Tom Bradby - The Master Of Rain

Field shook his hand and tried to smile.

“What are you doing here?” Chen asked, staring at him intently.

“Just taking my son to school. I’m… we’re late. I’m not quite sure what the problem is.”

Chen turned toward the Russians, speaking to them in their own language.

“They say you were with a woman.” Chen was frowning, as if not having any idea what the men were talking about.

“No, no. I’m just…” Field cleared his throat and pointed at the car. “Taking my son to his school.” He exhaled. “We’re very late.”

“Some woman, big trouble,” Chen said. “They are worried you have something to do with her.”

Field shook his head emphatically.

One of the men spoke directly to Field, in Russian. Chen translated. “He wants to know why you are taking your boy to school at lunchtime.”

“Doctor. Doctor’s appointment.”

This time the conversation took several minutes, the Chinese detective no longer bothering to relay what the Russians were saying. Eventually, he turned back to Field. “A big problem, they say.” Chen changed tack. “How was Allenby when you saw him last night?”

Field looked at him, confused, until he saw Chen’s mouth tighten. “Oh, he was fine. You know. Just fine.”

Chen’s tone with the bodyguards became more forceful. He pointed repeatedly to both Field and the boy in the exchange that followed. “I’ve said you’re a good friend of some very important people in the Settlement,” he explained without turning around.

The Russians seemed unsure. They could no longer talk to each other without being understood, so stood in sullen silence, glancing up from time to time at the bright sun, as if the solution to their problem might suddenly reveal itself.

At length, the one closest to Chen stepped aside and waved his gun to indicate they could continue.

Field walked forward.

“Where are you going?” Chen asked. His manner was calm, his words unhurried.

“To the school.”

“You’re going on to the office?”

Field hesitated. “Yes, probably.”

“I’ll ride with you.”

Field got behind the wheel and Chen moved around to the far side, nodding at the Russians as he passed. He slipped into the passenger seat, patting the boy on the head. He raised his hand at the men and smiled. Field moved off.

“They went towards Foochow Road,” Chen said.

“The boy says they took her to the Happy Times block.”

As he turned left, Field put his foot down on the accelerator.

“Not too fast.”

The blood was pounding through Field’s head.

“Slower,” Chen barked.

“For Christ’s sake.”

“Be careful.”

A tram had stopped ahead of them, a small group of people waiting to climb on board. Field began to pull out. “Wait,” Chen said. He turned around. As Field was about to explode, he gestured with his hand. “Go on.”

Chen looked back over his shoulder again. Field drove mechanically, the images around him disjointed and unreal, his gaze fixed on a yellow Chevrolet in front as they drove down toward the racecourse. “Slow,” Chen said, exhaling. “Pull up before Happy Times.”

Field drew up a hundred yards short, behind an old-model Ford that was disgorging a young family, the mother trying to prevent her two young children from running off down the street. Beyond them, Field could see Lu’s men standing by the entrance. Grigoriev was smoking.

Field took the revolver from under his seat and put it back in its holster. “Stay here, Alexei. Don’t leave the car.” He got out and walked swiftly after Chen. He looked back once, but the men had not moved.

Chen led the way round to the back of the building and down a narrow alley. The service entrance was a black steel door, beyond a large bin overflowing with refuse. Chen took out his revolver and gestured to Field to pull the door toward him. They stepped inside.

The stairs led down to a basement and their footsteps echoed. Field fumbled for a light switch.

There were four or five buckets at the foot of the steps, a pile of paintbrushes, and a broom. Field could hear the low rumble of a boiler.

He held up the revolver, his palm slippery against the metal.

Chen raised his hand, his head tilted to one side. Field could feel the sweat gathering on his forehead.

They found the stairwell and emerged slowly into the light of the main hallway. As he opened the swinging door, Field could see Grigoriev standing outside with his back to him. They moved silently across the hall, Field’s eyes never leaving the Russian. The front desk was empty.

They reached the entrance to the staircase.

Once beyond it, they sprinted up the stairs. As he neared the top landing, Field heard her scream.

Field braced himself and kicked her door, hard, just beneath the handle. “Natasha!” He took aim and kicked once more.

He kicked again and again, until the frame started to splinter.

“Natasha!”

There was silence within.

The door gave with a crack like a pistol shot. Field crashed through it, raising his gun, Chen behind him. The curtains had been partially drawn. He blinked, trying to adjust his eyes to the patchwork of daylight and shadow.

The flat was silent.

There was the flickering glow of a candle in the bedroom doorway, and Field walked slowly toward it.

He saw her arms first, handcuffed above her head. She was almost naked. Geoffrey half sat, half knelt above her, his knife at her throat.

“Don’t move, Richard.”

He stepped into the room.

“Do not move.” Geoffrey’s voice shook with barely controlled anger.

Field stopped. He raised his hands slowly in the air, transfixed by the fear in Natasha’s eyes.

“Put the gun down,” Geoffrey ordered.

Field took a pace toward them.

“Both of you.”

Field leaned over and placed his gun beside the bed. Chen, standing directly behind him, bent down slowly and slid his weapon along the floor.

Field’s heart was beating so hard he could hear it. He took another step forward.

Without a word, Geoffrey moved the knife from Natasha’s throat and cut swiftly across the top of her right breast. She recoiled, giving a strangled cry. Field watched, frozen, as a rivulet of blood ran down the side of her breast and blossomed where it touched her camisole.

Natasha closed her eyes and, very softly, began to cry, her mouth shut tight, her teeth grating against the pain.

Geoffrey pressed the blade against the soft skin of Natasha’s neck. “She is as good as dead, Richard,” he said.

“I saw you as a father,” Field said quietly. “I saw you as a hero.”

“There are no more heroes, Richard. Did your father’s suicide teach you nothing?”

“I don’t think he felt he had a choice.”

“His much-lauded integrity didn’t take him to the front, though, did it?”

“He wanted to go. He failed the medical.”

“Is that what he told you?”

Field didn’t answer.

“You and your father are so alike it makes my skin crawl. That same insufferably sanctimonious sense of moral probity that you seek to impose upon the world.”

“I grew up with the story of your sacrifice. It was your example that taught me there were things worth fighting for.” Field searched for some humanity in his uncle’s eyes but saw only the accumulated bitterness of the years.

“There’s nothing left worth fighting for,” Geoffrey said. “Open your eyes, Richard. Take a look around you.”

Field moved closer, and Geoffrey sliced the blade once more across Natasha’s chest. This time he did not even glance at her as she whimpered and writhed, the tears running down her cheeks.