Tom Bradby - The Master Of Rain

“He’s your son.”

“No.” She shook her head forcefully.

“For God’s sake.”

“On my mother’s life, I swear it.” She stared at him. “I made a mistake,” she said. “I started to dream again.”

“I don’t think you understand…”

“It is you who do not understand.” Her expression darkened. “Why will you not believe me when I say that I am not free to love you? What I have done I had no right to do.”

He stepped toward her.

“No,” she said firmly. “Go now. I have some things I need to tell them.”

Field took a step back, but still hesitated.

“Good-bye, Richard,” she said, and went back inside, shutting the wrought-iron gate behind her.

Field watched her go, willing her to look around, but she did not.

Field set about the record books in the Immigration Department with renewed energy, burying himself in his work, frustration and anger driving him until lack of sleep began to overtake him.

The sweat settled on his brow and it was as much as he could do not to lower his head onto the book in front of him.

He took numerous cigarette breaks and, all through them, Pendelby plowed on, never seeming to lose concentration, until he stood and announced he would be breaking for lunch. Field was suddenly alone in the room, listening to Pendelby’s retreating footsteps on the stairs.

He leaned back in his seat, wiped his brow again, and cursed the heat silently. He stood and walked along the corridor and down the stairs to the back of the immigration counter, where he asked the woman politely if he might be able to borrow a telephone. She took him through to her office.

Field called Yang and asked if he had any messages. There was one from Caprisi, asking him to ring back. Field stared at the phone, then picked up the receiver and asked the operator if she would again put him through. The taste of betrayal was in his mouth. He thought himself a fool to have trusted anyone here.

“Caprisi, it’s Field.”

“Polar bear.”

There was an awkward silence.

“You called me,” Field said.

“Yes, where are you?”

Field hesitated. “The Immigration Department.”

“Hunting for addresses?”

“Yes.”

“Well, keep hunting. Macleod has called it off; the door-to-door boys were being tailed.”

“By whom?”

“The French.”

Field could hear the sound of his own breathing.

“Still there, polar bear?”

“Yes.”

“You’re very quiet again.”

“Am I?”

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“Call me when you get back to the office.”

“Sure.”

“And polar bear…”

“Yes.”

“Be careful with that woman.”

“Which woman?”

“You know who I’m talking about.”

Field felt his anger flaring.

“You were around there last night, so don’t kid me you don’t know who I’m talking about.”

Field could feel his heart beating hard in his chest. “How do you know?”

“I have my sources.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s funny how they always seem to know what we’re doing.”

There was another silence.

“What are you saying, polar bear?”

“I’m not saying anything.”

“Doesn’t sound that way to me.”

Field didn’t answer.

“You need to wise up. I know where you were, because I can see it coming. It’s impossible, Field. Trust me. And dangerous for both of you.” Caprisi breathed in sharply. “If you won’t believe me, then there is nothing I can do.”

“Then do nothing.”

“The possibilities are not endless, Field.”

“So I’m told.”

“Told by whom?”

“Never mind.”

“If she is loyal to him, then you are being manipulated. If she is seeking a bit of fun, or if she really loves you and seeks an escape, then you are playing a dangerous game.”

Field sighed quietly.

“You may be free, Field, but she is not. By association with her, you come into his orbit. He does not allow his assets to escape, or behave as they please. She may not be a concubine, but there is no way she is leaving this city if he doesn’t want her to. Please tell me you understand that.”

“I think I understand perfectly.”

“It is too easy to die here, Field. If you anger him, if you make him lose face, he dispenses death with the flick of a finger. Your death, her death, those of anyone connected to you.”

“I’ll see you later.”

Field put the phone down before Caprisi could say anything more. The desk in front of him was neatly ordered, with two wire trays-one IN, one OUT-in the center, next to a mug full of pens and a stapler.

Field returned to the files. He was still working through the latter half of 1921: 21st November, Ivanov, Dr. Oleg. Change of address: 21c Boulevard des Deux Républiques. Now conducting business from 78a Avenue Joffre. Alongside this entry, a clerk had written: Information passed to SMP S.1 dept upon request. Field looked at the name again. He had never heard of Oleg Ivanov.

He continued with dwindling concentration for another half an hour or so, until he felt himself awash with meaningless names. Eventually, he stood and walked through the still-packed immigration room and then down the stairs to the Bund.

Field crossed the road and strolled under the trees by the wharf, watching the sampans and steamers on the choppy waters of the river. He passed a cargo boat that was unloading. It was small, so must have come from upstream, carrying goods from the Chinese hinterland. The coolies and deckhands were shouting at each other, all stripped to the waist, their bodies glistening with sweat. Field put on his hat and squinted against the sunlight. He was not wearing his jacket, and his holster was visible, so he attracted a few curious glances as he passed. A fresh breeze from the sea was pushing the pollution inland, and the air here was relatively fresh, save for the ever-present aroma of dead fish.

He ended up in the public gardens, opposite the British consulate. He sat down on a bench facing the sun.

Ahead of him, two young expatriate children-a boy and an older girl-were feeding the birds in the midst of an arrangement of wooden flower boxes and triangular lawns ringed by low iron fences, while their uniformed nanny stood by, holding a packet of seeds. When they had finished, she produced a metal flask from inside her blue pinafore and poured each of them some water in a green mug.

Field was grateful that Chinese were banned from the park. It was a peaceful haven in the heart of the city.

He stood and retraced his steps along the wharf to the Customs House. He glanced up at Big Ching to see that it was already almost two o’clock.

Pendelby was at his desk but did not raise his head as Field came in.

Field returned to his books, soon lost in the rhythm of his quest as his finger progressed down the page.

They did not take another break. They sat like assiduous students, Field almost nodding off in the afternoon heat, wiping his forehead periodically with the back of his hand before returning his finger to the page. It was soon black, so he had to continue the task with the tip of an inch or so above the paper. Frequently, he would realize that he’d not been concentrating and be forced to retrace his steps.

As a result, he missed the entries the first time and only spotted them at the second sweep. Perhaps he’d become too focused on his search for Simonov and Ignatiev.

He stared at the page.

January 21st, 1922, it read. Medvedev, General Feodor. From Kazan on the Volga, via Vladivostok. Temp address: 71 Avenue Joffre, Hostel Margarite.