The Russian Concubine

by Kate Furnivall

  Captain Wah’s mouth narrowed with annoyance. ‘You would be wise to give it to me,’ he said in a sharp tone. He rose to his feet, tall and rangy in his dusty grey uniform, and leaned forward threateningly over his desk. ‘Do as I order, or you will die slowly.’

  ‘One man,’ Chang said quietly. ‘The Russian. The one whose words the Kuomintang listen to.’

  A change came over the officer. His cheeks sucked in, he rubbed a hand across his pockmarked chin, and his eyes grew more thoughtful. He bit the end off his cigar and spat it at the floor.

  ‘I think,’ he said, ‘I will execute you right now.’

  ‘If you do, I promise you the Russian will have you whipped to the bone,’ Chang murmured with a bow.

  58

  Theo stepped inside the Rolls-Royce as it purred to a halt at the kerb, and he inhaled the rich odour of leather and money.

  ‘Good day to you, Feng Tu Hong.’

  ‘You asked for my time, Willbee. I am here. I am listening.’

  Theo slid onto the comfort of the maroon rear seat beside Feng and studied his enemy. Feng was wrapped in a long grey coat with a wide silver fur collar and pale grey kid gloves, but even in all his finery he still had the look of a buffalo ready to charge. Theo smiled.

  ‘You are looking well, Feng.’

  ‘Well, but not well pleased.’

  ‘I appreciate your sparing a few moments from your busy day.’

  ‘Every day is busy for a man like myself who has so many matters to attend to and no son at his right hand.’

  Theo stared through the glass partition at the back of the chauffeur’s head. Outside a few flakes of snow swirled in the wind. Feng had given him the opening but he had to tread with care.

  ‘It grieves me to hear that Po Chu is no longer one of your household. A father’s heart must hang heavy when his only son departs with harsh words.’

  ‘Daughter or son. A father’s heart bleeds.’

  ‘It is about Po Chu I came to speak.’

  ‘He is a worthless beetle fit only for the sewers.’

  ‘I fear he will soon be in prison rather than in the sewers.’

  Feng sank his neck deeper into the fur collar and glared at Theo. ‘You lie.’

  ‘No, Feng Tu Hong, I speak the truth. Your son has kidnapped a fanqui girl. She is the daughter of a British journalist who will bring the might of the British Army down on Chinese heads in Junchow if the girl is not released immediately.’

  Feng’s huge hand gripped the ivory cane he carried across his lap. Theo knew from Li Mei that it was a swordstick, though he had never seen the thin blade himself. Nor did he care to. Feng breathed heavily but said nothing.

  ‘Such antipathy,’ Theo continued, ‘between our people would be bad for your . . . business.’

  Feng snorted. ‘What is it you want, Willbee?’

  ‘I want to know where Po Chu is hiding her.’

  ‘Hah, you take my daughter and now you would take my son. Be careful, Englishman, that I do not take your head.’

  ‘No, Feng. It is the girl I want, not your son. If I can retrieve her quickly, Po Chu will not be harmed. I came to warn you of the danger he is in.’

  Feng turned his sombre face away and stared unseeing out of the side window. On the pavement opposite, an acrobat was balancing on stilts while a stick-thin monkey in a scarlet jacket was holding out a cup for money. The chauffeur tossed in a coin.

  ‘My son disobeyed me, Willbee. The way his brother, Yuesheng, did before him, and my daughter before that. He is banished from my house but . . . it grieves me, Willbee, because I can father no more sons however young and luscious the maidens I pleasure. My stalk is still willing but the seeds are shrivelled and dry though I eat tiger meat. I grow old.’ He ran a hand over his sleek hair, touching the greying temples with distaste. ‘I need my son.’

  ‘The British courts will hang him.’

  Feng swung back to confront Theo and his eyes were dull with despair. ‘I want him alive, worthless as he is.’

  ‘There is a chance for him still if I can find her quickly before the authorities get involved.’

  Feng leaned close to Theo, and Theo had to work hard to keep his own anger off his face. He did not choose to forget that this was the man who had put Li Mei through so much pain and caused Theo’s own problems with Mason.

