The Blue Rose (12 page)

They stood back for a moment, gawking at the cavernous hole that remained. Asp seized the moment to jump into it and start burrowing madly, determined to make it even deeper. Shooing him out, Alex filled it in and raked the surface smooth. With Alex and Vicky on either side, their hands under the root ball, they heaved Sapphire on to the waiting wheelbarrow. Alex figured that the sack held close to a hundred pounds of soil. With a lot of grunting, they hoisted it into the back of the van. Resting on a shallow box filled with small wood chips, it was tied on either side to the slats on the inside walls to make doubly sure there was no movement. Satisfied that Sapphire would enjoy the trip in comfort they walked up to the house to say goodbye to Kate.

‘Be careful while we're gone,' Alex said, giving Kate a hug. ‘If that American chap–'

‘Alex, please don't worry. In another fifteen minutes, I'm going to the shop. I'll be there all day. I'm staying with Peg and Stuart tonight – then back at the shop tomorrow. I'd call that pretty safe, wouldn't you?'

After promises to phone, they debated briefly whether Asp should stay with Kate or go with Alex and Vicky. While Kate often took him to the shop, she was reluctant to take him to Peg's house overnight. Looking at him across the courtyard, sitting in the cab of the van, with his little red tongue bobbing in and out, they decided that he would enjoy the trip to Shropshire.

As they turned out of the drive on to the road, Alex adjusted the rear view mirror. In it, he could see Kate, still waving.

‘We'd best take it nice and easy, Alex,' Vicky said. ‘The less trauma the better. Besides, I don't think this old van is used to marathon drives.'

Alex laughed. ‘Frankly I'm not sure, after all that wine last night, whether I'm up for a long drive either.'

Unnoticed by Alex, a dark-coloured BMW pulled on to the road behind them.

The journey was uneventful. They arrived at Aunt Nell's house in the late afternoon. It was located out of sight from the road, at the end of a narrow curving lane. Clumps of grass in the middle of the lane indicated that few cars had passed over it for some time. The hedge on either side was tall and overgrown. Prickly, snaking canes of dog rose and blackberry clawed against the van as they passed. Alex parked the van on a gravel patch under an old apple tree. Asp leaped out of Alex's door and was already off exploring, sniffing up and down the hedgerow, as they both got out to give Sapphire a quick check. The rose appeared to be none the worse for the journey.

As they approached Nell's modest two-storey brick Victorian house, Alex stopped to peer over a side gate. All he could see was a tangled mess of dense foliage that had once been a garden. ‘You're right Vicky. They'll have a bloody hard time finding Sapphire here,' he said.

A diminutive white-haired woman stood at the open front door. ‘Hello, Vicky,' she said with an affectionate smile. Then she half turned to Alex. ‘You must be Alex,' she added.

With her snowy hair tied in an unruly bun, periwinkle-blue eyes, ruddy cheeks and floral print frock, she was the quintessential aunt. Right out of Central Casting, thought Alex.

‘That's me,' he said, returning her smile. ‘Pleasure to meet you, Aunt Nell.'

‘I would imagine you both must be ready for a grownup's drink.'

Alex knew immediately that he would get on famously with her.

A few minutes later, they sat in her small parlour in comfortable wicker chairs warmed by an aromatic wood fire crackling in the hearth. Alex had opted for scotch, not knowing that Aunt Nell poured it like lemonade. She and Vicky had settled for tea.

Aunt Nell poked a log in the inglenook fireplace, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. ‘What's all this hush-hush stuff about then, Vicky?' she asked, blithely.

‘Sorry I couldn't tell you too much on the phone. The upshot is that Alex here, and his wife, Kate, discovered this rare type of rose on their property. We have it in the back of the van. There's a big chance that it could be quite valuable.'

‘My heavens! All this fuss over a rose. What makes it so special?' Aunt Nell peered at Alex over the top of her bifocals.

‘Only one thing, actually, Nell. The rose is an unusual colour. There's never been one like it before. Ever.'

‘It's sort of a botanical aberration,' Alex said.

Nell gave him a quizzical look.

‘A freak of nature,' Vicky chimed in. ‘We know that people in the business are desperate to get their hands on it. In fact, the word is already out. The people advising Alex and Kate have warned them to be careful.'

‘My goodness, how exciting,' said Nell, her eyes twinkling away.

‘That's why we thought of your garden, Auntie. We decided, on their recommendation, to hide the rose for a while – at least until we decide what to do with it. Only the three of us, Kate and a professor, will know where the rose is hidden. By the way, we've nicknamed the rose Sapphire.'

Nell raised her eyebrows. ‘A blue rose?'

‘Yes, believe it or not, that's what it is,' Vicky said.

