Master of Rain

by Tom Bradby

  He put a foot on the stairs.

  “Richard?”

  Field stopped. He could tell it was taking every fragment of her strength to hold back the tears.

  “He was a good man, you know. And that part of him was always there; it just got smaller and smaller.”

  She had begun to cry now, and Field stepped back toward her.

  “No.” She raised her hand. “Please.” Penelope wiped her eyes. “Just tell me I was not completely wrong.”

  Field thought of the gaping wound in Lena Orlov’s stomach, of Alexei’s frightened face and the photograph that Maretsky had given him of Natalya’s mutilated body. He thought of Natasha’s bruised lip and the fate that had so nearly befallen her. He hesitated, then looked up again at the diminutive figure in the shadows.

  “You weren’t wrong, Penelope.” He shook his head. “You weren’t wrong.”

  He began to walk down the stairs.

  “Good luck,” she said again.

  Fifty-six

  As the national anthem started, a great cheer went up. The crowd in front of him was a sea of red, white, and blue. They had gathered in their thousands, in front of the consulate. Field shifted to the right to get a better view.

  He did not believe he had been followed from Crane Road, but there were so many people about that anyone who wished to tail him without being observed could easily have done so.

  The sergeant, mounted on his horse in front of the guard of honor, shouted, “Three cheers for the king and emperor,” and the crowd around Field erupted. “Hip, hip, hooray!”

  Field helped a man who was struggling to get his young boy on his shoulders and rescued his Union Jack from the ground.

  The nearest troops were the Sikhs, dressed in white, their buckles and bayonets gleaming in the midday sun.

  A portly, middle-aged woman, with a tiny flag tucked into the band of her hat, turned to him with tears in her eyes. “Look at the marines,” the woman exhorted him and whoever else was listening, gripping his arm. “Aren’t they absolutely marvelous?”

  The crowd began to sing the national anthem. Field watched the marines, who were ramrod straight and completely aware of the splendid, heartening spectacle they were creating, a reminder to every inhabitant of this city of the power of the empire, upon which their fortunes rested.

  He checked the revolver in his pocket as a group of drunken young men surged forward, crushing those at the front as they attempted to drown out everyone around them with the noise of their singing.

  Field edged forward, pushed himself closer to an elderly couple. They were talking to each other excitedly in German, the woman’s face shielded behind an old-fashioned broad-brimmed blue hat. They were a wealthier version of the Schmidts and he excused himself as he shoved past them, fingering his revolver once more.

  The crowd was thicker at the front, made up mostly of parents who’d fought to give their children the best view of the Bund. The white rope was ten yards from the line of Sikhs and only about a hundred from the gate of the consulate itself.

  A gun went off as the national anthem came to an end—the midday salute.

  He could see the sweat on the faces of the Sikhs as they stood to attention, their rifles now by their sides, the tips of the bayonets just above their ears.

  There was another shout from the sergeant and they began to cheer, their turbans raised aloft on their bayonets. “Sat Sri Akal!”

  Field pushed through the crowd again. He almost tripped over two young boys kneeling beneath the rope barrier.

  As he walked toward the consulate building, a Sikh policeman, also dressed in white, hurried toward him. Field was sweating violently. “Richard Field, S.1,” he said, holding open his wallet to display his identity card.

  The man examined it more thoroughly than he needed to, perhaps for the benefit of the onlookers. Then he stepped away from the rope to let him pass. Field breathed a little more easily. He crossed the road and looked back at the crowd, which stretched to the line of masts and funnels on the quay behind and for as much as a mile in each direction.

  He passed the line of marines and reached another group of Sikh guards outside the front gate.

  “Field, S.1,” he said, holding out his wallet once more.

  The man he had approached was a sergeant, with a mature, confident face and a long, bushy white mustache. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said, shaking his head. “But I’m afraid we have strict orders not to allow anyone through today.”

  “Charles Lewis is expecting me,” Field said, his voice taut, sweat breaking out on his forehead again.

  The Sikh continued to shake his head. “No one in here, sir, I’m sorry. C in C’s orders.”

  “The C in C?”

  The Sikh pointed to the man standing in the center of the dais overlooking the gardens, an extension of the terrace to the side of the consulate. He was dressed in white, with a large triangular, feathered hat. “Admiral Sir Edward Alexander Gordon Brewer, Commander in Chief, China Station.”

  “I’m from S.1, Sergeant. I’d appreciate it if you could send someone to find Charles Lewis and get him to come down here to collect me.”

  The Sikh was still shaking his head.

  “I’m from S.1, Sergeant,” Field repeated slowly, as if the man was hard of hearing. “If you don’t want to be going home without your pension, I would get off your backside and go and find Charles Lewis. Now!”

