The Master Of Rain

Dear Mr. Field, it read. One of my senior clerks responsible for handling new clients has drawn my attention to the state of account. I enclose balance for your convenience.

We aim to provide very best service for very best customer and I esteem an honor if you would in future contact me directly if need assistance.

Yours very respectfully,

Chen, C.W.

Field held up the thin sheet of paper attached. Under his account number were two lines:

New credit: $600.

Account Balance: $1,012.

The other envelope was from Jessfield Properties Limited, Jessfield Road. It advertised a property on Foochow Road, close to the racetrack, set back from the street, with elegant facilities. Three reception rooms, charming, well-kept garden, tennis court, and spacious veranda.

Field folded it and slipped it into the bin. He picked up the first letter and tucked it into his pocket. He got up and headed back to the lift.

The sixth-floor corridor was dark. Maretsky was not yet in his office, but Field did not have long to wait. Maretsky bustled along a few minutes later, not noticing him until he had the key in the lock. “You again,” he said.

Field followed the Russian inside. He closed the door behind him and waited until Maretsky had lifted himself onto the high stool in front of his desk.

“I need a map,” Field said.

“I believe stores—”

“One of Lu’s women is caught red-handed distributing Bolshevik propaganda.”

“No pun intended, presumably.”

“She faces a minimum fifteen-year sentence and may be able to help with an investigation into a series of murders—”

“Natasha Medvedev. I have warned you, Field.”

“At times she appears to be . . . coming over. But then we lose her again. I think she’s terrified that she may be the next victim.”

“Perhaps she isn’t terrified only for herself.”

“Who else?”

“Does she have a child?”

“No.”

“Brother? Sister? Father? Mother?”

“No.”

“Or so she says.” Maretsky stared at him through dirty round glasses. “For a Russian, certainly, the penalty will be death, for all connected.”

“So when they talk about impaired circumstances . . .”

“They mean points of influence. Loved ones. I would say she has a child.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Nothing is impossible.”

Field straightened. He paced to the other side of the tiny room and back again. He looked at the picture of Lu Huang presenting a check to the Sisters of Mercy Orphanage. “So if she appears,” he said, “to want, somehow, to break away from him . . .”

“You are in love with her.”

“No.”

“Don’t be a fool, Field. You can’t say I haven’t warned you.”

“You misunderstand.”

“She’ll manipulate you, if she has not already.”

“To what end?”

“To his end. She belongs to Lu, Field. Please listen to me. About this you don’t yet understand as much as you should.”

“And it’s impossible to break this?”

“Yes.”