Tom Bradby - The Master Of Rain

© 2002

Thanks to Mark Lucas, the world’s greatest agent; Bill Scott-Kerr and Jason Kaufman,

a supportive, clever, and extremely insightful editorial team;

and, most of all, to Claudia, my inspirational wife.

Shanghai

1926

ACCORDING TO CHINESE LEGEND,

AFFAIRS IN THE “OTHER WORLD”

ARE MANAGED BY BUREAUS OR MINISTRIES.

THE MOST SIGNIFICANT OF THESE IS

THE MINISTRY OF THUNDER AND STORM,

PRESIDED OVER BY THE MASTER OF RAIN.

IN THE CLOSE, INTENSE HEAT

OF THE SHANGHAI SUMMER,

THE MASTER OF RAIN STANDS ABOVE

THE DARK CLOUDS THAT HANG OVER THE CITY,

BROODING UPON ITS FATE. THE RAIN IS IN HIS GIFT,

AND THUS HE CONTROLS THE FERTILITY OF THE LAND

AND THE PROSPERITY OF ITS INHABITANTS.

HE IS AN OMNIPOTENT AND CAPRICIOUS

BENEFACTOR-OR TORMENTOR.

Field felt like a lobster being brought slowly to the boil. For a moment he closed his eyes against the heat and the humidity and the still, heavy air. Only the clatter of typewriters hinted at energy and motion.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket and looked again at the two figures gesticulating behind the frosted glass. They were still arguing, and he had the uncomfortable feeling that it might be about him.

Macleod’s secretary had stopped typing and was appraising him with a steady gaze. “You’re new,” she said, pushing her half-moon glasses up from the end of her nose.

“Yes.” Field nodded.

The woman wasn’t showing any sign of discomfort, despite being three times his size and wearing a cardigan. “Take your jacket off if you’re hot,” she said.

Field smiled, glancing up at the fan. It turned lethargically, with no discernible effect on the air beneath it.

He put his hands in his pockets. Macleod’s office door had the words Superintendent Macleod, Head of Crime engraved in the glass, and although it was not Field’s position to say, the security of tenure this implied confirmed what he had already heard about the confidence of the man.

Field looked up at the fan again and the paint that was peeling off the ceiling above it. For a moment the sun broke through the thick blanket of cloud that had been loitering over the city for days, spilling light onto the desks at the far end of the room. Despite the dark wood paneling, the tall windows made the place seem less gloomy than the Special Branch office upstairs.

He tugged the corner of his collar away from his throat and wiped the sweat from his skin with his index finger. He’d never imagined heat like this.

Macleod’s secretary was still staring at him. “How are you enjoying Shanghai?”

“Fine, thanks.”

She started typing again, fat fingers pounding the big metal keys, then stopped and looked at him. “Slept with a Russian yet? Paid for a princess?”

Macleod’s door opened and a small, lean man with dark, slicked-back hair walked past him. “Caprisi?” Field asked, but whatever had been going on in there, it had left Caprisi in no mood to talk. He headed for his desk, took his jacket from the back of the chair, pulled open a drawer, slipped a pistol into the leather holster that hung from his shoulder, and marched toward the lift.

Field turned to face Macleod, who stood at his office door, toying with the chain around his neck. He was a burly man, almost bald, with a thin crown of gray hair. “You’re Field?” His voice was deep, with a broad Scottish accent.

“Yes, sir.”

“Follow him down.”

Field hesitated.

“Well, go on, man, what are you waiting for?”

Field got into the elevator after Caprisi and hit the button for the ground floor. It cranked into action with a jolt and a loud crack, and descended, as always, so hesitantly that it would have been quicker to crawl down the stairs on all fours.

Not that anyone wanted to take the stairs in this heat.

“You’re new?” the American asked.

Field nodded. “Yes.”

“Still a Griffin.”

“No.” Officially, he’d finished his training a month ago and had spent the intervening time being bored to death with routine office tasks. He was grateful to get out. Granger had told him that his job was to check that the murder was not politically motivated and keep an eye on the Crime Branch.

Caprisi shook his head dolefully before looking down at his shoes. Field noticed how carefully they’d been polished-just as his own had been ever since he’d come to the Far East and been relieved of the need to do anything like that for himself. He remembered his father’s obsession with his lack of military discipline and allowed himself a smile.

The American moved quickly through the lobby, his leather soles slapping the stone floor. Outside, Field found himself squinting against the sun before it once again disappeared behind a bank of dark cloud.

A Buick with a long brown body and a bright yellow hood stood at the curb, its engine running. As he climbed into the near side, Field noticed there were three bullet holes in the panel by the door.

“Where’s Chen?” Caprisi asked the driver, leaning forward against the scuffed leather seat.

The driver was an old man dressed in a white tunic. He turned and shook his toothless head.

Caprisi settled back and waited, looking out of his window, trying to contain his impatience, rapping the glass with his knuckles. Field saw that he had a large gold ring on the index finger of his right hand.

“Come on, Chen,” he said under his breath. “What’s he doing?” he asked the driver, although, so far as Field could tell, the man spoke no English.

Field turned to see a tall Chinese emerging from the entrance of the Central Police Station. He wore a full-length khaki mackintosh and carried a Thompson machine gun. He climbed onto the running board and ducked his head through the open window.

“This is a present from Granger,” Caprisi explained, pointing at Field. “He’s a Griffin,” he said, ignoring Field’s earlier intimation that his training was complete.

Chen seemed less put out by Field’s apparent intrusion than Caprisi and reached across to shake his hand before barking an order at the driver and slapping the roof. He remained on the running board as they lurched forward, the gun banging against the bodywork. Field felt for his own pistol in his jacket pocket, suddenly aware of the rapid beating of his heart.

They moved a hundred yards down Foochow Road. Field looked out past Chen at the tide of humanity sweeping down the sidewalk beside them, until they were brought to a halt once more. Caprisi leaned forward to try to see what was causing the holdup, then sat back with a sigh.

“Granger told me you’re from Chicago,” Field said.

Caprisi turned to him, a thin smile playing across his lips. “Granger is the intelligence chief, so he should know.”

Field didn’t respond. As head of the Special Branch, and thus Field’s boss, Granger was responsible for the suppression of communism in the city and the maintenance of order. He ran informers and conducted what American journalists called “Black Propaganda.” Caprisi and Macleod worked in the CID-the Crime Branch, or C.1. Their responsibility was “ordinary decent crime.” Murders. Armed robberies. The two branches were the most powerful departments in the force and they fought constantly.

“What brought you here?” Field asked.