The Master Of Rain

“Sometimes there is no more.”

Fifty-three

Field parked in the street opposite Lu’s house, about fifty yards from the intersection. It was already past noon.

On the far side of the street, a Chinese servant was sweeping the path to the back gate of his employer’s house. Field could see the lush expanse of green lawn beyond. Otherwise, the road was deserted. Natasha and Alexei were huddled together in the backseat.

Field checked his watch impatiently until it was ten to one. Then he eased his foot down on the low speed pedal. “Try to come to the window,” he said. He turned, but she did not look up. “Natasha, as soon as you are in the room, please try and come to the window so that I know you’re all right.”

He slowed the car to a halt ten yards from the Rue Wagner.

Two young children—a boy and a girl—emerged from the house opposite Lu’s and began to play with a hoop, spinning it to each other, then keeping it rolling with a stick.

Field looked at his watch again. It was six minutes to one.

The door opened. One of the bodyguards came out and took up his position at the bottom of the steps. Grigoriev emerged, checked up and down the street, then went back inside.

The first man waited for a few moments, then walked down the road until he was out of sight.

The car pulled up. Grigoriev and three others moved swiftly down the steps and surrounded it.

The children had stopped playing and were watching the car’s exhaust fumes billow into the still air.

Field’s eyes were fixed on the front door. He could feel the adrenaline pumping through his veins. Grigoriev pointed in their direction, and the two men closest took a couple of paces toward them, raising their machine guns.

Field fingered his revolver but knew there was nothing he could do if they came any nearer.

Lu came out, moving slowly. Grigoriev barked an order in Russian. Lu ducked down into the backseat, and the car slid away from the curb.

“Now,” Field said.

Natasha kissed Alexei on the forehead and touched his face with the palm of her hand. He gripped her arm and wouldn’t let go. She released his fingers gently, without taking her eyes from his face, then kissed his forehead. She said something in Russian that Field could not understand.

Field felt his vision blurring.

Natasha opened the door and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

She walked toward the house, pulling her raincoat tight around her waist.

She reached the steps and knocked on the door. She turned back once, then stepped out of sight as it was opened.

Field unclenched his fists. He checked his watch. It was just past one.

Alexei clambered over into the seat beside him.

“It’s all right,” Field said, wishing he believed it.

The boy didn’t respond.

Field scanned the windows of the house and then up and down the street. He lit a cigarette, gripping the handle of his revolver as he smoked, the metal cold against his palm.

The boy was still watching him.

Field leaned forward and looked up at the second-floor windows. They were dark, the curtains drawn. He lowered his gaze to the first floor, where he and Caprisi had had their audience with Lu, and where Natasha had told him she was always instructed to wait.

Why didn’t she show herself?

The cigarette burned his fingers. He threw it out of the window, wishing the American detective were with him now.

Field looked up toward Lu’s bedroom again.

Had he killed her today, as surely as if he’d pulled the trigger himself? He thought of Caprisi’s warnings and was haunted by the look of pain that he’d seen so often in the American’s eyes.

He looked at his watch. It was ten past one. “Shit,” he whispered. He wiped his forehead. “Shit.”

Alexei had not taken his eyes from Field’s face, but a creeping sense of hopelessness prevented Field from meeting the boy’s eye.

The two children crossed over and spun their hoop along the sidewalk outside Lu’s front door. They were both well dressed, the girl’s blond hair in a pigtail, the hem of her white dress twirling as she turned to chase the hoop. The boy shouted something and ran after her. The Chinese servant who had been sweeping leaves through the back gate of his master’s house stopped to watch them.

Field checked the windows again, but there was no movement. He could almost hear the minutes tick by.

Then he saw her. She had pulled the curtain back. She raised her hand, let it fall, and was gone.