‘My goodness gracious, I suppose that is a trifle unusual.'

‘To say the least,' Alex added.

‘You mentioned a professor, Vicky.'

‘Yes, a retired professor, actually. His specialty is botany – taught at Edinburgh University. He's examined the rose and says that it's real.'

‘How exciting,' Nell enthused. ‘Well, it should certainly be safe here, wouldn't you think? I hardly ever go out there any more. Only to give the birds a few crumbs now and then. Don't know if you could see much when you drove in, but it's an unsightly mess. We've never been ones for gardening. Even when Ben was alive he never took much interest. Always off down to the pub the minute he got some time off. Lord knows, Vicky, I wish I could afford a gardener but, for me, that would be a total waste of money. In any case it's hard to find chaps who want to work at it these days – everybody's so lazy and unreliable. Have to watch 'em like a hawk,' she chortled.

Vicky got up and put her cup and saucer on the tray. ‘We don't expect the rose to be here long. When this is all over, I'll come down and give you a hand. At least tidy the garden up a bit. You might enjoy it out there in the summer. I'm sure Alex and Kate would love to come and see you too.'

‘You'll like Kate a lot,' said Alex, starting to feel the effect of the king-size scotch. ‘I'll come back any time you'll have me.'

‘Well, you leave Spitfire, or whatever her name is, out there as long as you please, dear. You must be jolly hungry after that long drive. Will Cornish pasties be all right? Made them this morning. You look as if you're ready for another one,' she said with a knowing grin, grabbing Alex's glass out of his hand before he had a chance to decline.

‘Spitfire,' said Alex after she'd left the room. ‘That's funny. It may turn out to be more appropriate than Sapphire.'

 

The next morning Alex was jolted out of a blissful sleep by what he first thought was a pneumatic drill. It was the old-fashioned wind-up alarm clock Nell had left by the bed. ‘Just as bloody well I don't have a weak heart,' he mumbled. He got dressed and went down to the kitchen to feed Asp and see if he could find some coffee. Nell had thoughtfully left everything out for them: coffee, tea, sugar, cups, and a loaf of fresh bread. Not five minutes later, as the coffee was starting to percolate, Vicky joined him. ‘That alarm clock probably woke up half the population of Market Drayton,' she said, in the midst of a lengthy yawn. ‘Nell must wear ear plugs.'

Outside, it was unseasonably nippy and a thin mist robbed the garden of all colour. It looked even more of a shambles than it had yesterday. For the best part it was nothing more than an impenetrable mass of brambles, overgrown shrubs and tortured coils of rambling roses and vines. Trying to negotiate a path through it was frustrating. Only a chain saw would have made any real forward progress possible. After ten minutes, Alex and Vicky finally came across a suitable home for Sapphire: a long kidney-shaped flowerbed that had miraculously evaded the encroaching wilderness, providing a rare stretch of earth where enough sunlight penetrated for the rose to flourish. It was well out of sight.

Alex set about digging the hole while Vicky went to fetch Sapphire. Earlier, they had lifted the rose from the van into a decrepit wheelbarrow that had probably seen neither oil nor use in the last quarter century. After several unsuccessful attempts to get the wheelbarrow moving, she finally had to call Alex for help. The rose was simply too heavy for her to handle alone.

‘Remember the old saying, “It's better to plant a five-quid rose in a ten-quid hole than vice versa,”' Vicky said, as she watched the pile of soil alongside Alex getting higher.

‘The hole's more important than the rose, eh?'

‘Right.'

‘Gonna be shaking hands with an Aussie soon, if I go much deeper.'

‘Tell you what, Alex. Lay the shovel across the hole and we'll measure the depth. We need plenty of extra space for the compost that's going in there.'

Vicky decided that the ‘crater', as Alex called it, was wide and deep enough. She up-ended the large bag of compost and shook it into the hole. As she did so, Alex spaded it in with the earth.

‘How's it going, you two?' It was Nell carrying two bottles of mineral water. ‘Thought you might be thirsty with all that digging.' She handed them each a bottle.

Alex took a long swig. ‘Mmm, that's good. Thanks, Nell. The hardest part's done, I think.'

‘That's an awfully large hole for that bitty rose, isn't it?' Nell asked, eyeing the wheelbarrow.

‘We're playing it really safe,' Vicky replied.

All this time, Alex had been fighting a losing battle to keep Asp from jumping in the hole. ‘Nell,' he said, ‘could you take Asp till we're finished here. I'm going to bury the little chap if I'm not careful.'

‘Of course,' said Nell, picking up Asp and tucking him under her arm. ‘Well, you don't need me here – I've got some ironing to do.' She turned and walked back toward the house, and Alex and Vicky turned their attention back to Sapphire.

