Master of Rain

by Tom Bradby

  “That’s what Lu had on Lena?”

  Sergei looked puzzled.

  “Anything Lena did wrong would be taken out on the sister?”

  Sergei nodded slowly. “She sent the girl to Harbin, but she knew Lu could find her if he wanted. She said he believed in insurance policies.”

  “The Englishman,” Field said. “He was a businessman, a taipan?”

  “I should think so. Even when she was drunk, she would not say.”

  “Tell me about the shipments.”

  “What shipments?” Sergei began to get up.

  “Sit down.”

  “I want some water.”

  “In a minute.” Field stood. “Hidden in Lena’s apartment was a list of shipments—consignments of sewing machines bound for various European cities. There’s one leaving this weekend. The Saratoga.”

  Sergei’s eyes darted left and right. “I don’t know.”

  “Yes you do.”

  “I know nothing about them.”

  The Russian was looking down at the floor again, and Field moved swiftly, taking a pace toward him and smacking him across the side of the face before Sergei had had a chance to protect himself.

  He lay whimpering on the bed, curled up in a ball. Caprisi still didn’t move.

  “Jesus . . . Jesus . . . ,” Sergei groaned.

  “Quickly.”

  “I don’t know.” Sergei was crying now. “Drugs. That’s what she said. The best opium.”

  Field pulled him upright. “We’ve worked that out, but what’s the deal?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean what’s the deal, Sergei? How does it work?”

  “It’s a syndicate. It’s about connections. Lu provides the opium and then they stack it into the machines and import huge quantities of it into Europe. The authorities here, the police . . .”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. She just said it was cast iron, that they knew they would never be caught, because they had everyone at every level tied down, all the way through to the destinations.”

  “Why was Lena making these notes?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What I said, Sergei. Why was Lena taking notes? How was she finding this stuff out, and why was she keeping a note of it?”

  The Russian was shaking now. “I don’t know. Her lover told her, or she overheard. I don’t know. It was her attempt at an insurance policy. She would go to the press, she said, if they didn’t give her what she wanted, but I said . . . you know, I told her, these people are dangerous, maybe they even control the press.”

  Field heard the siren of a French police car in the distance, getting rapidly closer. “Fuck,” he said, feeling for his holster and checking that he still had his revolver.

  “That’s the—”

  “Shut up,” Field said. “Is there a back way out?”

  Sergei shook his head.

  “A window?”

  “From the bathroom you can jump onto the roof of the store below.”

  “Did Lena say that she’d seen some records of these shipments?”

  Sergei looked frightened.

  “Did she ever say that she’d seen a record of it in Lu’s house? Is that how she was making the notes?”

  Sergei started to shake again.

  Field walked to the window overlooking the street. A green Citroën sedan pulled up outside the café. He turned back to Sergei. “We did not give you our names, and you do not know who we were.”

  Sergei nodded. He looked utterly wretched.

  Field went into the bathroom, opened the window, and dropped down onto the flat roof. Caprisi came down behind him. He did not look at the American until they had clambered down to the street and walked clear.

  Field stopped to light himself a cigarette. “So now you’re following me, too.”

  “I don’t trust you on your own, polar bear.”

  “Cut the polar bear crap,” Field said.

  “You’re going down and I don’t want to see it.”

  “Well then, close your eyes.” Caprisi was looking at him with concern, possibly even affection, but Field couldn’t tell which. He felt he’d lost the ability to distinguish between what was real and what was imagined. “I’m a grown man, Caprisi, and I’d be grateful if you could refrain from following me. I don’t want to shoot you by mistake.”

  Caprisi’s eyes were steady, his face hardening. “I can’t force you to help yourself, Richard, but we had an understanding—that we needed to exercise extreme caution—and you’re breaking the rules.”

  “Whose rules are they?”

  “You’re supposed to be running the girl, remember? Using her for us. How long do you think you can go on flailing around like this before her owner discovers what is going on?”

  “I’ve discovered there are no rules.”

  “You’re behaving like this is a game.”

  “I can assure you, it’s not a game to me.”

  “You were the one who wanted to take him on, Field. We are trying to catch a killer, and in the process bring down the man who protects him.”

  “I thought Macleod wanted to clean up the city.”

  “Macleod knows what he is dealing with.”

  Field sighed. “And so do we. A powerful Englishman. The most powerful in the city.”

  Caprisi looked at him. “I hope that is what your mind is on, polar bear. I really do.”

  “Charles Lewis?”

