At a glance his Asian ancestry was not readily apparent. This was due, in good part, to a fastidiously trimmed moustache and narrow beard that circled his lower face drawing attention to his thin-lipped mouth. Everything else about him – his choice of clothes (expensive London boutiques), taste, demeanour and general lifestyle – was distinctly Western. His speech, a deceptive mix of American and cultured English, bore no trace whatsoever of Japanese, despite the fact that – thanks to his grandmother – he spoke the language fluently.
Tanaka had lived in London for nearly twenty years, enjoying a civilized and comfortable life made possible by brokering art and real estate to wealthy Japanese individuals and corporations. Despite his being a
He was contemplating his good fortune, thinking about the phone conversation he’d had two weeks earlier with a business acquaintance, Roger Maltby. Roger was an executive with Bonham’s, the London auctioneers in Knightsbridge. It wasn’t at all unusual for Roger to give him advance notice about forthcoming auctions. But this particular auction, he had said, was not about paintings or antiques. It was a rose that was going on the block. Ken had started to laugh but quickly stopped when Roger told him the rose was blue. ‘It’s the world’s first ever blue rose and it’s going to break every auction record in the book. I’m talking huge money,’ he said. And Ken Tanaka was desperately in need of money.
It was almost a year to the day since he had made a deposit into his brokerage and bank accounts. Three years ago, before the dotcom collapse, and before the Japanese art and real estate buyers had bailed out of the market, his portfolio in stocks, bonds and cash was over two million dollars. His most recent Schwab statement and his TD Waterhouse retirement account totalled little more than ?25,000. Allowing for fixed monthly expenses and curtailed spending, only for day-to-day living, it would all be gone within a few months. Borrowing was out of the question, he had no tangible assets or equity of any kind. For the first time in his life he would be broke. Even now, he refused to accept that possibility. The humiliation alone would be more than he could take.
Immediately after Roger’s call, Ken had combed his database and narrowed his pool of prospects. Quickly he determined that, among his wealthy client list, only three investors qualified. Each was not only easily capable of committing the vast sum that it would take to acquire the blue rose but might, for various reasons, be predisposed to the unique challenge and risk. His first offer – to a Mr Yasuda, chairman of a large industrial conglomerate – elicited considerable interest. As luck would have it, Yasuda had a passion for horticulture. Not only that, but two of the companies in his group produced garden-related products. Mr Yasuda, as expected of somebody in his elevated position of power and wealth, possessed an exalted sense of privilege and was certainly not lacking in shrewdness. While he found the prospect of owning the world’s first blue rose irresistible, Yasuda saw no need to compete with others in its acquisition. Accordingly, he authorized Ken to explore the possibility of purchasing the rose direct from the owners.
The phone was ringing. Ken put his cup down and walked over to the inlaid mahogany bureau that also served as his work desk and picked up the receiver. The caller announced himself as a Mr Moriyama, personal secretary to Mr Hiroshi Yasuda. The conversation, in Japanese, was brief.
‘Yes, hello, Mr Moriyama. I didn’t expect to hear from you quite yet.’
‘Mr Yasuda is anxious to know whether you have had a response yet from Mr and Mrs Sheppard. Whether they are prepared to discuss the sale of the rose. It has been five days now since he gave you the instructions to proceed. He is concerned.’
Tanaka stroked his beard nervously. With Yasuda, he knew that he had to be straightforward and businesslike. Vague answers and promises were not acceptable.
‘Please assure Mr Yasuda that nothing is wrong and that I understand perfectly his concern. Please inform him that I have not yet received a response to my letter. As a result, I have been trying to reach the Sheppards by phone. I have called a number of times over the last two days without success. If they continue to ignore our proposal, I must visit them personally. I will report back as soon as I have more information.’
‘Very good, Mr Tanaka. I shall pass on your message. We will wait to hear from you. Thank you, and goodbye for now.’
