Master of Rain

by Tom Bradby

  It was half past one.

  He tried not to think of what they would do with her if she was caught. Would they kill her in the house or take her somewhere else?

  The full magnitude of what he had set in motion threatened to overwhelm him. She had always been a survivor, but he had forced her to risk her life for him, for what he wanted.

  He had forced her.

  Field gripped the revolver still harder. He wound down the window a fraction, but there was not a hint of wind. The street was deserted, save for the Chinese servant who had returned to sweeping the back entrance to his master’s house with the slow, methodical action of one who has no leaves left to sweep.

  Field wiped his forehead with his sleeve and looked at his watch again. One-forty. He could feel the tension in his neck and back and legs as he looked up at the windows again. There was no sign of her.

  Should he go in himself?

  He glanced at Alexei. The boy was staring at him, desperation in his eyes.

  “I had a wooden airplane,” Alexei said.

  Field turned back to the house.

  “When I went to the orphanage, they took it away.”

  Field didn’t want Alexei to talk. He could feel a muscle at the corner of his eye start to twitch.

  “I asked if I could see his car. He always said ‘soon.’ I would still like to see it. I think it is a big one. He is very rich and has many airplanes. Mama said one day soon we will go away from Shanghai, to a better place, and then we will be rich and be able to go on airplanes and have our own car and everything will be very good.”

  “Come on,” Field said to himself, willing the door to open.

  He realized that he had no idea how she would get the ledger out of the house. It would be too big to conceal.

  “Mama said he is very rich and can go on an airplane anytime he wants and he gave me one. A big one. I wish Father Brown had not taken it away.”

  The car was starting to feel like a furnace.

  “What did they do with it, do you think, sir?”

  Field tried to smile. “It’s ‘Richard.’ ”

  “What do you think they did with it?”

  It was one-fifty.

  “I wish I had gone in his car. I think it was a big one.”

  “Come on, come on, come on,” Field said under his breath, his eyes fixed on the door. He was cursing her now.

  “I do not understand how he could have driven the car, though. He was not like you.”

  The children had returned and were playing with their hoop right outside Lu’s front door.

  “He only had one leg.”

  Field felt the rush of blood in his head.

  “What? What did you say?”

  Alexei did not answer.

  “He only had one leg?”

  “Yes.”

  “The man who gave you the airplane?”

  Alexei nodded.

  “He had one real leg and one wooden leg?”

  “Yes. He was funny about it. I liked to knock it.”

  “He had sandy hair, with some gray. Flecks . . . little bits of gray?”

  “Gray hair, yes.”

  “And he shuffled . . . with a wooden leg?”

  “Yes.”

  Lu’s car pulled up and the bodyguards jumped off the running board. Before Field could move, Lu got out and went inside, his men following him. Field began to push open his car door, then checked himself.

  His every nerve end screamed at him to do something.

  He forced himself to wait. The door opened.

  Grigoriev led Natasha down the steps, a hand gripping her arm. She did not look up before she was shoved into the back of the car.

  They drove off.

  Field registered that there were two bodyguards left behind as he put his foot on the low speed pedal and pulled away from the curb. As he reached the turn, one of the men stepped out into his path, his machine gun leveled at the windshield.

  Field stopped and the man came around and tapped his gun against the window. Field wound it down and tried to smile. The sweat was stinging his eyes. “Taking my boy to school. Mon fils à l’école.”

  The man glowered, his machine gun inches from Field’s face. The second bodyguard had moved to the front of the car, his Thompson aimed through the windshield directly at Alexei.

  “I must—”

  “Attends, attends,” the Russian said sharply.

  Field could see Lu’s car disappearing, and his brain was screaming at him to do something. “My boy. L’école est ici, là-bas.”

  “Attends!” the Russian barked.

  “Mon fils, là-bas.”

  “Attends!”

  Field took a deep breath. “May I go up and turn?” He forced his revolver between his knees and pointed to a side street.

  The man shook his head. “Wait.”

  “I must—”

  “Nyet!” The man hit Field in the face with his fist, then stepped back, his gun raised. Without lowering the barrel, he turned toward his colleague. They began speaking in Russian.

  “What are they saying?” Field whispered.

  Alexei was white with shock.

  “What are they saying?”

  The boy did not answer. Field gripped the handle of his revolver.

  The Russians laughed, but the one standing in front of the car was alert, the barrel of his machine gun still pointing at Alexei’s head.

  “ ‘Another one for the Happy Times block,’ they said,” Alexei whispered.