  “It fits. It more than fits. Lena talked about a powerful English taipan. She finds out and makes notes about drug shipments that are being moved through one of his factories. Lu cleans up after him in order to keep the syndicate operating. It must be Lewis. It all points to him.”

  “But . . .” Field’s brow furrowed. “I mean, he’s an arrogant bastard, and I know he likes to hurt women, but why would he risk everything?”

  “Rich people don’t like to kill anyone?”

  Field pictured the Chinese girl at the club, handcuffed and whimpering. Then he thought of Natasha and Lewis. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Go where?”

  “Just something I need to do.”

  “I’ve said my piece, Field.”

  “Yes, I heard it.”

  Caprisi stared at him.

  “You won’t follow me this time, will you?”

  “Just make sure no one else does. They’re interested now.”

  “What’s got them interested?”

  “At a guess, the other girls. Ignatiev and Simonov. Lu must know we know about them. Perhaps the killer is beginning to get nervous. Perhaps, beneath his customary air of cool, Lewis is getting worried.”

  Field looked at Caprisi for a few moments, then turned away.

  Forty-two

  The Sisters of Mercy Orphanage was situated halfway down Avenue Joffre, a solid, white building set back from the road behind a tall iron gate, which squeaked as Field opened it. He walked down two steps and through a colonnade of stone pillars to a cavernous entry hall, which was cool after the heat of the street. It smelled of damp, paint peeling off its walls.

  Field had wanted to work alone, so he had not told Caprisi he was coming to the orphanage, though perhaps he’d guessed.

  If he could find the boy, Field believed, then he would be able to ascertain beyond doubt that Lewis was the killer.

  A corkboard in one of the alcoves was covered with notices, including the same newspaper article on Lu Huang that had been pinned to Maretsky’s wall. Above it a printed sheet announced:

  Our benefactor will grace us with a visit at ten p.m. on Wednesday. Bedtime will be delayed accordingly. All dormitories must shower before nine. Songs in the hall will be followed by a dormitory inspection. All children will stand by their beds. Mr. Lu has promised to find homes for at least two more children.

  Field stared at the last line.

  The notice was signed, Sister Margaret.

  Field turned around. The orphanage must be only a minu
te or two by car from Lu’s house.

  He thought of the young orphans standing by their beds, waiting to see if they would be the lucky ones. Would they have an inkling of their fate—or would their hearts be bursting with joy that they had been chosen for “adoption”?

  Field felt physically sick, his pulse quickening. He wondered why Natasha had not taken Alexei in.

  There were three wooden chairs in the hallway. Beside each was a pile of pamphlets and Field picked one up. It was a list of prayers.

  He replaced it and walked into the gloomy corridor beyond, his loud footsteps, the damp, and the stifling odor of sanctity providing uncomfortable echoes of his own past.

  A man in a dark suit was walking toward him. He carried a Thompson machine gun, and the incongruity of his presence suggested to Field that he was one of Lu’s men.

  The man looked at him as he passed, before turning toward the front gate.

  Field reached a central hallway, encircled by thin shards of light from the glass dome above. He could hear the sound of children playing. He approached an open door in the corridor to his left, where a light was on, and knocked once.

  The woman who looked up was pretty, her white habit not quite denying her femininity. She was startled and then flustered.

  “My name is Richard Field, from the Shanghai police,” he said. “I’d be grateful if I could speak to Sister Margaret.”

  She stood, nodding, and disappeared into the room behind.

  Field retreated to the hallway again and looked up. A shard of light fought its way through the filthy windows set in the roof and fell directly on his face.

  He moved to the corner and sat in one of the straight-backed chairs. He picked up a copy of the newsletter from a long altar table beside it and fanned his face. He waited a long time. The sound of the children seemed to have grown fainter.

  Field heard movement at the other end of the corridor and looked up to see the nun he’d spoken to leading a smaller, older woman quickly toward him.

  “I’m Sister Margaret,” the woman said. She spoke with a Scottish accent. Her skin was pale and her handshake cool. The light caught the top of her wimple, illuminating the few strands of red hair that poked out from beneath it.

  “Richard Field, Special Branch.”

  Sister Margaret nodded once and then led Field into her office. Through the window he could see the children playing in the courtyard. They were all in clean, pressed white uniforms, their hair neat. Most seemed to be Chinese or Eurasian. A small group of boys was playing football. Field searched their faces for one he might recognize.

  “Would you like some tea, Mr. Field?”

  “Thank you. Milk, no sugar, please.”

