He wondered what was going through Natasha's mind as she attended Borodin's meetings. What he hated most about the Bolsheviks, and about extremists in general, was their overwhelming certainty.

The tunnel emerged at the bottom of a wooden stand and Field turned to see Granger sitting with his wife about three rows up, wearing a trilby and a dark brown trench coat. Granger beckoned him over and Field turned, his boot studs making him unstable on the stone steps.

"Caroline, this is one of my new boys," Granger said, standing and taking off his hat. "Field, this is my wife."

The woman smiled. She reminded him of Penelope Donaldson, but was broader and plumper, her face and smile warmer. She had black bobbed hair and wore vivid lipstick and a bright red dress. She was a vibrant and, judging by the gold bracelet on her wrist, wealthy woman. Field wondered who the blond girl in the Cathay Hotel had been.

"Good luck," Granger said, his voice low as he turned and saw Macleod rounding the far corner of the stand. "And watch the Yank."

Field walked back down the steps and out onto the pitch. He nodded to Macleod as he pa.s.sed, without any visible sign of response. The gra.s.s was thin, the earth beneath it hard.

The man from Belfast was throwing the ball to one of his colleagues, and Field jogged over to join them in the far corner. No one from the opposing team had yet emerged.

"David," the man said, "this is Field, our open side flanker."

Field was thrown the heavy leather ball and caught it, then kicked it into the air.

After a few minutes they jogged down the pitch, pa.s.sing the ball along the line and back again.

At the end, Field found he was perspiring gently. He was grateful that the white-and-black-striped shirt he'd been given was made of cotton. He caught the Irishman's eye. "Too much time on the boat and not enough exercise since."

"When did you get here?"

"Three months ago."

"You're the picture of b.l.o.o.d.y health compared to the rest of us. We'll watch you do the running."

Some of the opposition emerged, Caprisi among them. The American was tying the knot on his shorts as he approached. "Ready for this, Field?" he asked quietly.

"I suppose so." He hesitated. "The prints are in. They came up to me for some reason. They're in my tray. No obvious match from the bedroom, Ellis says, and he's still working through the living room, but at least we have them if we can find a suspect."

Caprisi didn't answer. He was looking at the referee, who had just ambled out of the tunnel. Field watched, too, as the man put his whistle slowly to his lips and blew loudly.

"The search begins," Caprisi said.

"The search?"

"The search for knives." Caprisi's expression was a mixture of weary cynicism and amus.e.m.e.nt. "An Italian team got razors onto the pitch a couple of years ago, so now everyone gets frisked."

Field's captain was Eccles, the fly half, an Irish inspector from the Hongkew district with a fearsome reputation for drink and a nose to prove it. He exhorted them to "show the f.u.c.kers who's in charge of this force." His breath reeked of whiskey.

There was no discussion of tactics. Everyone automatically a.s.sumed his position as the whistle went and the ball was kicked high into the air in Field's direction. He called "mine" loudly, caught it, and looked up to see the oncoming wall. He dodged an enormous lock forward and ran back toward the center of the pitch, only to see Caprisi sprinting toward him, his ears pinned back and his mouth open, like a predator closing in for the kill.

Field attempted to prevent the tackle, but Caprisi caught him around the middle and he lost his balance, hitting the earth hard. Both sides piled on top of them.

Field tried to free the ball but couldn't. Caprisi tugged at it with one hand and pushed hard into his face with the other. Field was kicked in the leg, the knee, the groin, the stomach, and then the head. Someone grabbed his hair, someone else had an arm around his neck.

He waited for the whistle, but it didn't come, and the ball was wrenched from his grasp. The figures on top stood and ran off one by one, leaving him facedown in the dirt in more pain than he could remember.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and was hauled to his feet. He turned to see Caprisi.

The American smiled and patted him on the back.

Two hours later Field was sitting in a chair in the corner of a tavern, clutching a full tankard of beer and feeling dizzy from exhaustion and alcohol.

Patrick Granger was standing on a table in another corner of the room, reciting, in full, Yeats's "Easter 1916." His melodic voice was resonant with emotion, as the last of the evening sun filtered through the frosted gla.s.s window, touching the side of his face.

"Now and in time to be," he said, his eyes scouring the room, "Wherever green is worn, Are changed, changed utterly: A terrible beauty is born."

He raised his tankard. "To the martyrs!" He drained the contents and then burped loudly. "And to grudging grudging forgiveness of English b.a.s.t.a.r.ds!" forgiveness of English b.a.s.t.a.r.ds!"

As Granger stepped down from the table, the team captain broke into another rendition of a rebel song. It was quickly taken up by those around him.