  “What do they mean?”

  “The man has been waiting for his appointment. I do not understand.”

  “They have taken her to the Happy Times block?”

  “Silence.” The man closest to the window stepped forward. He pointed the muzzle of his gun at Field’s head. “Tais toi.”

  They continued speaking to each other in Russian. Field understood the word “Grigoriev,” but nothing else.

  “They are talking about when Grigoriev will be back,” Alexei whispered, his head down.

  Field’s throat was dry. Bright pinpricks of light swam before his eyes. A kaleidoscope of images: white sheets, red blood, the glint of light on handcuffs, the downward arc of a knife’s blade. He tried to sweep them from his mind. Natalya. Irina. Lena. Natasha.

  Natasha. He would force her to dress in the underwear he liked. He would clamp her ankles and wrists to the brass bed. He would look at her. He would take his time. He would hurt her. She would be frightened. She would be wondering where Field was and would not know that he was unable to help her.

  He thought of the deep gashes in Lena’s stomach.

  He thought of Natalya’s body, twisted in a last, futile attempt to protect herself.

  Natasha would be able to do nothing.

  She had been a victim ever since leaving Kazan and would die like the others, abandoned and alone.

  Geoffrey. How blind Field had been. Truly a fool, imagining as his investigation progressed that he was achieving some mastery of a city where each truth only hid a deeper deceit.

  The Russian in the front of the car turned away, and without thinking, Field began to raise his revolver.

  The bodyguard beside him took a step closer. “The girl—she was with you?”

  Field shook his head. “Waiting for the boy’s mother. Always late!” Field forced himself to smile. The man did not respond.

  “Is it a traffic problem?” Field asked.

  “Not traffic.”

  “Do you mind if I get out and smoke?”

  The man shrugged. Field pushed the revolver beneath his seat, then forced himself to get out. He took the packet of cigarettes from his pocket and offered it to both men. The one closest accepted and Field struck a match.

  “It’s a traffic problem?”

  “Not traffic. You were with the girl?”

  Field raised his hands, palms up. “Mon fils est à l’école. Tard. Toujours en retard.”

  The man shook his head. His Fr
ench was clearly little better than his English.

  The minutes crawled by. A light wind had got up and was creating small circles of dust along the edge of the sidewalk. Field pictured the deep craters in Lena’s vagina and the thin strands of white skin strung across the top of them. He thought of the marks around her wrists and ankles where the handcuffs had rubbed as she’d struggled to break free.

  In his mind’s eye, he could see Natasha writhing and turning away to protect herself. He could hear her screaming in his head.

  The men spoke in Russian again. Field could see Alexei’s small, frightened face through the windshield.

  He turned to face Lu’s door, squinting against the sunlight and watching the burning ash as he sucked deeply on the cigarette.

  He closed his mouth and exhaled, pushing the smoke through his nostrils.

  Geoffrey couldn’t kill Natasha.

  Even as he tried to cling to the thought, he wondered at his own naiveté. He had placed Natasha’s fate in the hands of a man he thought he had grown to understand, and yet did not know at all.

  He could see Geoffrey’s warm smile as he swept a hand calmly through his hair, the quiet confidence and authority he projected with every movement. He could feel the warmth of his handshake and the reassuring calmness and affection of his fatherly demeanor, the promise of a home away from home.

  As the anger swelled within him, Field tried to conjure up an image of Natasha’s face, but suddenly could not. He could see the wound on her chest, blood welling and flowing across her skin, but not her face.

  He turned.

  The Russians had not moved.

  Field took a pace toward them, then forced himself to adopt an air of studied indifference. A man in a long khaki raincoat emerged from the street behind them. It was a moment before Field realized that it was Chen.

  When he came level with the Russians, the Chinese detective affected to notice Field for the first time. He crossed in front of the two bodyguards as though they were not there. “Richard.”

  Field shook his hand and tried to smile.

  “What are you doing here?” Chen asked, staring at him intently.

  “Just taking my son to school. I’m . . . we’re late. I’m not quite sure what the problem is.”

  Chen turned toward the Russians, speaking to them in their own language.

  “They say you were with a woman.” Chen was frowning, as if not having any idea what the men were talking about.

  “No, no. I’m just . . .” Field cleared his throat and pointed at the car. “Taking my son to his school.” He exhaled. “We’re very late.”

  “Some woman, big trouble,” Chen said. “They are worried you have something to do with her.”

  Field shook his head emphatically.

