The door opened and a uniformed Chinese officer walked in. He was young-just a constable-and he nodded at Chen respectfully.

Caprisi took Field down to the car but wouldn't tell him where they were going. They drove through the French Concession and out toward the edge of the old Chinese town before going on foot. The day had lost its heat, but not yet its light. Dust kicked up by the human traffic hung beneath the curved rooftops of the buildings that lined the narrow lane along which they walked.

They turned into a still-narrower alley, pa.s.sing tiny shops with carved, inlaid wooden shutters, beneath paper lanterns that had not yet been lit. They could hear the sound of a flute, and ahead of them a group of small boys was playing in the dirt. The smell of human excrement made Field gag.

They turned into a tailor's shop. Every inch of s.p.a.ce had been used to the full. A dummy stood in the middle of a square cutting table. There was a mirror on the far wall and only just enough room to stand. Caprisi was smiling. "The best tailor in Shanghai. We're going to get you out of that suit."

"I . . ."

"You can pay me back."

The old man smiled and held up his tape measure. A young boy stood beside him, his face expectant, and Field felt it was churlish to complain. He allowed himself to be measured while Caprisi talked to the man in rapid Shanghainese. As he watched and listened, he realized how little experience he had with the local people, beyond his day-to-day police work or his living quarters at Carter Road. He admired the ease with which Caprisi slipped into conversation with them.

"He asks if all my friends are this tall," Caprisi said.

"I got that bit."

"He's asking about Lu."

"I heard his name mentioned."

"Says Lu's men boast they control all of the police in Shanghai."

Field didn't respond.

"I told him Lu's men were in for a surprise."

The old man thrust the tape measure roughly into Field's groin and pushed him irritably when he did not turn quickly enough. Then he pulled out a book of cloth samples and flicked through it before pointing at the one he thought most suitable.

"I explained that it was for summer use."

"That's fine."

Uneasy about Caprisi's generosity, and uncomfortable with the tailor's brusqueness, Field couldn't wait to get out. He stood in the alley as the American continued to talk to the old man.

"Ready in two days," Caprisi said when he emerged.

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

"No really, it was-"

"One good deed deserves another."

Field looked blank.

"I like having a partner who knows how to fight."

Field smiled.

"There's a teahouse around the corner," Caprisi said. They stepped over a prostrate beggar and walked up to a building with a low entrance and dark wooden panels along its hall.

The tearoom overlooked a small but pretty oriental garden, the delicate sound of its fountain still audible above the hubbub. They were shown to a table and Caprisi ordered.

"You've been here before," Field said when the waiter disappeared.

"A few times."

"You have Chinese friends here. In the city, I mean."

"Some." Caprisi looked at him. "You'll get there, Field. It's not just about language." The American touched his forehead. "You have to want to understand the people, and most foreigners don't."

Field lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair. "Doesn't the poverty bother you?"

"Of course."

"I worry that it doesn't bother me enough."

"There's poverty everywhere."

"Yes, but it's so extreme here." Field leaned forward again. "And yet, it doesn't put me off the city. It doesn't stop me being excited about being here. It doesn't repel me. I feel guilty about that."

"You'll get over it."

Field looked at the American. "So why do you stay?"

Caprisi sucked on his cigarette. "It feels like home now."

"I'm not sure what that means anymore."

The American didn't answer.

"You won't go back to Chicago?"

Caprisi shook his head.

"Never?"

"Probably not."

"You don't have family there?"

Caprisi's jaw tightened.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean . . ."

"It's all right. I don't much like talking about the past, that's all."

Field nodded and the American's face softened again. "I understand." After a few moments Field added, "I feel the same."

The waiter returned with a tray. He placed a red and gold china teapot in the center of the table and a cup and saucer grudgingly in front of each of them.

"You see?" Caprisi said as he moved away. "We're foreigners. We'll always be foreigners."

Field watched him pour the tea. "It seems to me sometimes," he said, "that everyone here is escaping, in one way or another."

"Except for the ones who can't."

Field frowned.

"Look at the Russians. The girl I saw you mooning at." Caprisi smiled as Field's face reddened. "It's a gilded cage, but that doesn't stop it being a cage."

"I suppose . . ."

"Where can they go? No visas. No pa.s.sport. They don't belong anywhere anymore, and yet they once inhabited a world they had every reason to believe would last forever." Caprisi fell silent. "You say you feel the same, polar bear, but I don't think we can begin to understand."

Fifteen.

By the time Field came out of the station, the day was fading fast. A rich red shroud had settled upon the buildings around him, the banners silhouetted against a darkening sky.

He walked quickly, gripping his holster, his jacket draped over his arm. He still had his tie undone and was grateful for the faint breeze.

Field hesitated at the entrance to the Carter Road quarters. He didn't relish spending the evening in a ringside seat at Prokopieff's circus.

But the Russian was out, and Field found, as he entered his own room, that a letter had been pushed under the door.

The envelope boasted the crest of the Munic.i.p.al Council, and his name had been written in blue ink in a flowing hand.

My dear Richard, Geoffrey had written. Geoffrey had written. It was good to see you again after all these years and to welcome you to Shanghai, albeit belatedly, for which, again, many apologies. I'm afraid the workload of a munic.i.p.al secretary is rather a burdensome one. It was good to see you again after all these years and to welcome you to Shanghai, albeit belatedly, for which, again, many apologies. I'm afraid the workload of a munic.i.p.al secretary is rather a burdensome one.

We would be delighted if you could join us for a late supper tonight at home, however. I believe you have the address. About ten should do it, though alternatively you could join me earlier at a function at the headquarters of the Hong Kong Shanghai Bank, and we might manage a drink before dinner. I have a talk to give at eight-some local worthy women-but should be free by nine. It's in the conference room on the first floor. Mention my name at the door and explain who you are.

Penelope and I would be delighted if you would treat our home as your own during your time here. We know how lonely it can be to be so far away. I'm rarely in during the early evening, but Penelope usually is and would be very pleased to see you whenever you wish.

Fond regards, Geoffrey.

Field looked at his watch and then at the dinner jacket that hung from a line of cord he'd strung in the window. It didn't sound like the kind of occasion at which a dinner jacket would be required, but he put it on to be on the safe side, then walked out and hailed a rickshaw.

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 superst.i.tion 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 Munic.i.p.al Council, would be giving a talk ent.i.tled "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 Munic.i.p.al 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 Munic.i.p.al 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 b.u.t.ton 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, 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." 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.