  ‘Very well, Willbee. I trust you because I have no other choice. Po Chu is far too cautious to let any of my people come near, but you are different. Maybe you can speak with him because he will see you as no threat.’ He heaved a deep sigh that shuddered through the bunched muscles of his body. ‘My secret eyes tell me he and his followers are hiding in a farmhouse. Out near the Seven Woods to the east of town.’ His black gaze fixed on Theo. ‘Save him, teacher-man. For me. For his father.’

  Theo nodded. ‘When this is over, if Po Chu lives, I will name my price.’ He climbed out of the car.

  ‘Alfred.’

  ‘Thank the Lord you’ve come, Theo.’ Alfred’s normally neat exterior was rumpled, his jacket creased and dark circles forming behind his spectacles. ‘Any luck?’

  ‘I have news.’

  ‘You’ve found her?’

  ‘Not yet.’ Theo shook his head and accepted the whisky Alfred held out to him. ‘How’s her mother?’

  ‘Beside herself with fury. Dear God, I can’t bear to see her in such agony. The police are worse than useless, they’re so slow.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have involved them yet.’

  ‘Sorry, old man, but I had to. But look, I didn’t mention that Lydia’s Chinese friend was a Communist fugitive, so you should be safe from any charges. Quickly now, what’s this news you have?’

  ‘A farmhouse. That’s where they’re keeping her.’ Theo was uncertain quite how much to reveal to Alfred because he didn’t want the police getting hold of the information yet, but he knew he was going to need someone to back him up. ‘I’m going out there in secret to try to bargain with Po Chu.’

  ‘Damn good.’

  ‘Come with me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Bring a gun.’

  ‘Alfred, listen to me, take Liev Popkov with you.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Don’t be so dense, you must remember him. The drunken Russian who stormed into our wedding reception. I know where he lives and can send someone to fetch him straightaway.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Right. Good idea. He’s big.’

  ‘Take care, both of you. I don’t want my husband dead, Mr Willoughby.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Valentina. I’ll come back, God willing. With Lydia. She’s my daughter too now.’

  ‘Oh, Alfred, if you do, I’ll kiss the ground you walk on till the day I die . . . whether God’s willing or not. Come here.’

  ‘Steady on, old girl. Theo’s watching.’

  ‘Let him watch.’

  The road was rough and so rutted it nearly took the sump off Theo’s Morris Cowley. It was little more than a dirt track that skirted fields that stretched bare and grey to the horizon. In the spring they would be a green swathe of young wheat shoots, but in winter they looked like a sea of ash. Depressing under an even greyer sky. Theo cursed and fought the steering wheel around to the left to avoid another pothole. Beside him Alfred was smoking his pipe in silence, and the calmness of each puff irritated Theo. His own heart was thudding like a steam hammer. Damn it, he wished he’d had a pipe of his own before he left, a dream pipe to quiet his nerves.

  ‘Alfred, be a good chap, and put out the ruddy smoke signals, will you?’

  Alfred glanced across, studied him for a moment before winding down the window and tossing his pipe out onto the stony track. ‘Better?’

  Theo said nothing, just concentrated on the road. In the backseat the big Russian let out a loud guffaw and hunched forward with anticipation.

  The road ended in a goat trail and they left the car behind the few scraps of pine trees that Feng Tu Hong had called a wood. On foot they threade
d their way to the far side of it and crouched down to observe the farmhouse that lay five hundred yards ahead. It was a cluster of single-storey wooden buildings covering three sides of a square, with a courtyard at the centre and the fourth side made up of a whitewashed stone wall with high arched gates of solid oak.

  They waited thirty minutes by Theo’s watch. A flock of ragged-winged crows dropped out of the grey clouds and settled on the flat lifeless soil in front of the house, where they strutted stiff-legged like old men and dredged for grubs. When one stretched out its neck and took to the air, cawing harshly and circling over the fanqui heads, Theo hoped it was not an omen.

  ‘Nothing,’ he snapped when Alfred’s timepiece pinged two o’clock. They were both staring at the gates, willing them to open. ‘We might as well get over there and take a look. Po Chu and I have old business to settle.’

  ‘You know this man?’

  ‘Oh yes. He’s Li Mei’s brother.’

