“You’re going to have to get over it,” he told her. “It was necessary. She would never have come out if we were here together.”

“What? You met her?”

“Yes,” he said. “Forty minutes ago.”

The anger drained out of her. “And? Will she help?”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“I mean, no. She’s not in the best shape, Anna.”

“That’s not good enough, Milton. You can’t give up.”

“Who said I was giving up?”

“Where is she?”

“I can guess,” he said. “I’m going to go and see her now.”

“I’m coming too.”

“No,” he said. “You’re not.”

“You’re forgetting…”

“She’s been hiding here for the best part of a decade, Anna. She’s paranoid. And you should remember what she used to do before she came here. How do you think she’ll react if she thinks Russian intelligence have started to follow her? No, don’t answer, I’ll tell you — she’ll shoot you, and then she’ll likely shoot me.” She started to protest again and he held up a hand to forestall her. “I’ll go and speak to her again. I think I can persuade her, but you are going to have to trust me.”

“After what you did?”

“Even after that. If I can get her to cooperate, then you can meet her. That’s the only way this is going to work, Anna.”

* * *

He didn’t need to follow her; he knew where she was going. He got lost amid the commotion as soon as he reached the ground floor and only found the familiar corridor an hour later. The same man was behind the desk, an illegal feed of Premiership football on the television. Milton gave him another hundred dollars and went through into the corridor that led to the rooms.

Beatrix was lying on the bed, breathing almost without sound. She was covered with a single sheet, the shape of her gaunt body visible beneath. The room was smokey and smelled sickly bittersweet. There was a joint in an ashtray, almost burned down to the filter, and it sent languid smoke drifting up to the ceiling. She was deep in sleep and yet she did not looked relaxed; her face was troubled and, as he watched, the muscles in her cheek started to twitch, the sudden jerk reflected and amplified by an unconscious spasm in her right leg. The air conditioning unit coughed and spluttered, gobbets of water falling from it and splashing against the wall and floor. The door was open and cold, harsh light from the lobby leaked inside.

Milton stepped all the way inside; the room was so small that he had to squeeze right up against the bed before he was able to close the door. He knelt down. There was an ivory pipe on the bed next to her head: the long bamboo stem was decorated with Chinese inscriptions along its length and it was fitted with a blue and white porcelain bowl. Milton picked up the pipe; the bowl was detachable and, as he unscrewed it, he saw a congealed brown paste gathered inside. There was wooden layout tray on the bed next to her knees complete with a funnel-shaped lamp made of nickel silver, a spare pipe and two extra pipe bowls. A small folded paper envelope was on the tray. Milton picked it up and opened it. There was half a gram of brown powder inside with the consistency of ground cinnamon. His stomach plunged. He had been to the East more than enough times to recognise opium.

Now he knew why Beatrix looked as bad as she did.

He knew why she had chosen to live in a place like this: you could find anything you wanted in Chungking Mansion, legal or not. Finding someone with opium to sell would be a simple matter indeed.

He took the tray from the bed and placed it quietly on the floor.

He let her sleep. It was another three hours before she finally awoke. She stirred, turning over so that she was facing him, and her shallow breathing altered a little. He saw her eyes open, staring right at him.

“Bella?” she said in a quiet voice, and then she closed her eyes again.

She woke properly twenty minutes later. She opened her eyes wide and gave a shudder.

“Beatrix,” Milton whispered. He put his right hand on her shoulder.

Her breathing accelerated and her right hand flailed, searching for something. It stabbed under the pillow and, when it emerged, it was holding a small pistol.

Milton reached down and caught her wrist in his hand. She was weak and he pressed her arm gently down against the mattress. “It’s me, Beatrix. It’s John.”

Her whisper was so quiet that he had to strain his ears to catch the words. “I told you,” she said. “I can’t help you.”

“That’s fine,” he said, his hand still on her wrist. “I won’t ask again. I’m here for you now. I want to help you.”

She laughed, weak and bitter, the noise tearing into a ragged cough. “You can’t.”

“Tell me what’s happened.”

“Leave me alone, Milton. It’s pointless. You can’t do anything.”

“Just tell me. Maybe I can.”

She shook her head and was silent for a moment. Milton thought that she had gone back to sleep again when she gulped and he realised that she was crying silent tears.

“Beatrix, where’s Isabella?”

Chapter Thirty

She gradually regained her strength and when she did, he helped her to stand so that she could go over to the cupboard. She was naked apart from her underwear but she was too vacant to be shy; she had lost so much weight that her ribs showed clearly and, as she turned and bent down to pull up her jeans, he could see the individual vertebrae in her back. He saw the tattoo with Isabella on her right arm and, as she turned, he saw more ink: eight bars of solid black, one after the other, running down from underneath her arm down towards her waist. She opened the door, picked out a clean t-shirt and put it on.

“You got any more smokes?”

He took out the packet and gave it to her. “Keep it.”

“I just want one.” She fingered one from the carton and lit it.

The atmosphere in the room was still heady and Milton felt the beginnings of a headache. “What do you say we get some air?”

She shrugged limply. “I don’t care.”

She put on the t-shirt and a jacket and allowed him to lead the way down to Nathan Road.

“There’s a bar I know around the corner,” she suggested.

“I don’t do bars. Somewhere else?”

“You don’t want a drink?” she asked. “I want a drink.”

“It’s not that I don’t want one … it’s just that … well, I don’t.”

“At all?”

He nodded ruefully. “You’re looking at a new man,” he said.

“You were a soldier, Milton. I’ve never met a soldier who doesn’t drink.”

“Long story,” he said. “I’ll tell you later.” They were passing a coffee shop. “How about here?”

She shrugged and they went inside. Milton ordered two strong coffees and two apple doughnuts. Beatrix had found a table at the back of the room and had taken the seat that was facing out, into the street. She was extremely careful, Milton thought. Old habits died hard. He took the coffees and the doughnuts over and sat down opposite her.

“Get this down you,” he said, sliding the plate across the table.

She picked it up and took a big bite.

“What’s going on?”

She stopped for a moment, as if hesitating at a crossroads, considering each possible choice and the consequences that might flow from it. Milton waited, listening to the sound of cutlery ringing against crockery, the low buzz of conversation and the electric hum of the city outside.

“What Shcherbatov told you. About the operation. It’s true.”

“How do you know that?”

“There was a briefcase in the car after we hit it. It was just habitual. I saw it, I took it. I went back home before we debriefed and I opened it there. Those things you said: the photographs, the flash drives. They were in the case.”

“Did you look at them?”

“Just the photographs. They were enough for me to know something was wrong. Control is not a field agent, Milton. In all the time I worked for him, the only time I saw him away from his desk was for that job. I’d certainly never seen him meeting a target before. That didn’t make any sense at all. I knew that something was wrong.”