The Master Of Rain

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 Republiques. 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.

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.