  ‘You should have said.’

  ‘I’m saying it now.’

  ‘So this is personal?’

  ‘No, I’m here for Lydia.’

  ‘I see.’

  The one-eyed Russian abruptly shook himself and lumbered to his feet behind a huddle of trees. His black eye fixed on Alfred and then Theo. ‘Zhdite zdes,’ he said. ‘You here.’ He pointed at Theo’s watch and indicated the movement of time. ‘One.’ He held up a thick scarred forefinger. ‘One. You here.’

  ‘One hour?’

  ‘Da.’ Liev nodded.

  ‘You want us to stay here an hour?’

  ‘Da.’

  ‘And then?’ Alfred asked.

  ‘You . . . there.’ Liev Popkov pointed at the gate.

  ‘And you? Where will you be?’

  The Russian spread his lips, showing strong teeth inside his black beard, growled something in his own language, and slunk off back into the trees. In his matted fur hat and long grey coat, he merged into the landscape after only a few strides.

  ‘Christ almighty,’ Theo muttered and settled down to wait.

  Alfred removed his spectacles and polished them meticulously.

  Theo banged on the oak door. Alfred rang a small bronze bell that hung on a chain to one side and almost immediately a narrow slat slid open at face level. A pair of Chinese eyes stared out, but one was filmy and the other nervous.

  ‘I have come to speak with Feng Po Chu.’ Theo spoke briskly in Mandarin. ‘Inform your master that the Honourable Tiyo Willbee is here. And be quick. The cold out here is the devil’s breath.’

  The eyes grew wider and flicked uneasily from Theo to Alfred and back again. ‘Not here,’ he said and slammed the slat shut.

  Alfred thudded his fist on the door, making it rattle in its lock. ‘Open up, damn you.’

  To their surprise his words were greeted with the sound of a key turning and a heavy bolt being drawn top and bottom, then the oak door swung open. In front of them an elderly Chinese man with a long old-fashioned braid lay unconscious on the cobbles, while beside the door stood a bearded man with a chunk of firewood gripped in his hand.

  ‘Liev Popkov!’ Alfred exclaimed. ‘How . . . ?’

  ‘Never mind how he broke in,’ Theo urged. ‘Let’s get searching. ’

  He drew his gun. The Russian pulled a pair of well-used long-barrelled pistols from his belt, and Alfred waved a small Smith & Wesson uneasily in the general direction of the buildings. Theo felt a kick of adrenaline in his guts. Almost as good as opium running on the Peiho on a stormy night. He raced toward the first doorway but found only empty rooms. They searched the place thoroughly, every building and every ramshackle outhouse. No Lydia. A farmer, his two burly sons, and a handful of women were the only occupants.

  One of the young wives admitted readily, ‘Feng Po Chu has gone. Two days ago. Took his piss-making men with him.’

  The Russian let out a roar of frustration. They were too late.

  59

  Lydia held on to the pain in her breast. She sat huddled over her knees, one hand pressed hard against the wound to stem the bleeding. She never expected to be glad to be back inside Box, but she was. She had cried with relief when they locked her up again in the dark.

  She’d stuck to her story. Chang An Lo was dead. If she could make Po Chu believe it, maybe she would survive this. No. Don’t think that. That’s too far ahead. Think only as far as the next moment. Think of now.

  He hit her a few more times, but that was all. It was as if the sight and smell of her blood, the taste of it as he licked his chin, satisfied some inner urge. For the moment. But like any addict, he would be back for more. Her nipple throbbed, but somehow the pain had flicked a switch in her head and woken her out of the torpor she had been slowly sliding into, where Death stood waiting with a smile and open arms. Life was more complicated. Harder to do. And pain meant life, so she kept telling herself pain was good.

  Chang An Lo.

  Mama.

  Sun Yat-sen.

  Even Alfred.

  Her slender army of faces to fend off fear.

  And Polly’s. Her friend’s face came reluctantly, but it did come at last.

  I can do this. I can. Survival. That’s what I’m good at.

  The sound of the bolt at the top of the stairs.

