by Tom Bradby
“What are you saying, polar bear?”
“I’m not saying anything.”
“Doesn’t sound that way to me.”
Field didn’t answer.
“You need to wise up. I know where you were, because I can see it coming. It’s impossible, Field. Trust me. And dangerous for both of you.” Caprisi breathed in sharply. “If you won’t believe me, then there is nothing I can do.”
“Then do nothing.”
“The possibilities are not endless, Field.”
“So I’m told.”
“Told by whom?”
“Never mind.”
“If she is loyal to him, then you are being manipulated. If she is seeking a bit of fun, or if she really loves you and seeks an escape, then you are playing a dangerous game.”
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 Républiques. 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.
“It’s almost time.”
“Tomorrow, then.”
The immigration room was closing, a clerk waiting by the door to lock it after the last of the people inside had left. Field slipped through and then ran quickly down the steps outside, into the slightly cooler air of the Bund. He beckoned a rickshaw puller brusquely and climbed in. “Avenue Joffre,” he said. “Church, Russian. Ruski.”
The light was fading when they reached the churchyard, leaving a crimson stain tinting the horizon. He had to look closely at the lettering on the headstones that were not engraved in gold.
Field completed his task methodically. He started in the corner closest to the church and walked slowly down each row. As the light faded, he had to lean closer to each stone.
It was almost dark by the time he found them.
He stood stock-still.
The two graves were alongside each other. The inscriptions were in Russian, but Field could make out the name and date on the first:
General Feodor Medvedev.
1.4.1871—7.6.1923.
The second was newer, the inscription free of moss, the gold lettering still bright:
Anna Natalya Medvedev.
1.7.1896—1.5.1926.
Field could not understand the rest of the inscriptions, but on both he recognized another name: Natasha Olga Medvedev.
Field squatted down. He stared at the graves until his knees and thighs ached.
He put his head in his hands.
At length, he straightened, ran his hand slowly through his hair, then smoked a cigarette in the darkness.
Field had not known her father was a general. He imagined an old man, in fading uniform, trying to cling to his respect in a city that must have damned him at every turn.
Field walked away fast, then broke into a run. He did not know if his haste was driven more by the need to get to her, or to get away from the graves behind him.
Thirty-nine
Field went to the office first to check whether Natasha had left a message. He tried to gather his thoughts.
He told himself that he’d known she was a liar. And he realized it made no difference to him at all.
It was seven o’clock by the time he got to the Special Branch room and it was dark but for his own desk light. Yang had written him a note: Patrick called. You are invited to dinner tomorrow night. Penelope
rang, please call back. Stirling Blackman telephoned from the New York Times. He said you’d know what it is about.
Field pushed the paper aside and saw that there was another page underneath. Natasha telephoned. She said it is tonight at seven at the usual place.
Field sprinted to the end of the room and bounced against the wall as he careered down the stairs.
“Rue Wagner. Number 3. Hurry,” he said as he climbed into the rickshaw.
He thought of her curling up beside him in the bed, cradling her fear.
He put his hand on the gun and watched the man’s sinewy back as he pulled, his feet slapping against the road.
Field closed his eyes and tried to think clearly.
As they rounded the corner and he caught sight of the ornate balustrades of Lu’s house, Field shouted at the rickshaw man to stop. “Wait,” he said. The man was confused. Field pulled out a ten-dollar bill and shoved it into his hand, waving to indicate that he wanted him to stay where he was.
There was a light on in the first floor, but Field could not see through the windows because of the protruding balcony. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the flat of his hand, then got out. “Wait,” he said again.
He was at the junction of the street opposite, shielded by the shadow of a sycamore tree. He stepped in closer to the wall and pushed his hat more firmly down onto his head. He looked at the red door at the top of the steps.
Did they keep a watch on the street?
Field took out a packet of cigarettes. He removed one with difficulty, his hands shaking. He lit it, inhaled, then threw it into the gutter in disgust.
Field’s eyes flitted from the door to the window and back again. He could see, in his mind’s eye, the white gown slipping from her shoulders and gathering around her feet.
He could see her slipping out of her underwear, coming forward to allow Lu to run his portly fingers over the smooth, warm skin of her flat belly.
Field could see her beneath him, her mouth tightly shut, her body frozen . . .
Or was her pleasure real?
Field turned to the wall and then back again, his mind grappling with dramatic, confusing images of duplicity and debasement. Was this the end? Was this what she had anticipated? Was he beating her now, a prelude to a far more violent death?
Field lit another cigarette and forced himself to smoke it.
The door opened and she came down the steps to the sidewalk, her head bent, so that he could not see her face.
He moved quickly, the blood pounding through his head. He took hold of her roughly, pulled her across the road.
“Get in,” he said.
She resisted.
“Get in. Foochow Road,” he told the man. “Hurry.”
“He will have seen,” she said as they pulled away.
Natasha was watching the rickshaw man’s back, her face impassive and cold. She did not speak until she had opened the door of her apartment. “Please go,” she said, once she had moved inside.
“What happened?”
“Please leave.”
“What happened?”
In an instant she crumpled and he caught her. He lifted her and carried her to a chair by the window. He gripped her tightly, with stretched fingers, so that her head was on his shoulder, her hair once again in his face. He closed his eyes.
And then, just as quickly, she was struggling to be free and pushing him away. She got to her feet again. “No,” she said. “No.”
“What happened?”
“He knows.”
Field stood. “Knows what?”
