Tom Bradby - The Master Of Rain

Field’s heart started to thump.

Medvedev, Anna Natalya. As above.

Medvedev, Natasha Olga. As above.

He felt as though he had been punched in the stomach. Natasha had arrived here with her father in 1922. He had not died at sea, nor been buried in Harbin.

Field swung around. “Pendelby?”

The man looked up, startled by the sound of a human voice. “Russians have to inform Immigration of a change of address, but only for a few years?”

“Three years.”

“So, after three years, if they haven’t informed you of a change of address in the meantime, they have to come and tell you and that’s it?”

“Yes.”

“So if I find the entry of an arrival, then go forward three years and work back, I should find a recent address.”

“In theory. Did you find something?”

“Not what we were looking for; something else.”

Pendelby looked disappointed and Field turned back to his ledgers. He went forward three years and then began to work backward.

He did this for about twenty minutes, then stood. “I’ll be back,” he said.

“It’s almost time.”

“Tomorrow, then.”

The immigration room was closing, a clerk waiting by the door to lock it after the last of the people inside had left. Field slipped through and then ran quickly down the steps outside, into the slightly cooler air of the Bund. He beckoned a rickshaw puller brusquely and climbed in. “Avenue Joffre,” he said. “Church, Russian. Ruski.”

The light was fading when they reached the churchyard, leaving a crimson stain tinting the horizon. He had to look closely at the lettering on the headstones that were not engraved in gold.

Field completed his task methodically. He started in the corner closest to the church and walked slowly down each row. As the light faded, he had to lean closer to each stone.

It was almost dark by the time he found them.

He stood stock-still.

The two graves were alongside each other. The inscriptions were in Russian, but Field could make out the name and date on the first:

General Feodor Medvedev.

1.4.1871-7.6.1923.

The second was newer, the inscription free of moss, the gold lettering still bright:

Anna Natalya Medvedev.

1.7.1896-1.5.1926.

Field could not understand the rest of the inscriptions, but on both he recognized another name: Natasha Olga Medvedev.

Field squatted down. He stared at the graves until his knees and thighs ached.

He put his head in his hands.

At length, he straightened, ran his hand slowly through his hair, then smoked a cigarette in the darkness.

Field had not known her father was a general. He imagined an old man, in fading uniform, trying to cling to his respect in a city that must have damned him at every turn.

Field walked away fast, then broke into a run. He did not know if his haste was driven more by the need to get to her, or to get away from the graves behind him.

Field went to the office first to check whether Natasha had left a message. He tried to gather his thoughts.

He told himself that he’d known she was a liar. And he realized it made no difference to him at all.

It was seven o’clock by the time he got to the Special Branch room and it was dark but for his own desk light. Yang had written him a note: Patrick called. You are invited to dinner tomorrow night. Penelope rang, please call back. Stirling Blackman telephoned from the New York Times. He said you’d know what it is about.

Field pushed the paper aside and saw that there was another page underneath. Natasha telephoned. She said it is tonight at seven at the usual place.

Field sprinted to the end of the room and bounced against the wall as he careered down the stairs.

“Rue Wagner. Number 3. Hurry,” he said as he climbed into the rickshaw.

He thought of her curling up beside him in the bed, cradling her fear.

He put his hand on the gun and watched the man’s sinewy back as he pulled, his feet slapping against the road.

Field closed his eyes and tried to think clearly.

As they rounded the corner and he caught sight of the ornate balustrades of Lu’s house, Field shouted at the rickshaw man to stop. “Wait,” he said. The man was confused. Field pulled out a ten-dollar bill and shoved it into his hand, waving to indicate that he wanted him to stay where he was.

There was a light on in the first floor, but Field could not see through the windows because of the protruding balcony. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the flat of his hand, then got out. “Wait,” he said again.

He was at the junction of the street opposite, shielded by the shadow of a sycamore tree. He stepped in closer to the wall and pushed his hat more firmly down onto his head. He looked at the red door at the top of the steps.

Did they keep a watch on the street?

Field took out a packet of cigarettes. He removed one with difficulty, his hands shaking. He lit it, inhaled, then threw it into the gutter in disgust.

Field’s eyes flitted from the door to the window and back again. He could see, in his mind’s eye, the white gown slipping from her shoulders and gathering around her feet.

He could see her slipping out of her underwear, coming forward to allow Lu to run his portly fingers over the smooth, warm skin of her flat belly.

Field could see her beneath him, her mouth tightly shut, her body frozen…

Or was her pleasure real?

Field turned to the wall and then back again, his mind grappling with dramatic, confusing images of duplicity and debasement. Was this the end? Was this what she had anticipated? Was he beating her now, a prelude to a far more violent death?

Field lit another cigarette and forced himself to smoke it.

The door opened and she came down the steps to the sidewalk, her head bent, so that he could not see her face.

He moved quickly, the blood pounding through his head. He took hold of her roughly, pulled her across the road.

“Get in,” he said.

She resisted.

“Get in. Foochow Road,” he told the man. “Hurry.”

“He will have seen,” she said as they pulled away.

Natasha was watching the rickshaw man’s back, her face impassive and cold. She did not speak until she had opened the door of her apartment. “Please go,” she said, once she had moved inside.

“What happened?”

“Please leave.”

“What happened?”

In an instant she crumpled and he caught her. He lifted her and carried her to a chair by the window. He gripped her tightly, with stretched fingers, so that her head was on his shoulder, her hair once again in his face. He closed his eyes.

And then, just as quickly, she was struggling to be free and pushing him away. She got to her feet again. “No,” she said. “No.”

“What happened?”

“He knows.”

Field stood. “Knows what?”

“He knows.” She shook violently. “Something was different.”

“What was different?”

“In his eyes. He was less… not so far away with the drugs and he made me stand there such a long time, just staring.”

“Did he say anything?”

“Normally, he is hardly looking at me. Just so drugged and-”

“How long?”

“An hour, I don’t know. And he did not say I could go. I could not stand it anymore and I went and picked up my clothes and left and-”

“He just looked at you?”

She did not answer.

“He didn’t talk? He didn’t say anything?”

Slowly, she raised her head. “He asked me if I liked to wear stockings. Why did I not wear them?”

“What did you say?”

“I said I would wear them the next time.”