  Field had barked the order so loudly that a couple of women on the near end of the dais turned. The C in C was giving his address, but the wind was in the wrong direction. Field could not hear a word he was saying.

  The Sikh was angry, but after a brief hesitation, he turned away and spoke urgently in his own language to one of his subordinates, who ran up the gravel path and through the big door at the top of the steps.

  He was gone only a few minutes and returned to whisper in the ear of his superior, who then stood aside and opened the gate.

  “Thank you, Sergeant.”

  Lewis was waiting in the hallway beneath a portrait of Disraeli.

  “Good afternoon,” Field said.

  Lewis didn’t reply. He led Field up a black and white stone staircase, past a series of oil portraits of previous commanders in chief of the China Station.

  He stopped to allow Field through two enormous gold and blue doors and into a ballroom that was a more magnificent version of the Majestic, the wooden floor polished, huge mirrors interspersed with more portraits. He shut the doors quietly behind him.

  Field walked to the end of the room and looked down over the head of the commander in chief at the dignitaries gathered on the lawn. The junks and sampans bobbed up and down on the wake of the big metal steamers. The epaulets on the commander in chief’s white uniform sparkled in the sunlight.

  Field turned and it was a moment before he made out Lu standing behind Lewis, close to a small door in the far wall.

  The Chinese approached, his eyes never leaving Field’s face, his anger evident in every slow, deliberate step.

  “One day, Mr. Field,” Lu said, “none of you will be here. The . . . greed will hasten the end of the Europeans. But who can blame Mr. Geoffrey and his friends for wishing to use to the full the opportunities while they may?” For the first time, Field saw the hatred that burned in those small eyes, not just for him but for all of them, Lewis included. “You dare to summon me here?”

  “I didn’t summon you.”

  Lu tilted his head to one side. “You believe you will leave Shanghai alive?”

  “That is for you to decide.”

  Lu sighed. “And what of the girl, the boy?”

  Field did not answer.

  “You come to my house. You steal my possessions. Mine. Mine. In my city. In Shanghai.” Lu shook his head, then gave a cough that racked his body, making him seem momentarily vulnerable.

  Field waited. “Natasha and the boy are all I want.”

  “You’re insane,” Lewis said.

&nbs
p; “Insane,” Lu repeated, alongside him. “Yes.”

  “I want—”

  “You dare to bargain with me, in this city? I have many thousand men, and you believe you can escape?”

  “I want the woman and the boy, that is all.”

  Lu stared at him, and this time Field held his gaze. “Yes,” the Chinese said. “The girl is perhaps too old already, but the young boy . . . so vulnerable.” Field felt the tautness in his throat.

  “The boy . . . so much life ahead and yet, yes, still so vulnerable.” Lu raised his hand to his cheek and scratched it idly, portly fingers against poor skin.

  “I have the proof that you have been running an opium smuggling ring generating unimaginable profits, some of which you use to bribe almost every public official of importance in this city.”

  “Where do you have this proof?”

  “Hidden.”

  “You have stolen my property.”

  “If anything befalls me, or the girl, or the boy, then you’ll have a front-page article in the New York Times all to yourself. And that will just be the beginning of your problems.”

  Field watched the realization of the significance of what he was saying creeping across Lewis’s face.

  “This is China,” Lu said.

  “Washington and London would be forced to take some form of action, as Mr. Lewis will attest. Even if there were no prosecutions, the facts would be in the public domain, the ring would be broken, and untold damage would be done to your business interests. Even the everyday corruption in the Settlement police force could no longer be taken for granted.”

  Lewis took out his cigarette case, lit one, and walked to the window. Lu’s eyes followed him, distractedly.

  “You wish to have money?” Lu asked.

  “No.”

  Lu smiled. “An idealist.”

  “The girl and the boy need a passport, papers. Mr. Lewis will arrange it. Once we have reached safety, I will tell you where to find the material that I have stolen. Your activities can continue uninterrupted.”

  Lu raised his eyebrows. “I see.”

  “I’ve told you what I want.”

  “Such a low bargain.” Lu shook his head. “I am almost tempted.” He raised his chin and scratched it again with his long fingernails. “You see, Mr. Field, the difficulty is, this is Shanghai. Not a foreigner’s city. You steal my property and then you tell me what I must do. You . . . threaten me, yes? But how can this be? This is Shanghai. Who can say if you will leave this city? Who can say if the girl and boy are still alive?”

  Field felt the blood draining from his face.

  “You demand of me? No.” He shook his head again. “No, no. It cannot be. An article in the newspaper you speak of? So far away. This is China. China. We can change so much before news travels so far. We can find the pages from my ledger. We can do anything, of course.”

  “My price is low, Mr. Lu.”

  “Your price is low? By whose . . . Who can say such a thing?”

