat on the bed beside her. When he had released her, she clung to him, her head on his chest, her fingers digging deep into his back. She sobbed quietly as he held her, her blood seeping through the front of his shirt.

Field gently prized her away and bent to examine the gashes across her breasts. He stood and looked about him, then moved to the closet and pulled it open, ran his hands through the clothes that hung there, and pulled out a white cotton shirt and dress. He tore the material into strips and gently raised her chin. Her mouth was swollen and the skin around her right eye was already discolored.

Field folded a strip of the shirt. “Put your head back.”

She did as she was told, closing her eyes as he placed the makeshift bandage across the first of the gashes and pulled it over one shoulder and under her arm, kneeling on the bed as he tied the two ends tightly behind her back. She caught sight of the blood seeping from the bullet hole in his shoulder. She touched his cheek with her fingers, her eyes on his, but he lowered her hand and continued to dress her wounds as best he could.

As he finished, she tipped back against him. His arms were around her, her hair in his face and mouth. “It’s all right,” Field said. He closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of her. “It’s all right.”

He held her tight, until her breathing began to ease. He ran his fingers through her hair, wiped the tears from her cheek.

Chen stood in the doorway. It was a few moments before Natasha seemed aware of his presence. She pulled away and walked to the corner of the room, where her raincoat was draped across a chair. She drew it around her, then reached into the pocket and threw a thick sheaf of paper onto the bed beside him.

“They said they had been looking for me. They made a telephone call. I only had a few minutes… less. I took as much as I could.” She paused, the fear returning to her eyes. “Where is Alexei?”

“He’s hiding in the car.” Field stood. “We must go.”

He leafed through the pages until he found the most recent entry: SS Saratoga, then today’s date and the sum of $750,000 Shanghai.

Beneath it was a list of names and opposite each, a figure. Field ran his finger over the characters as he tried to decipher them.

She moved alongside him.

“Macleod,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Five thousand dollars.”

“Yes.”

“Geoffrey Donaldson, twenty-five thousand.”

“Yes.”

“Commissioner Biers, ten thousand.”

She nodded.

“There is no mention of Lewis.” Field handed Chen the pages and watched as the Chinese detective cast his eyes over them.

“Lu will not sleep until he gets these back,” he said. “We must go now.”

Field did not move.

“His men will turn the city upside down.”

They heard a vehicle screech to a halt outside, followed by the sound of shouting and running feet. Chen ran to the window, Field half a step behind him. He saw Sorenson getting out of the front of a truck, in full protective gear, helmet on and a Thompson machine gun by his side.

A black Buick pulled up behind him, and Macleod stepped out onto the sidewalk. Another car stopped in the middle of the street, disgorging four of Lu’s men, each also armed with a machine gun.

Chen opened the door to the balcony, stepped out, and fired twice in Macleod’s direction, scattering the men below as they darted for cover. Then he walked past Natasha and out into the hall, letting off two more shots in the stairwell, before reloading his revolver with one hand. “The roof?”

Natasha looked puzzled.

“Up to the roof?” he barked. “How?”

“From… in the hallway.”

There was a closet in the corner of the landing. Chen rattled the padlock briefly before stepping back, taking aim with his revolver, and shooting it off.

Inside, a bamboo ladder was stacked alongside a brush, a bucket, and a selection of cloths. Chen took hold of the ladder and pushed it at Field. “You must go.”

“I can’t.”

“Otherwise, none of us will stand a chance. No one, Field.” There were more shouts from below. Chen ran to the door and fired twice more into the stairwell. “If we are caught here, we will all be killed. You get out, and Lu cannot be sure what you have done with the ledger pages. That way, we all have a chance.”

“The boy. I can’t-”

“We have no time.”

They could hear voices again, coming up the stairwell.

Field pushed his revolver into the waistband of his trousers, took the ladder, placed it against the edge of the hatch, and began to climb. Natasha was staring upward, her face expressionless.

The stairwell was silent.

Field climbed out onto the roof and spun around. “The ladder,” Chen whispered. “Take it.”

It was almost weightless. Field hauled it up and threw it to his right. He took hold of the hatch cover. For a moment Natasha’s eyes were fixed upon his.

Field hesitated. He could see she was certain that she would not see him again. He shook his head slowly.

“Go,” Chen hissed.

Natasha turned away. Chen began firing again and Field heard a scream. He dropped the hatch cover and straightened.

The roof was flat and covered in gravel. Smoke from three tall brick chimneys drifted toward the tower above the race club. He could see the dome of the Hong Kong Shanghai Bank in the distance.

Field turned. The breeze tugged at his shirt as he made his way to the side of the building, climbing over a series of telegraph wires. There was no wall or parapet. He stepped onto the edge of the roof, making a conscious effort not to look down. The building opposite was a foot or two lower, but it was a long jump. He thought the gap was about ten feet, perhaps a little less.

The roof he was aiming for had no ledge around it, either. A line of steel chimneys along its center billowed smoke in his direction.

Field looked down. It was a long, straight drop to the alley through which he and Chen had entered the building. Three armed police officers crouched down by the service entrance, next to the refuse bin. Another two were flattened against the wall behind them.

Field turned before they had a chance to look up. The telegraph wires left him with only five or six feet of roof. It wasn’t enough to make the jump.

He heard more shots below and then a volley of machine-gun fire.

Field focused on the roof opposite. He moved back as far as he could go, until the telegraph wires were stretched taut against the back of his legs. He closed his eyes for a moment. He felt dizzy.

There was more shouting below. Field took his revolver from his belt, opened his eyes, and ran, his feet thumping against the gravel, the leap, the glimpse of the alley beneath him, frozen in his mind before his feet smacked down on the roof opposite and he tumbled onto his good shoulder, trying to protect the gun and stop himself from screaming with the pain.

He stood, unsteady, bits of gravel stuck to his shirt. There was more gunfire from inside the building behind him, followed by the steady thump of machine-gun bullets.

A rusty iron ladder led up to a raised platform on the far side of this roof. Field climbed onto it, the tower above the race club still visible to his right.

He clambered over another line of telegraph wires and walked to the edge.