If anything, the dinner jacket was hotter than his suit, but the wind had risen again, and as he turned onto the Bund, it was strong enough to keep him cool for the first time that day.

The waterfront was still busy. A crowd milled about on the sidewalk in the semidarkness beneath the trees on the far side by the wharf. A bright moon now shone above the well-lit buildings, which were decorated in honor of the king’s impending birthday. The Union Jack on the dome above the Hong Kong Shanghai Bank twisted and snapped in the breeze. Field paid the rickshaw man and walked through a line of parked cars. A group of Chinese children was patting one of the bronze lions guarding the bank’s entrance. Local superstition encouraged them to believe that it would give them strength.

Inside, the huge wooden doors through to the main hall were padlocked, so Field turned back and walked to the rear entrance. A wide stone staircase led up to the first floor and, at the top, a sign announced that Geoffrey Donaldson, secretary of the Shanghai Municipal Council, would be giving a talk entitled “The New Jerusalem.”

Two stout women in dark jackets sat behind a trestle table, next to a uniformed bank security guard.

“I’m Richard Field, Geoffrey Donaldson’s-”

“Yes, of course. He said you might be coming.” The woman smiled and wrote down his name, then handed him a leaflet. The doors to the room had been thrown open and he could see Geoffrey already at the lectern.

It looked like a ballroom. The carpet was crimson, and huge gilt-edged mirrors lined the walls.

“Here,” he heard his uncle say as he moved closer, “we are privileged to have an eyewitness view of the future. And this is the future, let no one be under any illusions about that. China is a developing market, on a scale undreamed-of in the history of commerce. And which nation leads the charge into this land of promise? As the secretary of the Municipal Council, I should perhaps not be partisan, but I hope you’ll forgive me a little native pride.” He smiled, surveying his audience. “British companies are leading this charge. Thirty-eight percent of all foreign holdings in China are British, and three-quarters of our 600-million-pound investment is here in this great city.

“But let me put back ‘my secretary of the Municipal Council’ hat. We are not technically part of the British Empire here, as you know all too well. And I know you share my frustration that we do not always get the support from Washington and London that we feel is our due.

“Anglo-Saxon values have built the greatest empires the world has ever known: decency, honesty, integrity, justice, a sense of fair play. A society based on all of these principles is what we are building so successfully here.”

Geoffrey shifted his weight from his good leg for a moment. He touched his mouth with his hand before smoothing the hair around one of his temples. “All of us are, I know, offended at times”-he had changed his tone and was speaking more quietly-“by the poverty we see on the streets every day, and may I say again, I am not alone in admiring the Volunteer Corps of Shanghai for the tireless work it does-you all do-in alleviating some of the suffering, but this, let me tell you is the rub…” He leaned forward onto the lectern, a finger pointing toward the ceiling. “Every man jack out there in this city knows that if he works hard and is honest, then he can pull himself up by his bootstraps and secure his family a better future. That is what we are about here. That is why there is no city that has a future as golden as Shanghai’s. That’s why, I believe, we have every right to say that this is the New Jerusalem. A profitable city, of whose values we can be justly proud.”

There was a momentary pause and then the applause was thunderous, almost everyone-perhaps three or four hundred people-getting to his feet. Geoffrey raised his hand modestly. “I’m afraid…” He waited for the noise to die down. “I’m afraid I was intending to take questions, but have inevitably run on and…” He waited again. “I’m sorry to say I have some council business to attend to upstairs, so if you’ll forgive me…”

Geoffrey walked as swiftly as he could down the side of the room. Field found it almost painful to watch him. He followed him out of the room and into the lift. As he pulled the door shut, Geoffrey breathed a sigh of relief. “Sorry, a bit jingoistic, but got to fire up the audience, if you know what I mean.”

Field looked at the leaflet. There was a picture of Geoffrey in uniform and details of his career: Cambridge, service in the trenches, his Victoria Cross and beyond.

Geoffrey chuckled. “The Shanghai Volunteer Corps. Christ! Not a woman in there under forty…” The lift still hadn’t moved, so he hit the button for the sixth floor. “Don’t get Penelope started on that lot.”

The lift jolted into action and Field leaned back against one of the wood panels. It was the only lift he could recall having been in that had a carpet on the floor.

“I won’t be long,” Geoffrey said. “I’m sure the chaps won’t mind if you sit in.” He brushed a loose thread from the sleeve of his tailored gray suit. Field was already having second thoughts about his dinner jacket.

The lift stopped and they stepped out into the bank’s dining room. It was not big, but it was at the corner of the building and the windows were tall, so that it afforded magnificent views of the river and the bright lights of the city.

Geoffrey joined a group of men around a big oak table. A sideboard behind them was covered with silverware. Huge oil portraits adorned the walls. Field saw Lewis sitting at the far end in a round-backed leather chair with a cigarette in one hand and a drink in the other. Commissioner Biers was next to him, and Patrick Granger stood behind them with his hands in his pockets.

Geoffrey ran his hand through his hair, which was shot through with flecks of white. Field thought his face seemed older than it had the night before. “Some of you already know Richard, my nephew, new to the city. Just thought it would interest him to sit in, and since this is not a formal meeting of the council, I didn’t think you would have any objections.” A few of the men shook their heads. “Gin,” Geoffrey said, turning to a Sikh waiter in a red and gold tunic.

Geoffrey sat forward in his chair. Field moved to one of the windows. “Right,” Geoffrey said. “I’ve just had the pleasure of addressing the Volunteer Corps of Shanghai, women’s division!” He lit up. “So forgive me if I’m a little incoherent.”

“Never before you’ve had a drink, old boy,” Lewis said.

All the men wore dark suits. Field could see immediately that Lewis and his uncle were the driving forces among the group.

“I intend this to be a brief meeting,” Geoffrey said, “so that you all get an intelligence update and have the chance to give me some feedback. Patrick is here to fill us in.”

Granger took his hands out of his pockets, crossed them over his chest, and stepped forward from the shadows. “As Richard here and some of the rest of you will know, Michael Borodin returned from the south last night. Our intelligence is that he will now focus his attentions again on trying to re-create the atmosphere of last summer, but with greater intensity. He has formed a core unit of activists, mostly Chinese students, operating in various premises around the city. But we have intelligence that Borodin and his colleagues at the Soviet consulate have received considerable new funds from Moscow. Some of the propaganda outlets, like the New Shanghai Life, have received further subsidies, but we believe most of the money is going into street activity-producing leaflets and posters, obviously, but most seriously, buying action.”

“Buying action?” Lewis asked.

Granger turned to him. “Last summer they were funding the strike committees. This time we believe they may have enough money to pay the strikers directly.”