Tom Bradby - The Master Of Rain

Sergei shook his head, and this time Field thought he was telling the truth.

“Lena and Irina have been killed, but not Natasha.”

Sergei smirked. “She fucks better.”

Field stood, his fists bunched, then, watching the puzzled reaction in Sergei’s face, he fought to bring himself under control. “What do you know about Natasha?”

“I don’t know anything.”

“You must know something.”

“She thinks she is superior.” He snorted.

Field hesitated. “Lena is dead, so is Irina. Let’s say Natalya Simonov was also one of Lu’s girls. Who else does he keep, apart from Natasha?”

Sergei was recovering his self-confidence fast. “How should I know?”

“Think.”

“I only knew through Lena and, like I said before, we didn’t talk about it.”

“You’ve never talked about it with Natasha?”

Sergei crossed his legs. He examined his feet carefully, smoke from his cigarette spiraling slowly toward the ceiling.

“You’ve seen Lu at the Majestic.”

Sergei looked up. “Of course.”

“Apart from Natasha, whom else have you seen him with?”

“I’ve seen you with Natasha.”

Field stared at him. “Whom else have you seen Lu with?”

The Russian shrugged.

“No one, or too many to list?”

“Natasha usually sits close to him.”

“Why is that?”

Sergei looked at him. Eventually, he said with a leer, “You’ve seen it.”

There was a long silence.

Field felt a burning need to get out of this room. He put his hands in his pockets. “I’ll be back, Sergei,” he said.

Field returned to his quarters in Carter Road.

The common room was empty, so he went to the phone and dialed the exchange, asking to be put through to Maretsky. It rang and rang, and he was just about to cut the connection when Maretsky picked up the receiver.

“It’s Field.”

The Russian was out of breath.

“I need your help.”

Maretsky still did not answer.

“Another Russian girl was murdered on May 1, and a third at the end of March. Both women lived on Avenue Joffre.”

“I’m busy.”

“Irina Ignatiev and Natalya Simonov. I think they were both Lu’s girls.”

“I really don’t have time.”

“Maretsky.” Field breathed out heavily, his heart still beating fast. “Come on, give me a break. It’s like fighting with a blanket over your head. Caprisi says you have a contact in the gendarmerie. All I need is an address for both women, so we can establish a pattern.”

“Caprisi is familiar with the procedures for applying for information from the gendarmerie.”

There was a long silence.

“Irina Ignatiev was murdered at the end of March, Natalya Simonov on May 1, Lena Orlov three nights ago. As you said, there is a pattern.”

“Thank you for keeping me informed, Detective.”

“Someone is going to be his next victim.”

“Someone will be, yes.”

“And that fact leaves you cold? It was you who predicted that there would be more victims.”

Maretsky sighed. “What is fueling this, Field? An admirable philanthropic concern for Russian women in general, or for one in particular?”

“Maretsky…”

“I ran into Caprisi today.”

Field was silent.

“I hope she hasn’t been foolish enough to give you any encouragement.”

“I don’t know who you are-”

“I’m not an idiot.”

“I want to prevent it happening again,” Field said.

“Before it happens to her.”

“Please, Maretsky.”

“I really do hope Natasha hasn’t given you any encouragement, Field, because if she has, she’s a fool and so are you. And if she hasn’t, then you’re just victim to an unjustifiable obsession and you should develop a sense of reality before you lead a lot of other people into trouble.”

“I wish you could hear yourself.”

“I’ve seen it before, Field, and it never ends well.”

“I just need your help.”

“I have to survive, Field, and so does she. And so, probably, do you. So follow the advice of those around you and desist.”

There was a note from Caprisi in his room: Where the fuck are you? French agree to interview with Lu, scheduled tomorrow. Be in my office nine sharp.

Field tore the note up and put it in the bin, then lay down on his narrow bed, but couldn’t sleep. He was haunted by the image of Natasha, twisting desperately to avoid the slashing of the knife.

Field finally slept for a couple of hours but was still at his desk long before nine. He pulled over the tray that had contained the fingerprint results, then looked at the pile of journals to be censored.

He pushed his chair back and took the stairs down to the registry. His still-damp soles slapped loudly on the stone steps as he moved through the pools of light cast by the narrow window slits. The place was open, but Danny did not smile at him and there was none of the usual banter.

“Everything all right, Danny?” Field asked as the Irish American went to check whether or not there was a file on Irina Ignatiev or Natalya Simonov.

“Sure. Early morning.”

After a few minutes Danny came back with a single buff-colored folder. “Only Ignatiev,” he said quietly. He examined Field’s paperwork with exaggerated care before handing the folder over.

Field leaned against the wall outside and opened the file. It contained a single sheet, which read: Irina Ignatiev has been seen attending a meeting at the New Shanghai Life. She is a native of Kazan on the Volga and arrived here via Vladivostok. She resides in the French Concession.

Field sighed, flipped the folder shut, and went to return it. “Have we got any surveillance reports on Lu?”

“Surveillance reports?”

“Yes.”

“I believe not.”

“We’ve never mounted any kind of operation against him?”

Danny cleared his throat.

“What about around the time of his takeover of the Green Gang? We must have kept a watch on him then. Will you look, please?”

Field waited until Danny had disappeared behind one of the iron cabinets, then stepped past the counter and followed him.

Danny was startled. Field could see that he knew exactly where the file was. He handed it over reluctantly.

Field returned to the front desk. He pulled over a form and filled it out. He signed his name at the bottom. Danny did not catch his eye.

This time Field walked into the stairwell before opening the file. He turned so that a thin stream of light from one of the windows fell directly upon it. There were two sheets tied together in the corner by a piece of string. The file had been written up by D.S. Prokopieff and was dated December 12, 1923:

Routine like clockwork. Business conducted primarily from house at Rue Wagner. No bodyguards visible from street, but three to four always in hall, plus others in servants’ quarters at back. Fifteen to twenty bodyguards in total, operating in shifts.

Each day, leaves the house at one exactly. Just before one, car pulls up. Driver remains inside. Door of house opens and four bodyguards come swiftly down steps. Armed with Thompsons. Surround car and complete visual surveillance of street. Chief bodyguard, Ivan Grigoriev, always closest to door. When Grigoriev satisfied, he returns inside and one minute later escorts Lu down to car. Lu walks slowly. Drive off in direction of Nantao.

Go to Willow tearooms in Yaofeng Road, where Lu worked as kitchen hand when first came to Shanghai. Further business conducted, visitors searched by two bodyguards at door. A further two at end of corridor by entrance to room. Grigoriev stays inside, but emerges about forty minutes later to complete visual surveillance of street once more. At two exactly, Lu leaves tearooms. Car door no more than ten feet from entrance.