Caprisi shrugged. “Do you think the boy is still alive?” he asked.

“I’ve no idea.”

“Which orphanage would they have taken him to?”

Field shook his head, though he had a fairly good idea he knew the answer.

Field waited until he was sure that Sorenson and Prokopieff had chosen to follow the American. Then he headed back to the International Settlement and the Happy Times block.

He took the stairs three at a time and was covered in sweat when he reached the top floor. He wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket and then knocked once, hard.

There was no answer. He looked at his watch.

Field stepped back to press the button for the lift, then knocked once more.

He waited. He cursed, stepped into the lift, and pulled the iron cage violently across.

He hailed a rickshaw and gave the man Katya’s address. He knocked on the back door and waited.

Katya opened it, but only enough to catch sight of his face. “She’s not here,” she said before Field had had a chance to speak.

Katya tried to shut the door again, but Field jammed his foot in it.

“Please, Katya.”

“She’s not here.”

“Then tell me where she is.”

“She doesn’t want to see you.”

“I know the boy was Natalya’s.”

Katya faltered, easing the pressure on Field’s foot.

Ivan said something in Russian behind her. Katya opened the door further, without answering.

“Can I come in?”

“Not here,” Ivan said. He sounded nervous and frail, and his eyes anxiously scanned the garden over Field’s shoulder.

“The boy,” Field said. “She and the boy are in danger. The boy can probably identify Natalya’s killer. The…” Field sighed in frustration. Their English wasn’t up to an explanation of the threat posed by the police investigation. If Lu felt they were close to identifying the killer, he wouldn’t hesitate to liquidate the boy. “They are in danger. I have to find them. I have to take them to a safe place.”

They both looked at him with pained disbelief.

“Does she know what happens in that orphanage?” Field cleared his throat, thinking of the picture of the handsome little boy inside. “Boys are taken for Lu to abuse, and then they’re disposed of.”

“Not here,” Ivan said. Field didn’t know if he’d understood any of it.

“Please go,” Katya pleaded.

“I must see her.”

“Not here,” Ivan said, more firmly this time.

“Please get a message to her.”

“She left here,” Katya said, “and told us she would be back to see us soon. We do not know where she is.”

“Is she inside?”

“No,” they said in unison. “No,” Katya added for emphasis.

“She said that she would come here if she was ever in trouble,” Field lied.

“We do not know where she is. Please leave us.”

Field hesitated, then turned away and walked slowly down the path toward the gate, willing them to call him back.

He stepped out into the street, leaned against the railings, and then sat down, his head in his hands, trying to think.

He pushed himself to his feet again and dusted himself down. He lit a cigarette, threw the rest of the pack to a beggar, along with his matches, and strode down toward Avenue Joffre, where he hailed another rickshaw.

He allowed himself to look back once, but there was no one at the gate.

Sergei Stanislevich wasn’t in his apartment, but Field found him in the café opposite. He pulled up a chair. The Russian was reading a copy of the New Shanghai Life.

“Coffee,” Field told the waiter. “White, no sugar.”

“Black,” Sergei said.

The man retreated behind the bar.

“Well, well,” Sergei said, blowing cigarette smoke into the air, “this is becoming one of your favorite places.” He smiled to himself. “I saw you here only yesterday, I think.”

“I need to find Natasha.”

“Who doesn’t?”

Field stared at him.

“Everyone is looking for Natasha.” He sighed theatrically, well aware of the impact of his words. “So beautiful, so dangerous.”

The waiter brought their coffee and waited, notepad poised, to see if they would order anything else. Field shook his head as Sergei lit another cigarette from the stub of his first.

“Yes, everyone longs for Natasha,” Sergei continued. “Everyone is in love with her. That is her skill. But only the richest can afford her.”

“Natasha is not for sale.”

Sergei leaned back in his chair and laughed, harshly and without mirth. “If you say so, Detective. Have you seen her apartment? Of course you have. I’m sure she will be content with a life of poverty, an honest cop by her side.”

“We need to know where she is, Sergei.”

“I’ve no idea.”

“Is there anywhere-”

“How can I know?” He raised his hands, palms up. “These girls… they…” He breathed out smoke. “Sometimes they like a Russian man inside them again-I told you-maybe just to hear the language and feel their betrayal, so I do them.” He smirked. “Lena-sometimes Natasha-they all want to be done.” Sergei ground out his cigarette and leaned forward, conspiratorially. “They want to be done, so I make them pay. I make them scream!”

“You’ve slept with Natasha Medvedev?”

“Only when she begs me to.”

Field had grabbed the Russian by the collar of his jacket before he had even thought to control himself. The table careered into the side of the bar, their coffee cups smashing on the stone floor.

Field had the Russian up against the window, his feet off the ground and flailing vainly, then kicked his upturned chair to one side and dragged him by the scruff of his neck past the astonished owner and into the street. He waited for a tram to pass, then crossed over to and climbed the narrow set of stairs beside the Siberian Fur Shop. Sergei no longer struggled or made a sound.

When they got to Sergei’s rooms, Field kicked the door down, then picked the Russian up by his collar again and hurled him onto the unmade bed.

“Now,” he breathed in deeply. “Sit up!”

Field heard the sound of footsteps pounding up the stairs and turned. He drew his revolver, only to see Caprisi appear in the doorway. They looked at each other for a moment and then Field replaced his gun and turned back to face Sergei.

He reached for a spindly wooden chair and sat down in it. He took out a cigarette, but neglected to offer one to the pathetic figure who now perched on the edge of the bed, his head bent. Caprisi didn’t move from the doorway.

“Now, let’s start again,” Field said. “Where would I find Natasha Medvedev?”

Sergei shook his head, his face twisted in contempt. “How should I know?”

Field stood and took a step forward, his fist raised.

“All right.” Sergei recoiled. “What do you want?”

Field was aware of Caprisi’s eyes on him but could not stop himself.

“Who are her friends?”

“I only saw her at the Majestic and with Lena.”

“Did you see her with anyone else?”

“No.”

“You’ve never seen her outside the Majestic?”

Sergei hesitated. “I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so, or definitely not?”

Sergei shook his head again. “I don’t really know her,” he said plaintively.

Field took a deep breath and rubbed his hand across his chin. He sat down again, not looking at Caprisi. “Who was Lena Orlov seeing during the two months before she died?”

“I don’t know.”

“Let’s try again, Sergei. Who was-”

“I don’t know!”

“I thought you were her boyfriend?”

“I told you, only sometimes. It’s what I said. Sometimes she wanted a Russian boy.” He looked up. “Lena,” he added warily, “that’s what she said-to hear her own language.”

“So who was the other man?”

He shook his head again. “She wouldn’t say. English. Wealthy. Powerful.” For the first time, he managed a look of something approaching sincerity. “That’s why she was happy at the end.”