“It was a fair call,” Cheung said. He had worked here all his life. He knew the game. He shot Noma the subtlest of stink eyes, which, thanks be to Tin Hau, Noma did not see.

Grayburn raised his bat again. Tried not to grimace. These Japanese bastards had sucked up all the proper Hong Kong currency in the colony and replaced it with bunkum military yen. They’d instituted exorbitant taxes of thirty percent on all business over five thousand military yen. They funnelled currency out of the colony in every way they could imagine to fund the torture and murder of his friends and employees and, more broadly, the war in China, in order to drive the Europeans out.

Harada bowled the next ball with a spin, but Grayburn saw the flick of his wrist. He hit the ball with all his once considerable might, which was still sufficient to send it sailing over the spectators’ heads and out onto Chater Road.

Cheung pointed to the ground with his forefinger to signal a boundary. This gave the British team six runs.

One of the Japanese fielders ran out to the road to retrieve the ball and send it back to Harada. Colonel Noma made a face. He didn’t like to see a Japanese reduced to petty labour, but the local ground rules said the fielder had to get the ball back to the bowler to end the play.

Cheung signalled, honest as ever, to the scorekeeper, who posted Britain 7.

The fielder threw the ball to a furious Harada. Really in a snit, Harada glared at Grayburn so hard that Cheung thought he saw light pouring from Harada’s eyes. Grayburn spit. As he did so, Harada hurled the ball and hit the wicket hard.

“How’s that?” said Noma, threat in his voice.

What Harada had done was completely illegal, but Cheung knew that Noma could call a halt to the game at any time, and carry out repercussions for anything that made him unhappy.

He hesitated.

Noma glared.

Reluctantly, Cheung raised his right hand and pointed his forefinger into the air. Out.

Grayburn gawped at Cheung, as though to say traitor.

Cheung shrugged.

Grayburn considered approaching him to have a word, but Cheung gave him an anxious, real-world look. Grayburn hesitated, then turned around and left the field.

The next batter on the pitch was Hilda Selwyn-Clarke, a known communist. And a woman to boot. Noma’s eyebrow arched.

“Don’t underestimate me, boys,” said Red Hilda. “If I can get birth control for Hong Kong women, I can damn well bat at cricket.”

“What kind of cricket team is this?” said Noma.

“You asked me to choose,” said Cheung.

“This woman,” Noma said, “this woman is one of the founders of the China Defense League. In cahoots with Soong Ching-Ling herself. Remind me to have her imprisoned when the match is over.”