by Tom Bradby
“What kind of man was he?” she asked.
“Does it matter?”
“To know you—” she shrugged—“it matters.”
Field thought for a moment. He looked out of the window again. “He wanted me to be an accountant or a missionary and he was the worst combination of both.”
“And you are neither.”
“His father was a shoeshine boy, and for him, there was no margin of error.” Field held up thumb and forefinger so that they were almost touching. “One mistake, no matter how tiny . . .”
“He was a missionary?”
“He acted like one. My mother came from a well-to-do family, and her parents believed she had married beneath herself. She grew up in a big house with plenty of servants, and they didn’t think my father was worthy of her.” Field sighed. “He was an accountant, but he was ambitious and he started a business selling hosiery. The shops always struggled and I don’t remember . . .” She leaned forward to touch his hand. “Neither of them ever smiled. I don’t recall them appearing to be anything other than miserable.” Field withdrew his hand and leaned back, not wanting the intimacy of someone else’s touch as he recalled the past. “Sometimes my father would come home in a terrible temper and we would be sent out of the room and then he would push Mother until they began to argue. He would shout louder and louder.” Field could hear their raised voices as if they were in the next room, and he wanted to put his hands to his ears as he had done so often as a boy. “The next morning my mother would have bruises on her face.”
Natasha looked at him with concern in her eyes.
“What about your father?” Field asked.
Natasha shrugged. “He died of a disease . . . something . . . we never quite knew.” She waved her hand. “It was a long time ago.”
“But it doesn’t feel like it.”
She shrugged. “Life is sometimes sad.”
“And sometimes happy.”
She smiled. “Sometimes.”
Thirty
How old were you when your mother died?” he asked.
“Seven.”
“Do you remember her well?”
“Remember, but not so well.”
“She was beautiful.”
“I’m not beautiful.”
Field did not dignify this with a response.
“Tell me more about your father,” she said quickly, as if trying to move him away from her own past.
Field felt that there was something stilted about their conversation that was not present in their lovemaking, as if only in bed could they shed the thousands of barriers, seen and unseen, that separated them. And yet, he reflected, the purity of emotion was the same. Here he felt as he had all night. He wanted to know about her and perhaps she him, but their questions were oblique, their answers wary. He looked out of the window. “He’s dead.”
“Was he like you? Not the cruelty, I mean but—”
“Albert Field had a platitude for every occasion.”
“Tell me one.”
“Honesty is a cloak to keep out the chill of loneliness.”
She frowned.
“In his eyes, if you’re honest, you’ll always have something to hold on to, no matter what the world chooses to strip from you. You will always have your integrity and a sense of self-worth and value.”
As he watched the color draining from her cheeks and realized what he’d said, Field wondered if, subconsciously, he had chosen the quote deliberately.
“So part of him was a good man?”
Field did not answer.
“I think you are your father’s son, Richard.”
Natasha was suddenly subdued and withdrawn as the café owner brought their coffees on a round wooden tray.
“And you,” he said. “Are you your father’s daughter?”
“I am glad he did not live to see Shanghai.” She sat up straight. “What will you do with me?”
“He was in the army.”
“What will you do with me? You have discussed it with your colleagues?” She was nervous and suddenly uncertain at the intrusion of the real world.
“What do you do for him, Natasha? You go to his house?”
“I do not want to talk about it.”
“I’m afraid you’ve got to tell me exactly what happens.”
“It is my business.” He thought the defiance he could see in her eyes was in fact fear.
“Has he ever shown any violence to you? Has he ever hit you or—”
“He does nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Sure.”
“Why does he—”
“Why do you want to know?”
Field continued to stare at her.
“I go . . . Always the same. To his house. There is a telephone call and I go down. I am shown to the room on the first floor by his bodyguards, and there I wait. Then one of the housekeepers comes down. Sometimes it is a long time. One hour, two. More.”
“You’re alone in that room?”
“Yes.”
“Then what?”
“Then I am taken upstairs, and the housekeeper—always the same, a Chinese woman wearing a uniform—she tells me to begin. At first, she explained, I must take my clothes off slowly and then, when he waves his hand, I can go.”
“The housekeeper withdraws.”
“Yes.”
“And . . .” Field felt his stomach tense. He wanted to shut out the image of her and Lu, and yet he desperately needed to know.
“I begin. I take my clothes off.”
“What do you wear?” he asked, no longer trusting his voice.
“Does it matter?” Her voice was sharp.
“It might.” He swallowed hard. “Lena was handcuffed to the bed, wearing stockings and a garter belt. Has he ever used handcuffs, or asked you to wear anything in particular, anything like that?”