  Field felt the blood pounding in his head. He asked himself how he could have made such a terrible miscalculation, but his mouth continued to speak, as if no longer connected to his brain. “You will control China one day, I don’t doubt it, but that day is not as close as you think. I offer you an arrangement that ought to disgust me; that nothing changes. All I ask is that two people who do not matter to you are released from your net. That is all. And one more thing: that Detective Chen is not harmed.”

  “He is Chinese.”

  “Yes.”

  “Out of the question.”

  “I insist.”

  “He is Chinese. This is not possible.”

  Field saw the fury in Lu’s face as he struggled to remain calm himself.

  “Of course, we do not wish to see our business interests disturbed.” Lu looked down, taking a gold pocket watch from his silk gown. “You are correct to say that international attention would be inconvenient for all of us. I believe there is a sailing in three hours.”

  Lewis stepped forward. They had obviously discussed the details beforehand. “The Martínez, bound initially for Lisbon,” Lewis said. “You will be on this ship. Provided that you are, and that there is no interference with the Saratoga, or sharing of the information you now possess, then Mr. Lu will dispatch the girl and the boy on another sailing two weeks from today. They will disembark at a port of your choosing.”

  “Venice.”

  “Very well. When they arrive in Venice, you will send Mr. Lu a telegram. It will contain the exact whereabouts of the stolen material and of any other documents that may be embarrassing to him. Providing that you do not mislead him, you and the girl may then live out your lives in peace. He has no interest in either of you, as long as you never return here. Is that clear?”

  Field nodded. “Yes. But I must have a guarantee that Chen will not be harmed.”

  Lewis shook his head. There was steel in his eyes. “You will get no such thing, Field,” he said, speaking as if Lu were not present. “Believe me.”

  There was a long silence. Lu said, “Good-bye, Mr. Field.”

  The Chinese turned and walked very slowly to the door.

  Lewis turned his hat in his hand. He moved around the room, waving it at the grand ceilings and the portraits of administrators, admirals, and generals that adorned the walls. “This is China, Richard, though in here you wouldn’t know it.” He stopped and turned to Field. “We can never tame the tiger. Only ride it for a time.”

  “I know.”

  “You won.”

  “It doesn’t feel like winning.”

  Lewis turned away.

  “Will he send the girl?” Field asked, unable to contain the question.

  Lewis faced him again, his expression serious. “I don’t know, Richard. Only he can answer that. You will leave safely, in deference to me, but the girl is his possession.” Lewis exhaled. “I cannot say, nor am I in the business of trying to save Russian girls through some foolish romantic notion. But you’ve done all you can. You must leave now.”

  Lewis spun his hat in his hand once more and then turned and walked to the door. “Good luck, Richard,” he said. “Begin again. That’s my advice. And be less ambitious in what you strive for next time. We must temper ourselves. Too grand and unrealistic a set of expectations can only lead to heartbreak. And not just your own.”

  Field felt the tightness in his throat again.

  “Don’t you want to know where she is?” Lewis asked.

  Field found it impossible to reply.

  “She’s at her friend’s house, Field. At Katya’s.” Lewis put on his hat. “Good-bye. I doubt we’ll meet again.”

  Field listened to the sound of Lewis’s footsteps disappear, then walked to the window and watched him emerging into the gardens, his white suit and hat brilliant in the sunshine. He stopped in the middle of the lawn, his stance casual, his hands in his pockets. A young woman in a flowing white dress approached him, her face flushed with the heat and the excitement. Lewis took off his hat and bent to kiss her, a hand resting easily upon her shoulder.

  Katya’s face looked older through the window of the house in the French Concession, her eyes framing questions that Field could not answer. She led him through the kitchen to Chen, who was leaning against the wall at the bottom of a winding staircase.

  Field wiped the sweat from his brow and tried to calm himself. “I couldn’t—”

  “I know.”

  “No, I asked that you be protected—”

  “Don’t worry, Field.”

  Chen’s calmness helped still Field’s nerves and the guilt that had been consuming him since he’d left the consulate.

  “Come with us, with me. Get your wife and family and come with me, on the boat.”

  Chen shook his head.

  “If you stay, you know they will kill you.”

  “I was born here. I will die here if necessary.”

  “They’ll hunt you down. You know it better than anyon
e.”

  “They will try.”

  Field looked down at the floor. “I could have used Lu’s notes to change things. I could still do as I threatened and send them to the right people in London and Washington, to the New York Times, newspapers in England, Tokyo, Paris.”

  Chen laughed, tipping back his head, his smile only fading when he realized that Field had been serious. “There will be change here, Field, have no fear.” Chen shook his head, smiling again. “No, no.” He pointed up the stairs. “She is there. The boy was tired.”