  She started to breathe deeply, ready for the water. But the footsteps were different, heavier, stumbling, and she felt her throat close with panic. The dim light grew brighter in the holes, the feet came closer. She stared upward. What this time? Water? Hot oil? Acid? Anything?

  The roof flew off. She blinked. A hand grabbed her hair. Her knees felt like they were set in concrete but when the pull dragged at her scalp, she pushed against the walls with her hands and got herself to her feet. Instantly she was yanked over the edge and collapsed in a heap of flailing limbs on the cellar’s dirt floor. A man laughed. She tried to stand, but fell. Another laugh. Loose and malicious. A booted kick on her bare buttocks urged her to her feet and this time she made it. She knew who her tormentor was even before she saw his face.

  Po Chu. Back for more.

  But this time was different. He was drunk. And he was alone.

  She could smell the alcohol on him, maotai on his breath and in the sweat on his smooth skin, quivering in his muscles. He released his grip on her hair but seized her arm and thrust her back against the damp earth wall. She knew what was coming. His lips found her mouth, chewing on her flesh, and she let his big soft tongue enter her mouth and slide down inside her throat. She couldn’t breathe. Choked.

  He laughed, the high whinny of a horse. One strong hand gripped her wrist as his body crushed hers against the wall, grinding his hips into hers, his other hand forcing its way between her legs. Her flesh crawled at his touch. But she didn’t resist. Instead she stroked his broad back with her free hand. He breathed hard as his mouth lowered to her breasts and he sucked on the wound, sending pain shooting up into her brain, but she kept stroking, mewing, arching against him, hands roving. Down to his hips. Into his trousers.

  His groan of pleasure as her hand encircled his engorged penis disgusted her but at last he released her other wrist and wrapped his arm around her naked waist. Pulling her against him and dragging down his trousers, making it easy for her. She kept one hand busy on his penis to distract him while she slid the other up under his jacket to where she could feel the hard bulge of a gun holster under his left arm.

  She opened her legs.

  Instantly he thrust at her. In one quick movement she slid the gun out, pushed its muzzle against his ribs and pulled the trigger.

  Nothing happened.

  Po Chu screamed something at her, his spittle spraying into her face, and grabbed for the gun, but she snatched it away and slammed the heavy metal into the side of his head. He went down. Dropped to his knees. But his hands still clung to her and he started to rise, clawing his way up her, fingers digging into her hips.

  Her breath had stopped. But her mind was clear. If she didn’t end it no
w she was dead.

  You would kill a man. If you had to. Chang’s words in her ears.

  She sought out the safety catch. Pointed the barrel right in his face. Fired.

  The explosion set her head ringing and sent Po Chu hurtling back down to the floor. By the uncertain light of the oil lamp on the stairs she could see that his face had become an oozing black crater with shards of glistening white bone. She gaped at it. The gun was shaking in her hand. But in place of the horror she expected to feel, there was only a deep visceral satisfaction that came out of her mouth as a ringing war cry.

  She started to run.

  Corridors confused her. She twisted and turned, seeking a door that would take her outside, but each time she threw one open it led only into yet another room. Voices behind her. She fired at their shadows. Again and again. A bullet grazed her shoulder. She hurled herself into a room where two frightened young Chinese children cowered under a tiger skin, picked up a stool, and slammed it into the window. Glass and shutters exploded. Cold air rushed in.

  She leaped through the opening, dimly aware of pain in her feet, and found herself in a garden where winter vegetables were growing in neatly tended rows. It surprised her that it wasn’t dark outside, the light a thin misty grey, but she had no idea whether it was dawn or dusk. Another bullet tore past her hair. She swung around, fired, aiming at nothing. Run. She ran. Over loose earth. Through a stableyard. Horses. Dogs barking. Run. Out. Into the open. Fields, a path, trees. More shots and men behind her, closer. Then suddenly in front of her a solid row of Chinese faces. A pair of hands seized her. No, not now.

  Not now that she was free.

  ‘No,’ she screamed and raised her gun to the man’s face.

  ‘Lydia. It’s me.’

  She stopped screaming. Lowered the gun. Squinted at the blur that was a face. Grey uniforms all around her.

  ‘Here.’ A greatcoat was flung around her shivering naked body. ‘It’s all right. You’re safe now.’