"Drink up, Field," Granger shouted as he stumbled toward him. He placed a protective arm around Field's shoulder and waited for him to finish his tankard. "You may be English," he said, slumping down on the seat beside him, "but you know, I forgive you."

"You were there in 1916, weren't you?"

"I was indeed. Michael and I were not important enough, thank the good Lord . . . a short spell in North Wales . . ." Granger was looking at him. Field could see how drunk he was. "But that's enough about me." He grabbed Field in a rough embrace. "Glad you're one of us, d.i.c.kie. You should be one of us. You are one of us, aren't you?" Granger was looking at him oddly.

"Of course," Field said.

"Right! Fine player. Waiter!" Granger stood, holding up his tankard in the direction of the bar. He crossed back to the other side of the room and joined in the singing.

Field pushed his own tankard away and reached for his cigarettes. He looked up to see Caprisi smiling at him.

The American was leaning against the wood paneling on the far side of the room, on the periphery of the gathering, a long gla.s.s in his hand. When the singing died back down, he came over and took one of Field's cigarettes.

"Well played," Field said.

The American shrugged.

"You're not drunk, I see. I thought it was mandatory."

Caprisi didn't answer.

"How come you're here, anyway?"

"I'm a Catholic. It's allowed."

"Let me get you a drink."

"No thanks."

Field stood. "Come on, you can't drink water all night."

"I said no thanks."

There was steel in Caprisi's voice and Field sat back down. On the other side of the room, Granger was building a pyramid on the table with full tankards. "You don't drink."

"No."

"There's no prohibition here, Caprisi."

"Back off, Field."

Field paused. "You are a man of mystery . . ."

"Mysteries are not always interesting."

"To the curious, they are." Field smiled. "I'm still not sure I understand."

"All you need to understand here is who your friends are, d.i.c.kie." He glanced across at Granger's group. "Macleod thinks you have an honest face. He doesn't want you to join the cabal and neither do I. Unless it's already too late, of course."

Before Field could answer, Caprisi got up and walked swiftly away.

Twenty.

Later that evening Field moved very slowly into the darkened Special Branch office, trying to determine whether there was any bit of him that wasn't in pain.

He flicked on the light in his booth and sat down. He stretched his legs, straightened his back, and put his hands behind his head, then slumped forward and fiddled with the light switch.

The buff-colored fingerprint file lay in his in-tray and he flicked the corner of it, ignoring the pile of publications to be censored that had been placed in the middle of his desk. He decided to splash a basinful of cold water over his face before giving the file a closer look.

On the way back from the washroom, Field poured himself a drink, then returned to his desk.

For a moment the significance of the empty tray did not register. The folder had been taken, no note left in its place.

Field stood and took the stairs to the fingerprint bureau two at a time, forgetting his bruises.

Ellis wasn't there. An elderly Sikh frowned at Field's inquiry. "No, sahib," he said. "They have not come back here."

"Check the originals, will you?"

The man walked over to a row of cabinets. "What's the name again?"

"Orlov, Lena."

Field waited, drumming his fingers. Eventually, the man turned. "No," he said bluntly. "There's no record of prints for a case under that name."

"Where is Ellis?"

"Ellis is on leave."

"On leave?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"I believe he has gone to San Francisco. He will be back in three to four months."

Field took the stairs down to Crime, but the office was as dark and deserted as his own, thin shards of light from the street cutting across the empty desks. He walked to Macleod's office and back, but there was no one there.

He returned to his own office and stood in the middle of the room, his hands in his pockets.

After a few minutes he headed down the stairs to the ground floor. In front of the reception desk, he waited for Albert, the doorman, to finish his telephone call. Albert was in his seventies and had been wounded in the Boer War.

"Albert, who has been in tonight?"

The old man's brow creased in concentration.

"It's quiet up there. Has anyone from my department, or from Crime, been in? I mean in the last few hours, since the match."

"Mr. Granger made an appearance."

"Granger?"

"Yes."

"How long ago?"

Albert shrugged. "Twenty minutes."

"Are you absolutely sure?"

Albert nodded. "And Macleod."

"Macleod?"

"And Caprisi. They came in together."

"When was that?"

"About forty minutes ago."

Field turned and ran back upstairs, first to Crime, where the office was still dark and empty, and then to the Branch, where his desk lamp was still the only sign of life. He stopped again in the middle of the room. "Sir?" he said.

He walked slowly down to Granger's room, knocked, and waited.

Field glanced over his shoulder, then slipped through Granger's door. He peered through the blinds, back down toward the lift, then walked around and sat behind the desk, his heart thumping. The in-tray was full of sheets of paper. He lifted the top one and held it up to the light. It was a memo from Commissioner Biers to "Heads of Department," about the "ordering, use, and abuse of stationery."