  One of the men spoke directly to Field, in Russian. Chen translated. “He wants to know why you are taking your boy to school at lunchtime.”

  “Doctor. Doctor’s appointment.”

  This time the conversation took several minutes, the Chinese detective no longer bothering to relay what the Russians were saying. Eventually, he turned back to Field. “A big problem, they say.” Chen changed tack. “How was Allenby when you saw him last night?”

  Field looked at him, confused, until he saw Chen’s mouth tighten. “Oh, he was fine. You know. Just fine.”

  Chen’s tone with the bodyguards became more forceful. He pointed repeatedly to both Field and the boy in the exchange that followed. “I’ve said you’re a good friend of some very important people in the Settlement,” he explained without turning around.

  The Russians seemed unsure. They could no longer talk to each other without being understood, so stood in sullen silence, glancing up from time to time at the bright sun, as if the solution to their problem might suddenly reveal itself.

  At length, the one closest to Chen stepped aside and waved his gun to indicate they could continue.

  Field walked forward.

  “Where are you going?” Chen asked. His manner was calm, his words unhurried.

  “To the school.”

  “You’re going on to the office?”

  Field hesitated. “Yes, probably.”

  “I’ll ride with you.”

  Field got behind the wheel and Chen moved around to the far side, nodding at the Russians as he passed. He slipped into the passenger seat, patting the boy on the head. He raised his hand at the men and smiled. Field moved off.

  “They went towards Foochow Road,” Chen said.

  “The boy says they took her to the Happy Times block.”

  As he turned left, Field put his foot down on the accelerator.

  “Not too fast.”

  The blood was pounding through Field’s head.

  “Slower,” Chen barked.

  “For Christ’s sake.”

  “Be careful.”

  A tram had stopped ahead of them, a small group of people waiting to climb on board. Field began to pull out. “Wait,” Chen said. He turned around. As Field was about to explode, he gestured with his hand. “Go on.”

  Chen looked back over his shoulder again. Field drove mechanically, the images around him disjointed and unreal, his gaze fixed on a yellow Chevrolet in front as they drove down toward the racecourse. “Slow,” Chen said, exhaling. “Pull up before Happy Times.”

  Field drew up a hundred yards short, behind an old-model Ford that was disgorging a young family, the mother trying to prevent her two young children from running off down the street. Beyond them, Field could see Lu’s men standing by the entrance. Grigoriev was smoking.

  Field took the revolver from under his seat and put it back in its holster. “Stay here, Alexei. Don’t leave the car.” He got out and walked swiftly after Chen. He looked back once, but the men had not moved.

  Chen led the way round to the back of the building and down a narrow alley. The service entrance was a black steel door, beyond a large bin overflowing with refuse. Chen took out his revolver and gestured to Field to pull the door toward him. They stepped inside.

  The stairs led down to a basement and their footsteps echoed. Field fumbled for a light switch.

  There were four or five buckets at the foot of the steps, a pile of paintbrushes, and a broom. Field could hear the low rumble of a boiler.

  He held up the revolver, his palm slippery against the metal.

  Chen raised his hand, his head tilted to one side. Field could feel the sweat gathering on his forehead.

  They found the stairwell and emerged slowly into the light of the main hallway. As he opened the swinging door, Field could see Grigoriev standing outside with his back to him. They moved silently across the hall, Field’s eyes never leaving the Russian. The front desk was empty.

  They reached the entrance to the staircase.

  Once beyond it, they sprinted up the stairs. As he neared the top landing, Field heard her scream.

  Fifty-four

  Field braced himself and kicked her door, hard, just beneath the handle. “Natasha!” He took aim and kicked once more.

  He kicked again and again, until the frame started to splinter.

  “Natasha!”

  There was silence within.

  The door gave with a crack like a pistol shot. Field crashed through it, raising his gun, Chen behind him. The curtains had been partially drawn. He blinked, trying to adjust his eyes to the patchwork of daylight and shadow.

  The flat was silent.

  There was the flickering glow of a candle in the bedroom doorway, and Field walked slowly toward it.

  He saw her arms first, handcuffed above her head. She was almost naked. Geoffrey half sat, half knelt above her, his knife at her throat.

  “Don’t move, Richard.”

  He stepped into the room.

  “Do not move.” Geoffrey’s voice shook with barely controlled anger.

  Field stopped. He raised his hands slowly in the air, transfixed by the fear in Natasha’s eyes.

  “Put the gun down,”
Geoffrey ordered.