Field turned and drew his revolver as the other bodyguard was still struggling for his gun. As he fumbled for his badge, Lewis appeared. “All right, boys…” He lowered Field’s weapon and turned to the Russians. “Police,” he said. “Let’s forget it, shall we?”

Before they could answer, Lewis gripped Field hard on the arm and marched him toward the stairs, not letting go until they reached the street. Field noticed that both Lu and Natasha had affected not to notice the scuffle.

Lewis exhaled, facing him in the shadowy gloom of a gas streetlamp still cradled by the fog. It was cool here, after the sweaty heat of the Majestic. “Jesus.”

Field stared at him.

“Wait here.”

Lewis walked back into the nightclub and Field was about to leave when he returned. “You walk in, you apologize, you bow your head once, you wait until he speaks. If he does not, you leave.”

“I’m not-”

“You’ll do as you’re fucking told or you’ll be on the next boat home.”

Field pulled his mouth back, furious at being treated like a child. “So we have to kowtow to a gangster.”

“We don’t, Field. You do. You’re a junior detective and you’ve just insulted one of the most powerful businessmen in the city in one of its most public places. It is now a question of face.”

“So he’s a businessman now.”

“He is as far as you’re concerned.”

“I’m not going to go in there and crawl-”

“Then you’re an arrogant fool.” Lewis shook his head contemptuously. “I’m only standing here because I’m fond of your uncle, so don’t insult your own intelligence and mine any longer.”

Field stared at Lewis. He breathed in deeply and walked back into the Majestic. The band still played, but at the top of the stairs, a flustered Chinese man in a dark suit-the manager of the nightclub, Field assumed-guided him through a heavy red velvet curtain and into what appeared to be a private dining room. As he entered, a door was slammed shut behind him.

Lu was flanked by his two glowering bodyguards. Natasha sat in the corner, head bowed. Lu had his hands tucked into the wide sleeves of his gown, and his eyes, too, radiated a cold fury. Field had never before been in the presence of someone who appeared to exist solely to damage and destroy.

Field could not look at Natasha, but he was overwhelmed by her presence. His heart was thumping, his palms sweaty, his mind confused.

“Your name?” the blond Russian asked.

“Field.”

“First name?”

“Richard.”

“You are a police officer.”

“Yes.”

“Which department?”

“S.1.”

“Special Branch.”

“Yes.”

“You believe my men are communists?” Lu spoke in a low monotone, his anger barely restrained.

“No. Of course not. I apologize.”

They were silent.

“It was an accident,” Field said.

“No, Mr. Field, it was a mistake?” Lu shook his head once, curtly, his anger not soothed by Field’s apology. “The good reputation of the police is important to Shanghai. You cannot afford mistakes.” He sighed. “You are a friend of Mr. Lewis?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

Lu frowned.

“Yes.”

Lu suddenly pulled his hands from his sleeves, clenched his right into a fist, then opened it again, as if demonstrating the ease with which he could crush whatever came within his grasp. “You are a fortunate to have such friends.”

“Yes.”

Field tried not to meet Lu’s eye. He caught sight of his own reflection in a large gold-framed mirror that hung behind a small bar at the far end of the room.

“These are troubled times,” Lu said.

Field did not answer.

“Mistakes…” He tipped his head to one side. “Mistakes can be costly.” Perhaps it was Field’s imagination, but he thought Lu glanced at Natasha’s bowed head as he spoke. “You are foolish to have done this.”

Field forced himself to say yes.

“We should not meet again,” Lu said quietly. “No, we should definitely not meet again.” He dismissed Field curtly with his hand.

As Field turned, he saw Natasha, her head bowed in supplication, her hair shielding her face.

The blond bodyguard ushered him, none too gently, to the door.

Lewis was waiting for him. He didn’t ask what had happened. “This is Shanghai, Richard, not Twickenham.”

“So he can do as he wants?” Field asked, his anger returning.

Lewis looked at him, still bemused. He took a silver cigarette case from his jacket pocket, lighting up himself, then offering one to Field. “Listen, old man, all good things come to those that wait, if you understand what I mean.”

Field did not respond. A doorman emerged from the club and handed him his trilby, before quickly retreating.

“Bright young man.” Lewis smiled. “You’ll be all right.” He laughed, the cigarette still in his mouth. “Perhaps, one day, you’ll even be able to afford old Natasha, if he’s got tired of her and she’s worth having by then.” Lewis was still smiling. “It’s a joke, old man.”

“You seem to get on just fine with Lu.”

Lewis’s face darkened. “I hope you’re not implying what you seem to be, Field. I want you to be in no doubt that I’d like it very much if Lu didn’t exist, but until we find a way to bring that about, needless friction would serve neither of us. You’d do well not to fight what you can’t change.”

“That may be your philosophy, but it’s not mine.”

“Then you’re going to find life here rather tough going, old man.”

Field didn’t sleep. It was a cooler night, but in the tiny box that was his room in the Carter Road quarters, that made little difference. He lay still, staring at the ceiling, his whole body covered in a thin sheen of sweat. The mosquitoes had no respect for the nets or spray and he watched them gathering in the corners of the ceiling in the half-darkness.

He turned on his side, trying once again to shut out the sounds from next door.

They grew louder, something-Prokopieff’s head perhaps-banging against the wall. There was a low grunt, then a muffled scream, followed by the too-familiar sound of a beating, so that Field was on his feet, his fists clenched tight.

He pressed his knuckles against his forehead, then tried to block his ears, but Prokopieff’s companion was crying loudly now and Prokopieff was hitting her harder.

Field jumped onto the bed and thumped the wall with the flat of his hand. “Shut the fuck up!”

The beating stopped, the girl’s crying dropping to a strangled whimper. “Shut the fuck up, Prokopieff,” Field repeated, breathing heavily before slumping back onto the bed and once again staring at the ceiling.

Prokopieff began talking to the woman roughly in Russian, and after a few minutes Field heard her getting dressed. Prokopieff, he knew, was paying her.

She walked away, her heels clicking loudly in the corridor.

“Get fucked, English boy,” Prokopieff said, but Field didn’t answer.

He closed his eyes and tried to relax, but his heart was thumping.

He thought of the fear in Natasha’s eyes tonight and recalled what Maretsky had told him about Lena not being the first victim, nor, probably, the last. Why hadn’t he told Caprisi about that already? They should have been working with a much greater sense of urgency.

Field wanted the new day to begin immediately.