Ken stood by the phone, tapping his manicured nails on the polished surface of the desk. A chance like this, he knew, would never come again in his lifetime. He stood to make more from brokering the sale of the blue rose than he had made in the last ten years combined. He was prepared to do whatever it took to make the Sheppards accept Yasuda’s offer. Force them, if necessary. His survival now depended on it.
He sipped the last dregs of tepid tea, brushing a stray tea-leaf from his lower lip. He must think this over carefully, prepare himself for any eventuality. He preferred not even to think about his offer being rejected. If it were, he had an alternative plan. He would devote the next few hours to reviewing that contingency making sure that all the parts were in place. But Alex and Kate Sheppard would respond favourably, he was sure. The figure that Yasuda had authorized him to offer was far higher than even he had imagined.
Kingston looked directly into the lens and waited for the camera to click. The sergeant in camouflage fatigues and black beret slanted over one eye removed the passport-type print from the camera and attached it to a plastic pass badge. Checking it briefly, he then handed it to Kingston.
‘Clip this on, please, sir, and wear it at all times. One of Captain Cardwell’s men will meet you outside and take you over to DSSS.’ Affixing the badge, Kingston thanked the guard and stepped out in the sunshine.
He was at the Defence Intelligence and Security Centre training establishment at Chicksands in the heart of the Bedfordshire countryside. Referred to as DISC, the grounds also housed the headquarters of the Intelligence Corps. Knowing the army’s proclivity for acronyms, it didn’t surprise him to learn that one of the training schools within DISC was DSSS, the Defence Special Signal School. This was Captain Cardwell’s department.
Following up on the Bletchley Museum director’s suggestion, Kingston had established that there were only two organizations that might be capable of decoding Major Cooke’s journals. One was the DSSS and the other the Government Communications Headquarters in the spa town of Cheltenham, in Gloucestershire. Intrigued with the idea of its rural setting, and as it was closer to London, Kingston had elected to start with the DSSS.
As Kingston waited for his escort he surveyed the surrounding scene. In front of him a formidable chain link barrier closed off the road. It was at least eight feet tall. He watched as a military guard went through the process of checking through a British Telecom van. Kingston counted five other camouflage-clad guards in the vicinity, each with an automatic weapon slung over his shoulder. He hadn’t anticipated such stringent security. For the first time he was starting to have qualms about pursuing the whole code business. Was it a good idea, after all? Considering that these men were responsible for the nation’s security, his justification for coming to Chicksands now seemed frivolous, to say the least. ‘A blue rose, for Christ’s sake,’ he muttered to himself.
‘Dr Kingston?’ the soldier, a corporal, inquired, stepping out of a Land Rover.
Kingston nodded.
‘Jump in, sir. Too nice a day to be doing this, eh?’
‘It most certainly is,’ Kingston replied.
As they drove off, Kingston glanced back at the heavily guarded entrance, and then at the scene outside. It was incongruous. They were now driving through the midst of a bucolic country estate with freshly mown lawns and tall trees.
‘That’s the old Priory on the right there,’ the corporal remarked as they drove by a sprawling brick and stone building with tall chimneys, fronted by a row of neatly clipped yew trees. ‘Built in eleven hundred and something,’ he added.
‘Most impressive,’ was all Kingston could think of saying.
‘It’s the officers’ mess now.’
‘Lucky chaps,’ said Kingston. ‘Not like in my time.’
Nothing more was said for the next minute or so. Soon the car stopped outside a low brick building.
The corporal looked over his shoulder. ‘Inside, follow the main corridor, dead ahead.’ His words rolled out in military fashion. ‘Captain Cardwell’s office is the third door on the right. He’s expecting you.’
Walking down the corridor, Kingston thought back to his first phone conversation with Captain Cardwell a week ago. Initially Cardwell had been reluctant to help, politely reminding Kingston that the DSSS was not in the habit of performing this type of trivial function. There would be hell to pay if a taxpayer found out, he had remonstrated. But after a persuasive appeal by Kingston, Cardwell eventually acquiesced. ‘We still have a handful of officers who have many years of service,’ he said. ‘To set your mind at rest, I’ll have one of them take a look at