Natasha shook her head.
“And when you have done that?”
“It’s all right, Richard.”
Unconsciously, he was tensing up again. He fought the urge to stand and punch the window. “And when you are finished?” he asked with exaggerated care.
She shrugged. “I pick up my clothes, and there is a dressing room. I put on my clothes and leave by a side door, back into the hall and down the stairs, past the bodyguards.”
“They are—”
“They think I’m a whore.” She put her hand to her mouth and started to bite one of her fingernails. Visibly upset, she turned to face the window and crossed her arms protectively across her chest.
“And Lu—what does he do? Where is he when . . .” Field cleared his throat. “Where is he when you come into the bedroom?”
“He is lying on the bed in a silk dressing gown.”
“Fully dressed?”
“He has a dressing gown on.” She shrugged. “There is an opium pipe beside him and his eyes are glazed.”
“But he is looking at you?”
“Please stop it, Richard.”
“He watches?”
“Yes.”
“But he never touches you? He never beckons you over to him?”
“I would never . . .” Her fist was bunched now, her face screwed up with pain. “Whatever you think, I would never . . .”
Field leaned back again, breathing out heavily.
“You think I have a choice,” she said. “About him, about my life. You think I have a choice.”
“And it hurts you that I think that?”
She did not answer.
Field fought to believe her. She only took her clothes off. There was nothing more involved. “Lena hid those notes for someone,” he said. “The ones we showed you.”
Natasha didn’t react.
“Did she leave them for you?”
Natasha shook her head but without meeting his eyes. Field thought there was a hint of color in her cheek.
“She discussed the notes with you.”
Natasha looked at him. “I don’t know
anything about it.”
Field did not want to accuse her of lying, though he was certain that she was. “The notes refer to a second ledger,” he said. “Lu keeps a complete record of all his accounts, including transactions, payments, and shipments, somewhere in the private quarters of his house.”
“I do not know.”
“Have you ever seen anything like a ledger—probably a series of them? Does he have a study? They must be somewhere Lena could get to them. Have you ever seen ledgers that could be accounting books anywhere near his bedroom?”
“No.”
“Nowhere in the house?”
Natasha shook her head, but the more she denied knowledge of the ledgers, the more certain he was that she knew exactly what he was talking about.
“Did Lena ever talk about them?”
“No.” Natasha stared at him. “When I go there, this is what you want?”
Field leaned closer. “I would like you to establish that these books exist and find out where they are kept.”
Her face betrayed nothing. “This is what you want me to do?”
“Yes.”
“When I go, this is what you want me to do?”
“Yes.”
She tilted her head. “If I am seen, then I will be executed, of course.”
Field didn’t answer.
Natasha sighed. “So this is why you slept with me?”
“Natasha, I—”
“You are a hard man. Perhaps like your father.”
“I don’t have a choice. And nor do you. My superiors will send you to prison if you don’t cooperate. It will be out of my hands.”
She stared at him. “So when I am vulnerable, you seek to punish me.”
Field shook his head.
“You have caught me in your net and you will watch me until I die.”
“I—”
“I hope you enjoy it, Richard.”
“It is not my decision.”
“A coward blames others for the work that he does.” Natasha shook her head. “I’m glad I was able to give you something before—”
“It’s not for them.”
“Not for who?”
Field stared at her. “What kind of life are you going to have?”
She frowned. “I do not understand.”
“It has nothing to do with my superiors. I want to break you free of Lu and this is the only way I know how.”
She shook her head, still frowning.
“He has overreached himself. He has the fatal weakness of a man who believes he cannot be touched. He has forgotten that the international powers still control this city. He can be broken.”
Natasha gazed out the window, a look of utter hopelessness in her eyes.
“What life will you have if you do not try?” he asked.
“It’s not about my life . . .”
“I’m asking you to trust me.”
She snorted, quietly but with derision.
“Can you speak and read Chinese?” he asked.
“Of course.” She looked at him. “Who knows about this?”
“A very small group of people.”
“And you trust them?”
“Yes,” Field said without hesitation. “Completely.”
“You shouldn’t. Everyone is corrupt here.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re young.”
“So are you.”
She didn’t answer.
“Parts of the force are corrupt, but not the unit that I’m dealing with.” Field pulled up his chair and leaned onto the table. “We believe Lu has overreached himself. He has become complacent and Lena’s murder was a challenge to the integrity of the force. We know we can break his hold on the city. I can take you away from here. When this is done.”
“When it is done?”
“When this is done,” he went on, “we will go away, somewhere better.”
“To Venice, perhaps.”
He hesitated, not sure whether she was mocking him. “If you like.”