  She indicated the seat behind him, a small, tall-backed wooden pew, before leaving to arrange for the tea. Field went back to scanning the playground. He could see only one Caucasian boy, but he had blond hair, was older than Alexei had been in the photograph, and bore no resemblance to either Natalya or Natasha.

  Sister Margaret appeared again so silently that Field did not realize for a few moments that she had returned. She sat down behind her desk, beneath a picture of the Virgin Mary holding the infant Jesus. She moved a pile of papers to the edge of the desk, brushing off the dust that had gathered beneath it. “How can I help you, Mr. Field?”

  Field returned to his seat. “You have been here long, Sister?”

  “Some years, yes.”

  “It’s a long way from Scotland.”

  “Most places are.”

  “I’m from Yorkshire.” Field smiled.

  “Then you had a shorter journey.”

  She was impervious to small talk. Field cleared his throat. “You are . . . Mr. Lu Huang is one of your donors.”

  He saw the wariness in her face immediately. She gave an almost inaudible sigh. “He is a most generous benefactor.”

  “I’m sure.”

  They were silent.

  Sister Margaret’s clothes rustled. “I am aware of what people say, Mr. Field, but in my situation, I believe beggars cannot be choosers.”

  “Of course.”

  Sister Margaret searched his eyes for signs of insincerity, her own expression defensive. She placed her hands in her lap, entwining her fingers.

  The younger nun came in with a tray. As she placed a cup in front of Field, she smiled shyly at him.

  “Thank you, Sister Jane,” the older woman said sharply.

  Field waited until she had gone. “I see that Lu—Mr. Lu—is coming to visit the children.”

  “We are grateful that he finds the time.”

  “Of course. I assume—well, he was an orphan, so he must like to see children being better cared for than he was.”

  Sister Margaret did not answer. Her eyes rested steadily upon Field’s face, her expression still guarded, before it slipped far enough to betray a blend of resignation and something else—moral compromise perhaps. Field felt a cloud of depression begin to envelop him. He had hoped Maretsky was wrong and that the situation here was not as debased as he had suggested.

  “Lu sometimes finds children a home?” Field asked.

  “Sometimes, yes. He very kindly found two of the young boys homes earlier this year.”

  “Expatriate parents?”

  “Chinese, I believe. They were Eurasian boys.”

  Field looked down. He wanted to relieve his frustration and anger by shouting at her.

  “Are you all right, Mr. Field?”

  He sipped his tea. “Yes, thank you.” He cleared his throat again. “Lu—Mr. Lu—picks out the children himself on these visits?”

  Sister Margaret hesitated. She dropped her gaze. “Yes.”

  Field swallowed hard. He could not be certain how much she knew beyond doubt, how much she suspected and tried to block out.

  “The parents are happy? They have worked well—the adoptions, I mean?”

  “We do our best here, Mr. Field, but, of course, the boys were excited to leave.” She shrugged. “Mr. Lu kindly made the arrangements and the boys were thrilled—of course, they were.”

  Field hesitated. He imagined two young boys darting down the corridor outside, bursting with happiness at the thought of the better life they believed awaited them beyond the gate on Avenue Joffre. He could see Lu Huang’s portly fingers as he habitually opened and closed his right hand. “They’re happier now?”

  “I believe so, yes. Mr. Lu kindly keeps us in touch with their progress.”

  “Yes, I can see that.”

  “You’re a policeman, Mr. Field, so perhaps you can appreciate the true nature of this city.”

  “I believe so, yes.”

  “Without the orphanage these children would have perished long ago. All of them. Without our benefactor there would be no orphanage.”

  Field looked at her. For a moment, believing that she was completely aware of the extent and scope of her Faustian pact, he felt like throwing up.

  “Alexei Simonov.” Field saw immediately that Sister Margaret knew the boy. “Mr. Lu—or his men—brought him here and asked you to give him shelter?”

  Sister Margaret did not answer.

  “The mother . . .”

  “It is a tragedy,” she said.

  “Of course.” He allowed himself a mournful pause.

  Sister Margaret raised her hand. “We have had five Russian children in one year,” she said, spreading her fingers.

  “Five.”

  “Suicide is against God’s will.”

  “Yes.”

  “But it is still a tragedy, of course.”

  “Of course, yes.”

  Field reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out the photograph he’d kept in his desk. He stood and handed it to Sister Margaret. “This is how Natalya Simonov committed suicide, Sister.”

  Her face went white. After a few moments she handed it back. She did not catch his eye.

  “Would it be possible for me to speak to the boy?”


  “Out of the question.” She shook her head.

  “It’s just that—”