Part 50 (1/2)

'They're not new, I'm afraid, but they're good.'

She held them up. She was right, they were good. He was touched that she must have gone especially to the Chinese market in the old town because they were not Western clothes. A pair of loose peasant trousers, a quilted tunic, and a thick padded jacket, and in a separate parcel a pair of stout hide boots. A leather satchel, scratched and battered but still intact, pleased him most because it reminded him oddly of himself. Except he was no longer intact.

'Thank you. For these gifts.'

'Your hand.' She frowned. 'What have you been doing? It's bleeding again. Let me bind it up.'

'One twist of bandage. No more.'

Again she gave him that look.

'In the English market where I found the satchel, I heard talk. About the bombs. Two more last night.' She dug out the antiseptic boric acid and the pot of sulphur paste from the pillowcase. 'Planning on going somewhere?' she asked lightly.

'No.'

She nodded.

But it was an uneasy movement. 'They say it's the Communists planting the bombs. Eight people were killed outside a nightclub and there's talk of scouring the district for union members. Everyone is angry.'

'They're afraid,' Chang murmured. He dismissed the pain as she dabbed at the wound on his left hand.

'Is it the Communists, do you think?'

'No. It is Po Chu. He is clever.'

'But surely he gains nothing by-'

The door swung open and a brisk wind s.n.a.t.c.hed at her hair. A strand of it swept across Chang's face, but he saw the tall figure standing in the doorway. Chang didn't move. Just his right hand. It picked up the knife.

Lydia leaped to her feet with an exclamation of surprise.

'Alexei Serov! What on earth are you doing here?'

She stepped right in front of the figure, blocking his view, but not before Chang had seen his sharp green eyes take in the rough bed, Chang's hands, and the dried bloodstain on the wooden floor.

'Come up to the house,' Lydia said firmly and stalked out of the shed, forcing the Russian to retreat. She closed the door and clicked the padlock shut.

44.

'Do you know what the penalty is for harbouring a known fugitive? '

'Just one minute, what reason do you have for thinking he is a fugitive? He is a friend of mine who is wounded and needs help, that's all.'

'In a shed?' Alexei Serov's tone was sceptical.

'I really don't see that this is any business of yours,' she said crossly.

They were standing in the middle of the drawing room, but she didn't want to discuss things. She wanted him to leave. She had not invited him to sit, nor offered to take his immaculate grey overcoat and silk scarf.

'Anyway, what were you doing snooping around my shed?' Even as she said it, she had a feeling she could have put that better.

'Snooping? Miss Ivanova, I regard that as an insult.' He drew his shoulders back stiffly. His short hair bristled. 'I called at your front door and it was your servant who informed me that you were in the shed with your rabbit. He was the one who suggested I go down there.'

Wai, the cook. d.a.m.n the lazy fool.

'Then I apologise. I meant no insult. I just feel that you . . .'

'Intruded?'

'Yes.'

He looked at her with a cool questioning gaze and came a step closer, his hand tapping impatiently on the lapel of his coat. He spoke in a low voice. 'I think you are taking a big risk. Yet again. These are violent times, Miss Ivanova, and you should take great care. The bombs that explode, the intrigues that cut the ground from under any agreements, the dangers to someone who doesn't know what they are involved in - these are things you know nothing about. People get killed every day for doing less than you are doing.'

Some of her confidence evaporated, and it must have shown on her face because he said more pleasantly, 'It's all right, I don't bite.'

She smiled and made it look easy. 'Thank you for your advice, but it is of no concern to me.'

'What are you saying?'

He knew d.a.m.n well what she was saying. 'That it's all nothing to do with me. Of course I hear of what is going on here in Junchow, but . . .'

'But you're not involved?'

'No, I'm not.'

'And that man in your shed is not a Communist?'

'No.'

He laughed, tipped his head back, and made a soft mocking sound, blowing out air between his white teeth. 'You are not a very good liar, Miss Ivanova.'

She was stung. She'd always been a b.l.o.o.d.y good liar.

'What I'd like to know,' she said curtly, 'is what brought you over here in the first place. Why have you called on me?'

'Ah yes.' He tilted his head in a polite bow, reached into his coat pocket, and brought out a card. He held it out to her. 'From my own dear mama, Countess Serova.'

Lydia accepted the card. It was ivory tinted, very thick, and embossed with a gold coat of arms at the top, an eagle with wings spread wide over a quartered s.h.i.+eld. It wasn't hard to guess that it was the Serov family crest. On the card was an invitation to an evening of dance and entertainment at the Serov villa on Rue Lamarque on Monday at eight.

Monday? Monday was an age away. Much too far ahead to think about. First she had to get herself and Chang An Lo through this weekend.

'Just to make it official,' he said amiably. But with that superior smile again.