“As a little girl, I dreamed of Venice.” She looked up at him. “Have you been to Venice, Richard?”
Field shook his head. “No.”
“Would you like to go?”
“Yes. My . . .”
She waited for him to go on.
“My sister also. It was a dream.”
“Then she is a romantic, too.” Natasha’s smile was fragile and hesitant. “What is it like, do you think?”
“My sister loved art. Florence, Venice. Even the thought of it was an escape. The idea of it.” He stared out of the window. “It was how we imagined life if money was no object: long hot days and hazy, languid sunsets over still water and the shouts of the boatmen.” When he turned back, Field saw the deep longing in her eyes.
“You would like to live in Venice?” she asked.
“I would like to live in Venice.”
“We could live there together.”
As she smiled at him, he tried to stop his stomach from somersaulting again.
“We could sleep in late and then have wine in the piazza—it is the right word?”
“It’s the right word.”
“And we could watch the sunset over the lagoon and then lie out and watch the stars.”
Field didn’t know what to say.
“Mama and Papa took their honeymoon in Venice. Papa was at military school in St. Petersburg and Mama only a schoolgirl; they met and married one month later and then went to Venice.” She looked at him. “Papa always talked of it. He used to take out photographs of the lagoon, and one of Mama, and there would be tears in his eyes. He told me how they had planned to go back, one last time, even as she was dying.” Natasha shook her head, tears in her own eyes.
Field reached for her hand, but she withdrew it.
“What do you dream of, Richard?”
He looked at her. “I dream of you.”
She stared at the table in front of her. “Then it must remain a dream.”
“Natasha . . .”
“My life is not my own.”
“There must be—”
“An escape?” She stared at him. “Don’t you think I have tried?”
“Dreams are what keep us alive.”
“When I was a girl,” she said, “my father took me to the circus. There was a hall of mirrors.”
“Yes.”
“There are no dreams here. Only illusions.”
“Then we can go somewhere else.”
“Where?” Her eyes narrowed. “Where do I belong now? Nowhere, and nowhere more than here. I have no passport, no money.”
“I can help.”
“No one can help.”
Field stared at her. His heart was thumping again.
“No one can help me. There is nowhere we can go. But I will do what you ask. I will try to help you.”
“Natasha . . .”
“Please. You may contact me by letter to tell me what you wish me to do. I will telephone when I am summoned to his house, but please do not come to the apartment again.”
“What about last night?”
“Richard . . .” Her eyes pleaded with him. “Last night was . . . it was not just for you.”
Natasha glanced across the road and suddenly stood. Field followed the direction of her gaze. Sergei was outside his apartment on the far side of the street, staring at them.
“Wait.”
“No.”
She walked away.
Field stood, then sat back down as she hurried past the window.
He lit another cigarette and smoked it. Sergei had gone.
Field left some money on the table and walked across the road. He climbed Sergei’s gloomy stairwell. At the top he knocked and waited.
Sergei opened the door a few inches. He was in a long white nightgown.
“Just getting in from work, Sergei?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve been talking to yet another of your compatriots who has told me nothing
, but if you speak to Lu, Sergei, you can tell him I’ll get to one of you in the end.”
“I have nothing to do with Lu.”
“I’m pleased to hear it.”
Sergei shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “You looked very . . . close.”
Field stepped forward. “Want to see how close I can get?”
Sergei tried to shut the door, but Field pushed it open and barged his way in, forcing the Russian back to the center of the room. “You’re frightened of Lu, like the Medvedev woman and the rest of them.”
Sergei’s head drooped. “I’ve been working all night.”
Field looked at him, relieved. He did not think Sergei had seen anything that could have compromised them.
Thirty-one
Field walked into the station slowly and stood in the center of the lobby on the ground floor. He looked about him, as if taking in his surroundings for the first time.
A dial above the lift swung to indicate it was descending. He glanced up at the clock. It was half past seven.
Field stepped forward and surveyed the curved dome of the ceiling with its gables and ornate stonework. This was a grand building, but it felt gloomy and neglected, designed for a greater purpose than it had achieved.
Field hesitated before hitting the button for his own office on the fourth floor.
The room was empty, the frosted glass grudgingly letting in the daylight. Field walked to his desk, his footsteps noisy on the parquet floor. Yang had left two notes: Stirling Blackman called. And: Penelope Donaldson telephoned—three times. Beside them, half hidden beneath a small mound of paperwork, Field noticed two envelopes. The first was addressed to him in neat, tiny handwriting. It was from the account monitoring manager at the Hong Kong Shanghai Bank, number 12 the Bund, Shanghai. The letter inside had been typed.
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.
