Authors: Tom Bradby

The Master of Rain (61 page)

BOOK: The Master of Rain

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Field took his revolver from its holster and walked as calmly as he could to the classroom. “Come on,” he said.

Fifty-two

T
hey drove away in silence. Natasha was in the back, her arms wrapped tightly around Alexei. The little boy’s feet were draped over the edge of the seat, his eyes fixed uncertainly upon Field. Field concentrated on trying to project a confidence he did not feel.

They sped over Garden Bridge and onto the Bund. Field glanced briefly across at a steamer coming into dock. The sails of the sampans were like tiny pinpricks of light against its dirty steel hull.

Field checked the rearview mirror, then looked around to see if they were being followed. They passed the Hong Kong Shanghai Bank and the Fraser’s building and the Customs House, and then he took a right into Foochow Road and a left almost immediately. It was quiet here, and he pulled up in the shade of the sycamore trees.

Natasha came forward and kissed him on the neck, holding him so hard that her fingers dug into his chest.

She did not let go.

He closed his eyes. He reached around and stroked her hair, then gently released himself from her arms. “It’s all right,” he said. “It’s all right. Alexei, you’re safe now.”

Natasha slumped back and drew the boy to her. His body was limp.

Field glanced at his watch. It was much later than he’d thought. He tried to ease the tightness in his chest. “Tell me what Lu’s ledgers look like.”

She shook her head, not understanding.

“Describe the room.”

“Please, Richard . . .”

He turned and looked at her. “We have only a few hours.”

“Please.”

“If we wait until he leaves the house, then there is a chance.”

“I do not—”

“We have to have something to bargain with, Natasha. We have to buy your freedom. If we can get hold of the ledger and threaten to give it to a paper like the
New York Times
or get it to Washington or London, then we will have a chance. Without it, we don’t have one at all.”

She stared miserably at the floor.

“You have taken so many risks already, I know that, but this can buy your freedom. I’m getting you a passport and papers. We’ll begin a new life. We’ll go to Venice.”

She slowly raised her eyes to his. “I do not understand.”

“Yes you do. So did Lena. It was what she was trying to get.”

Field felt the sweat prickle at his armpits.

“Lu’s routine during the day is always the same. He leaves the house at one o’clock and returns at between five and ten minutes past two.”

Field waited.

“You want me to go in there?”

“I want you to save yourself.”

“You want me to do it?”

“I want a life for us.”

Natasha stared at him, her eyes shining with loss and loneliness, with love and betrayal and insecurity and doubt.

She pulled Alexei’s head gently to her shoulder and stroked his hair with her fingers as she looked out of the window.

Field did not take his eyes from her face.

“It is big,” she said. “A dressing room, but also a study.”

“And that is on the floor above the place where you are told to wait?”

“Yes.”

“If you went in and said that he was expecting you, they would eventually send you up there?”

“Yes.”

“Are you alone? Are there servants about? Would they stop you? Could you get up to the second floor if you were there alone?”

She didn’t answer.

“Tell me about the room where the ledgers are kept.”

“Clothes. Cupboards, always closed, with long mirrors. To the right, drawers, more clothes. Beyond that, a leather-topped desk . . . a light. Beneath, there is a silk curtain and behind that a safe.” Her voice seemed to come from somewhere far away.

“You saw the ledgers?”

“Two, yes, both open. Big.” She indicated their size with her hands. “Leather-bound. Many entries. Very, very small writing. And a pair of reading glasses beside them.”

“They are always there?”

“Yes. Lena also saw them. She began to take notes. The man she had been seeing told her about the shipments. The man told her that Lu paid off many people, in the police, in the council; that many were involved, many important people. You are right. She thought it would help her.”

“You saw names?”

“I think so.”

“Western names?”

“Yes.”

“Lewis?”

“I can’t be sure.”

Field swung around and rested his hands on the steering wheel. He looked at his watch, then pressed his foot on the low speed pedal and pulled out into the road. In the mirror he saw her continue to gaze sightlessly out of her window. Then she sat back, drawing her terrified nephew toward her once more.

Field drove back onto the Bund and brought the car to a halt outside the Cathay Hotel. He told them to wait and dashed inside. “Where’s the manager?” he asked brusquely, and as a Chinese man in a neat suit emerged from a room at the back, Field produced his identification. “I need to make a telephone call in private, urgently.”

The man looked around nervously before ushering him through a side door to the back office. Field pulled out the crumpled piece of paper that Chen had given him, and asked the operator to ring the number. It rang and a woman answered. Field asked for Chen and waited. He could hear the sound of children in the background.

“Who is it?”

“Chen, this is Field.”

There was a pause. “You should not be here.”

