The Master of Rain.

by Tom Bradby & Adam Mansbach.

To Claudia, Jack, Louisa, and Sam.

And Mum and Dad.

Thanks to Mark Lucas, the world's greatest agent; Bill Scott-Kerr and Jason Kaufman, a supportive, clever, and extremely insightful editorial team; and, most of all, to Claudia, my inspirational wife.

Shanghai 1926.

ACCORDING TO CHINESE LEGEND,.

AFFAIRS IN THE "OTHER WORLD"

ARE MANAGED BY BUREAUS OR MINISTRIES.

THE MOST SIGNIFICANT OF THESE IS.

THE MINISTRY OF THUNDER AND STORM,.

PRESIDED OVER BY THE MASTER OF RAIN.

IN THE CLOSE, INTENSE HEAT.

OF THE SHANGHAI SUMMER,.

THE MASTER OF RAIN STANDS ABOVE.

THE DARK CLOUDS THAT HANG OVER THE CITY,.

BROODING UPON ITS FATE. THE RAIN IS IN HIS GIFT,.

AND THUS HE CONTROLS THE FERTILITY OF THE LAND.

AND THE PROSPERITY OF ITS INHABITANTS.

HE IS AN OMNIPOTENT AND CAPRICIOUS.

BENEFACTOR-OR TORMENTOR.

One.

Field felt like a lobster being brought slowly to the boil. For a moment he closed his eyes against the heat and the humidity and the still, heavy air. Only the clatter of typewriters hinted at energy and motion.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket and looked again at the two figures gesticulating behind the frosted gla.s.s. They were still arguing, and he had the uncomfortable feeling that it might be about him.

Macleod's secretary had stopped typing and was appraising him with a steady gaze. "You're new," she said, pushing her half-moon gla.s.ses up from the end of her nose.

"Yes." Field nodded.

The woman wasn't showing any sign of discomfort, despite being three times his size and wearing a cardigan. "Take your jacket off if you're hot," she said.

Field smiled, glancing up at the fan. It turned lethargically, with no discernible effect on the air beneath it.

He put his hands in his pockets. Macleod's office door had the words Superintendent Macleod, Head of Crime Superintendent Macleod, Head of Crime engraved in the gla.s.s, and although it was not Field's position to say, the security of tenure this implied confirmed what he had already heard about the confidence of the man. engraved in the gla.s.s, and although it was not Field's position to say, the security of tenure this implied confirmed what he had already heard about the confidence of the man.

Field looked up at the fan again and the paint that was peeling off the ceiling above it. For a moment the sun broke through the thick blanket of cloud that had been loitering over the city for days, spilling light onto the desks at the far end of the room. Despite the dark wood paneling, the tall windows made the place seem less gloomy than the Special Branch office upstairs.

He tugged the corner of his collar away from his throat and wiped the sweat from his skin with his index finger. He'd never imagined heat like this.

Macleod's secretary was still staring at him. "How are you enjoying Shanghai?"

"Fine, thanks."

She started typing again, fat fingers pounding the big metal keys, then stopped and looked at him. "Slept with a Russian yet? Paid for a princess?"

Macleod's door opened and a small, lean man with dark, slicked-back hair walked past him. "Caprisi?" Field asked, but whatever had been going on in there, it had left Caprisi in no mood to talk. He headed for his desk, took his jacket from the back of the chair, pulled open a drawer, slipped a pistol into the leather holster that hung from his shoulder, and marched toward the lift.

Field turned to face Macleod, who stood at his office door, toying with the chain around his neck. He was a burly man, almost bald, with a thin crown of gray hair. "You're Field?" His voice was deep, with a broad Scottish accent.

"Yes, sir."

"Follow him down."

Field hesitated.

"Well, go on, man, what are you waiting for?"

Field got into the elevator after Caprisi and hit the b.u.t.ton for the ground floor. It cranked into action with a jolt and a loud crack, and descended, as always, so hesitantly that it would have been quicker to crawl down the stairs on all fours.

Not that anyone wanted to take the stairs in this heat.

"You're new?" the American asked.

Field nodded. "Yes."

"Still a Griffin."

"No." Officially, he'd finished his training a month ago and had spent the intervening time being bored to death with routine office tasks. He was grateful to get out. Granger had told him that his job was to check that the murder was not politically motivated and keep an eye on the Crime Branch.

Caprisi shook his head dolefully before looking down at his shoes. Field noticed how carefully they'd been polished-just as his own had been ever since he'd come to the Far East and been relieved of the need to do anything like that for himself. He remembered his father's obsession with his lack of military discipline and allowed himself a smile.

The American moved quickly through the lobby, his leather soles slapping the stone floor. Outside, Field found himself squinting against the sun before it once again disappeared behind a bank of dark cloud.

A Buick with a long brown body and a bright yellow hood stood at the curb, its engine running. As he climbed into the near side, Field noticed there were three bullet holes in the panel by the door.

"Where's Chen?" Caprisi asked the driver, leaning forward against the scuffed leather seat.

The driver was an old man dressed in a white tunic. He turned and shook his toothless head.

Caprisi settled back and waited, looking out of his window, trying to contain his impatience, rapping the gla.s.s with his knuckles. Field saw that he had a large gold ring on the index finger of his right hand.

"Come on, Chen," he said under his breath. "What's he doing?" he asked the driver, although, so far as Field could tell, the man spoke no English.

Field turned to see a tall Chinese emerging from the entrance of the Central Police Station. He wore a full-length khaki mackintosh and carried a Thompson machine gun. He climbed onto the running board and ducked his head through the open window.