“He knows.” She shook violently. “Something was different.”
“What was different?”
“In his eyes. He was less . . . not so far away with the drugs and he made me stand there such a long time, just staring.”
“Did he say anything?”
“Normally, he is hardly looking at me. Just so drugged and—”
“How long?”
“An hour, I don’t know. And he did not say I could go. I could not stand it anymore and I went and picked up my clothes and left and—”
“He just looked at you?”
She did not answer.
“He didn’t talk? He didn’t say anything?”
Slowly, she raised her head. “He asked me if I liked to wear stockings. Why did I not wear them?”
“What did you say?”
“I said I would wear them the next time.”
“He didn’t touch you?”
Natasha stared at the floor.
“Did he touch you?”
“It is not your business.”
“Did he touch you?”
“In the dressing room there were two ledgers.” She looked up. “A chest was open. They were on top.”
“And you looked?”
“I was frightened.”
“But you looked?”
“There were many figures. All the writing was in Chinese.”
“But you could read it.”
“No, I—”
“I can see it in your face.” She stared at the floor again. “And you saw something.” Field took a step closer. “You knew what to look for.”
Natasha did not respond.
Field frowned. “You have seen them before? Whatever it was that Lena knew, you know, too. She told you. She was like a sister to you.”
Her face was hostile, a brittle anger in her eyes, her mouth tight. She held her arms protectively across her chest. “You have brought me fear again.”
“I have brought you nothing you haven’t brought upon yourself.” He was inches away from her now. “Lena was like a sister to you, Natasha. How does that feel? She lived the life your sister lived, and she died the death your sister died.” He reached out and put his hand under her chin, forcing her to look at him. “Natalya Simonov was your sister, Natasha. I’ve seen her grave. And your father’s.”
Her eyes filled with pain, but the anger burned within him. “All the time I’ve been chasing around trying to find the truth,” he said, “you have just been playing me along.” Field’s teeth clenched and he tightened his grip. “If your father died in Russia, Natasha, or on the ship from Vladivostok, how is it that he’s buried here?”
“What is it to you?”
“That’s why the photograph of Natalya is no longer on your bookshelf, isn’t it? You thought I’d recognize her.” He let her go. “Do you know what I felt when I saw the picture of her body? For Christ’s sake, I thought it was you.” Field walked to the window, then turned. “What purpose have I served?”
Her eyes had followed him. “What do you mean?”
“I mean what purpose have I really served? Tell me where I fit in.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Well, it can’t be love, can it?” He spread his hands. “Or even sex. Did you feel anything? Or are you so practiced in the art of deception that—”
“Stop it, Richard.”
“Stop it?” He took a pace toward her again. “Stop it?”
“Why are you being—”
“She was your sister! Do you think I am so fucking stupid?” He thrust his face close to hers. “Do you?” There were tears in her eyes. “Anna Natalya Medvedev. What made her change her name? Was it shame, Natasha? She was buried in Little Russia, beside General Feodor Medvedev, beloved father to Natasha Olga Medvedev.”
“Please stop, Richard.”
“Is this causing you pain, Natasha? Is this hurting you?”
“Stop it.”
“She was your sister.”
“Please.”
“She was your fucking sister.”
“I knew that you would find out.”
“Did you really?” Field breathed in heavily in an attempt to try to control himself. “I’m a policeman, for God’s sake. Of course I would find out. It happens, even in Shanghai, occasionally. So where did she live? Which number on Avenue Joffre?”
“I could not tell you.”
“Which number?”
“Number 73. On the ground floor.”
“Who was she seeing?”
“I don’t know.”
“She was your sister.”
“We did not talk of it.”
“What about Lena?”
“I don’t know.” Natasha shook her head. “I just do not know. It was sensitive for both of us, for all of us, so we did not talk of it. It is dangerous to know these things.”
“But Lena told you about the shipments?”
Natasha didn’t answer.
“So what about me, Natasha? Where do I fit in? Can you tell me that, at least?”
“I could not tell you.”
“This man either killed your sister or was involved in her murder, and still you go down there and take off your clothes and let him—”
“Stop it!” Her eyes were wild.
“Did you see Natalya’s body, Natasha? Did you see what he did to her? The photograph is in my desk. Do you want me to get—”
She launched herself at him and she was strong. Her arms flailed, her fingers scratching at his eyes. He felt a scalding pain on his cheek as he instinctively kicked her legs out from under her. He fell with her. He pinned her legs and arms.
She spat, her face twisted with fury. “You like this. You like to hurt.”
He got to his feet.
“You are just the same as the others,” she said, scrambling up and retreating across the room. “You think you’re different, but you’re just the same.”
“You lied to me,” he said quietly.
“I could not tell you.”
Field put his hand to his cheek. “I don’t understand . . .”
“She did it so I wouldn’t have to. That was what she did, Richard. Is that what you want to hear? She was a prostitute. A whore. So we could survive, so that her beloved little sister wouldn’t have to do the things that I now do. Do you think I would be there if I had a choice? Do you think I have not dreamed of escape?”
“How did your father die?”
“I’ll tell you,” she said, defeated. “I’ll tell you, Richard. One day Papa found out. We had said we were teaching French to rich English children, and to begin with, that was true. But then the family that we taught most left for New York, and there were more and more Russian girls looking to teach English or French or music, or anything at all. We started to get hungry, Richard. It would pick up soon, we told Papa. We sold everything that we had of value, trying to shield our poverty from him, but he knew.