“I need you to tell me something. I pulled Lu’s surveillance notes from Registry. They said that he goes out to Nantao every day at one o’clock and returns an hour later. That’s what happened the other day, but I need to know whether his routine ever changes for any reason. Does he come back earlier? What does he do there? The notes say he conducts business from some tea—”

“Don’t do it, Field. Don’t risk it.”

“I have no choice.”

“You’re right. Get on a boat. Go home. Survive.”

Field paused. “I want more than just my own survival.”

“Sometimes there is no more.”

Fifty-three

F
ield parked in the street opposite Lu’s house, about fifty yards from the intersection. It was already past noon.

On the far side of the street, a Chinese servant was sweeping the path to the back gate of his employer’s house. Field could see the lush expanse of green lawn beyond. Otherwise, the road was deserted. Natasha and Alexei were huddled together in the backseat.

Field checked his watch impatiently until it was ten to one. Then he eased his foot down on the low speed pedal. “Try to come to the window,” he said. He turned, but she did not look up. “Natasha, as soon as you are in the room, please try and come to the window so that I know you’re all right.”

He slowed the car to a halt ten yards from the Rue Wagner.

Two young children—a boy and a girl—emerged from the house opposite Lu’s and began to play with a hoop, spinning it to each other, then keeping it rolling with a stick.

Field looked at his watch again. It was six minutes to one.

The door opened. One of the bodyguards came out and took up his position at the bottom of the steps. Grigoriev emerged, checked up and down the street, then went back inside.

The first man waited for a few moments, then walked down the road until he was out of sight.

The car pulled up. Grigoriev and three others moved swiftly down the steps and surrounded it.

The children had stopped playing and were watching the car’s exhaust fumes billow into the still air.

Field’s eyes were fixed on the front door. He could feel the adrenaline pumping through his veins. Grigoriev pointed in their direction, and the two men closest took a couple of paces toward them, raising their machine guns.

Field fingered his revolver but knew there was nothing he could do if they came any nearer.

Lu came out, moving slowly. Grigoriev barked an order in Russian. Lu ducked down into the backseat, and the car slid away from the curb.

“Now,” Field said.

Natasha kissed Alexei on the forehead and touched his face with the palm of her hand. He gripped her arm and wouldn’t let go. She released his fingers gently, without taking her eyes from his face, then kissed his forehead. She said something in Russian that Field could not understand.

Field felt his vision blurring.

Natasha opened the door and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

She walked toward the house, pulling her raincoat tight around her waist.

She reached the steps and knocked on the door. She turned back once, then stepped out of sight as it was opened.

Field unclenched his fists. He checked his watch. It was just past one.

Alexei clambered over into the seat beside him.

“It’s all right,” Field said, wishing he believed it.

The boy didn’t respond.

Field scanned the windows of the house and then up and down the street. He lit a cigarette, gripping the handle of his revolver as he smoked, the metal cold against his palm.

The boy was still watching him.

Field leaned forward and looked up at the second-floor windows. They were dark, the curtains drawn. He lowered his gaze to the first floor, where he and Caprisi had had their audience with Lu, and where Natasha had told him she was always instructed to wait.

Why didn’t she show herself?

The cigarette burned his fingers. He threw it out of the window, wishing the American detective were with him now.

Field looked up toward Lu’s bedroom again.

Had he killed her today, as surely as if he’d pulled the trigger himself? He thought of Caprisi’s warnings and was haunted by the look of pain that he’d seen so often in the American’s eyes.

He looked at his watch. It was ten past one.
“Shit,”
he whispered. He wiped his forehead. “Shit.”

Alexei had not taken his eyes from Field’s face, but a creeping sense of hopelessness prevented Field from meeting the boy’s eye.

The two children crossed over and spun their hoop along the sidewalk outside Lu’s front door. They were both well dressed, the girl’s blond hair in a pigtail, the hem of her white dress twirling as she turned to chase the hoop. The boy shouted something and ran after her. The Chinese servant who had been sweeping leaves through the back gate of his master’s house stopped to watch them.

Field checked the windows again, but there was no movement. He could almost hear the minutes tick by.

Then he saw her. She had pulled the curtain back. She raised her hand, let it fall, and was gone.

Field stared at the curtains, willing her to reappear.

A Chinese woman in the uniform of a nanny or cook walked up to the front entrance and knocked. She was carrying a wicker basket filled with groceries. The door was opened. The children moved off down the road with their hoop in the direction of a well-dressed Frenchwoman who was leading a tiny dog, a large hat shielding her face from the midday sun.

The curtains did not move again.

Field expected to see her now. If she had got to the room and reached the ledgers, then it should be only a few minutes at most before she would leave.

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.”

BOOK: The Master of Rain

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