The Master of Rain

Fifty

Field walked to the race club and squatted in the shadows beneath the clock tower. He did not know where else to go, and from here he could watch her apartment. There were no lights on up there. A family was sleeping alongside him, huddled together. The father, who was awake, watched him solemnly as the hours ticked past. Field thought of the family Caprisi had been helping and wondered what would become of them.

He remembered the ball at the race club he had attended with Penelope.

At about four o’clock a newspaper seller began to set up on the street corner, and Field stepped out of the shadows and bought a copy of the North China Daily News. The headline screamed “Bloody Friday.” He walked down to a gas streetlamp away from the Happy Times block and held the paper up to the light. Most of the articles were devoted to Patrick Granger—one of the finest public servants Shanghai has ever seen. There was a short report on Caprisi, alongside his police ID photograph. The article described him as a detective from Chicago, who’d come to Shanghai after killing his wife and young son in a drunken road accident. Field wondered where they’d got such detailed information. From Macleod, presumably, twisting the knife even after the American’s death.

Field folded the newspaper and checked how much money he had with him. He managed to scrape together twenty dollars.

He stepped back into the shadows, turned away from the family, took out his revolver, and checked that all the chambers were loaded. He had no further ammunition. He did not believe it was safe to go back to Carter Road.

He wondered if Macleod really would let him leave. He looked at his watch once more and then nodded to the father of the family, who was still staring at him, and began to walk in the direction of the French Concession.

The Russian church stood in darkness, the gravestones ghostly in the dim glow of the streetlamps.

Field stood just inside the entrance. He looked at his feet. His shoes were scuffed and dirty. He ran his hand over his stubble and through his hair.

It had only been nine days, but he found it hard to recall a world in which his every thought had not been defined by this woman, or to imagine one in which it might not be.

He thought he saw the first light of dawn creeping over the rooftops. He scanned the graveyard again. He imagined that she, too, might be waiting in the shadows.

Field thought he now understood what it was to await a sentence of death.

He waited, motionless, movement no longer releasing him from his agitation.

Field watched the gate as the dawn peeled away the darkness.

He took a step toward the gate and then another and then, on instinct, spun around.

She stood by the far wall, a black raincoat draped over her shoulders, her hair tied to one side. She was watching him, and although every fiber of his being screamed at his legs to run with all the force they could muster, he moved slowly, listening to his footsteps on the gravel path.

Her hands were in front of her, clasped together. “Hello, Richard.”

Field waited, hardly trusting himself to speak. “I didn’t think you would come.”

“You didn’t leave me much choice.”

“I know he’s your sister’s boy.”

Neither of them moved.

“When Natalya was killed,” Natasha said, “I tried to go. I took Alexei and got us onto a ship to Manila.” She stared at the ground by his feet. “For a few moments I felt . . . I believed in the impossible: that by acting swiftly I had got him out of this terrible place.” A look of inconsolable misery crossed her face. “But I turned around,” she said, “and he was gone.” She put her hand to her cheek, then let it fall. “A man came up to me to say that Alexei had been taken to an orphanage. Once a week, I go to Lu’s house and one of his men takes me in a car somewhere—not always the same place—and I am allowed to go to a room where I can look through a window and see Alexei playing. I cannot speak to him or contact him, but I can watch him for just a few moments, and then they take me away. If I ever fail to do what they say, then I know what will happen.”

Field waited for her to continue, but she stood before him, almost in a trance. He became aware that the silence was being broken by the sound of cars behind them on Avenue Joffre, as the day gathered pace. He took a step toward her. “I cannot force you to trust me, but I believe I can get us out of here. You, the boy, all of us.”

Natasha did not lift her eyes. She shook her head.

“And if we do nothing, then we will all be dead. All of us. Macleod has given me until noon.”

“Why you?”

“They killed my partner. Last night. And they tried to kill me.” Field cleared his throat. “Even if you do not believe me, what kind of life do you think awaits Alexei in the orphanage and afterwards?”

She did not answer.

“Do you know what Lu likes to do with young boys from the orphanages?”

Suddenly, she lunged for him, her head thumping against his chest, long, bony fingers digging into his shoulder blades, the smell of her skin flooding his senses, her hair in his mouth and eyes.

He held her to him, then tried to release her, but she would not yield.

He took hold of her shoulders and prized her away. He looked into her eyes, which spoke of her confusion and her relief and her uncertainty. “You must do exactly as I say.”

“I’m not a child.”

“We have only one chance. Where is Alexei?”

She shook her head.

“You must have some idea.”

Natasha stared at him, and seeing only fear in her eyes, he tried to conceal what lurked behind his own.