"This is a present from Granger," Caprisi explained, pointing at Field. "He's a Griffin," he said, ignoring Field's earlier intimation that his training was complete.

Chen seemed less put out by Field's apparent intrusion than Caprisi and reached across to shake his hand before barking an order at the driver and slapping the roof. He remained on the running board as they lurched forward, the gun banging against the bodywork. Field felt for his own pistol in his jacket pocket, suddenly aware of the rapid beating of his heart.

They moved a hundred yards down Foochow Road. Field looked out past Chen at the tide of humanity sweeping down the sidewalk beside them, until they were brought to a halt once more. Caprisi leaned forward to try to see what was causing the holdup, then sat back with a sigh.

"Granger told me you're from Chicago," Field said.

Caprisi turned to him, a thin smile playing across his lips. "Granger is the intelligence chief, so he should know."

Field didn't respond. As head of the Special Branch, and thus Field's boss, Granger was responsible for the suppression of communism in the city and the maintenance of order. He ran informers and conducted what American journalists called "Black Propaganda." Caprisi and Macleod worked in the CID-the Crime Branch, or C.1. Their responsibility was "ordinary decent crime." Murders. Armed robberies. The two branches were the most powerful departments in the force and they fought constantly.

"What brought you here?" Field asked.

Caprisi's face was impa.s.sive. "How long have you been in Shanghai, Field?"

"About three months."

"And you've not yet learned the golden rule?" Caprisi smiled again and Field realized he looked like a Caucasian version of Chen-thick dark hair, bushy eyebrows, a narrow nose, and an easy, sly smile. The sleeves of his dark jacket were pulled up above his elbows, revealing broad forearms, and bushy hair spilled out of his open-necked shirt. "Take my advice: never ask anyone in Shanghai about their past. Especially not a lady."

Field turned to the window as an old beggar woman thrust a bundle of rags toward him. As Chen clubbed her aside with the b.u.t.t of his Thompson, he saw that the bundle contained a baby.

"Take it easy, Chen," Caprisi said, almost to himself. He leaned forward impatiently once more. "What's the holdup?" he shouted. Chen leaned through the window and shook his head.

"What's your name, Field?"

"Richard. But most people call me 'Field.' "

"d.i.c.k?"

Field grimaced.

"You don't like 'd.i.c.k'?"

"No one calls me that."

"What's wrong with it?"

Field looked at him, smiling. "There's nothing wrong with it, Caprisi. It's just that no one calls me that. But if you want to, be my guest."

"Spirit." The American smiled approvingly. "You'll need that here."

"What's your name?"

"My name is Caprisi."

They had stopped again and could see now that a crowd had gathered in the middle of the street. Caprisi opened his door. Chen and Field followed as he shoved his way through.

The crowd parted reluctantly to reveal a scrawny man lying flat on the road, a pool of congealed blood beneath his head and neck. The upper part of his body was bare and still glistening with sweat. The rickshaw, which had once been his livelihood, had been crushed like a pile of matchsticks. For a moment they all looked at him silently. Field knew enough about the city to be certain that this random accident was likely to plunge a large, extended family into dest.i.tution. Caprisi was checking the man's neck for a pulse.

"What happened?" Caprisi demanded before switching to Chinese. Field only understood the last instruction: "Move aside, move aside."

On the way back to the car, Caprisi asked, "How's your Shanghainese?"

"I'm getting there," Field said, walking fast to keep up.

"Congratulations." Caprisi's mood had soured. "Hit by a car. Oldsmobile. Westerners, who didn't bother to stop."

Their driver edged through the crowd before hurtling down Foochow Road to an apartment building opposite the racecourse. There was another police car parked outside, with two uniformed officers standing guard by a sign saying Happy Times. Happy Times. They nodded as Caprisi and Chen headed into the ornate lobby. An elderly Chinese in a red uniform with gold brocade sat behind a marble desk. He smiled at them. They nodded as Caprisi and Chen headed into the ornate lobby. An elderly Chinese in a red uniform with gold brocade sat behind a marble desk. He smiled at them.

"Field, come down and talk to him later, will you?" Caprisi ordered.

"Top floor," one of the policemen said as they stepped into the lift.

Caprisi hit the b.u.t.ton for the third floor and the lift began to move. It was swifter and smoother than their own, with polished wood panels and mirrors. Field tried not to look at himself, but Caprisi moved closer to the mirror, unselfconsciously removing something from his teeth. Chen caught Field's eye and smiled. He was holding the Thompson down by his side, its magazine resting against his knee.

The top landing was s.p.a.cious, with two doors separated by a gold mirror. Another uniformed officer was standing guard by the door on the right.

Inside, the main room was not as big as Field had antic.i.p.ated, but the flat was a far cry from his own quarters. The wooden floor had been recently polished. One wall was dominated by a long sofa covered in a white cotton sheet and silk cushions in a kaleidoscope of colors. There was a handsome Chinese chest beside it, upon which sat a Gramophone. A rattan chair had been pushed up against the French windows, which opened onto a small balcony.

A bookcase in the corner was lined with embossed leather spines and framed photographs.

Field pulled at his collar again to ease the pressure on his neck before following Caprisi through to the bedroom at the far end of a short corridor.

He recoiled at the smell and then the sight of blood on white sheets, and tried to shield this reaction from Caprisi. A Chinese plainclothes detective he did not recognize was dusting the bedside table with fingerprint powder. A photographer was lining up a shot and there was the sudden thump of a flashgun.