‘Let's run some water in the hole to check the drainage.' Vicky looked up at Alex and smiled. ‘Then we can introduce Sapphire to her new home.'

With effort, they managed to lift the rose off the wheelbarrow. With short shuffling steps they walked it the short distance to the hole. Just as they were about to lower the heavy root ball, Vicky stumbled and lost her grip. The weight was too heavy for Alex. He couldn't hold it. The rose hit the ground with a soft thump and the thorny canes whipped around, raking Vicky's arm. A five-inch tear in the sleeve of her white shirt was instantly soaking up blood like blotting paper.

‘Damn! That hurt,' she said, gritting her teeth and grasping her forearm tightly.

‘We'd better get up to the house – clean that out with some hydrogen peroxide and put a bandage on it. They look like pretty deep gashes to me,' Alex said, taking her free arm and leading her back to the house.

In a matter of a few minutes, Aunt Nell, working calmly and efficiently, had treated and bandaged Vicky's arm.

‘I'll leave you two together, then,' she said, getting up from the kitchen chair and walking over to the sink to rinse her hands. ‘I've got to go and call my neighbour, Arthur. He's got some tomatoes for me.'

‘Rotten bit of luck, that,' said Alex, after Nell had left the room. ‘Don't worry, I'll finish up out there,' he said, getting up from his chair.

‘No, I'm fine, Alex.'

‘You sure?'

‘Positive.'

He put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Before all this business started, I'd always thought of roses as being beautiful and benign,' he said. ‘But this one's getting to be positively dangerous.'

‘Don't be silly, Alex. It was just an accident. It's not the first time I've been attacked by a rose. I'll be fine. And so will Sapphire.'

Kenji Tanaka – Ken, as he preferred to be called – stared out of the window of his tastefully appointed Hampstead Heath flat, lost in thought as he sipped from the cup of hot green tea. His tea ritual was one of the few Japanese customs that had endured from his childhood in San Francisco, where his maternal grandmother had raised him. Ken was fifty-two, but could pass easily for a man twenty years younger. His hair was neatly barbered, jet black and shiny. He had yet to discover – and he searched conscientiously every day – a single lurking grey hair. 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
nisei
– born in America of Japanese immigrants – he had developed, through family and friends, a network of important business contacts in Japan.

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 Major Cooke's journals.'

Kingston had couriered them to Cardwell the same day. In a follow-up phone call, Cardwell confided to Kingston that the reason for their making the exception was mostly because everybody at DSSS was proud of the magnificent work done by the cryptographers at Bletchley during the war. This was for one of their own, as it were. Secondly – but not for publication – was because he and his wife happened to be passionate gardeners. They were particularly fond of roses.

It never surprised Kingston how such a mutuality of interest in a simple flower could manage to open even the most stubbornly closed doors.

‘Come in – come on in,' a voice boomed from inside Room 8 in answer to Kingston's knock on the door.

When he entered, Kingston was taken aback. He had not expected such a large man, nor one quite so athletic-looking. Somehow, he had pictured an Intelligence Corps captain to look more bookish.

After a bone-cracking handshake, the two sat facing each other across the orderly surface of Cardwell's desk. Cardwell was cordial and, as was to be expected, punctilious. Major Cooke's journals sat in a tidy stack off to one side. The high-ceilinged room with its sparse furnishings and bare windows lent a hollow sound to Cardwell's already stentorian voice. ‘Well, doctor, it looks like you came to the right place,' he said. ‘The only place, I believe, where you could have got your books decoded. We've got some interesting news for you.'

Kingston didn't want to appear unduly excited. ‘Excellent,' he replied, leaning forward slightly in his chair.

Cardwell placed a beefy hand on the pile of journals. ‘As you surmised, doctor, all the entries in these books are references to hybridizing of roses. We estimate that the books contain a total close to five thousand of Major Cooke's cross-pollination attempts. In the early books, all the crosses – as I believe they're called – are between roses exclusively.' He pulled out a book from the bottom of the pile, and opened it. ‘However, in the case of the last three books, in chronological order, all the references are between roses and other kinds of flowers.' He held the open book up so that Kingston could see the translation clipped to the inside. ‘On this page, for example, it's evident that he's using the same parent rose – an old French one called Madame Plantier – and attempting to cross it with several different varieties of hardy geraniums. He also refers to them sometimes as Cranesbill – is that correct?'

‘Yes, that is right,' Kingston replied.

‘Here, take a look,' he said, passing the book to Kingston. A moment of silence followed as Kingston read the translation, nodding his head. He handed it back.

‘May I look at the last book – chronologically, that is?' Kingston asked.

‘Of course.' Cardwell extracted the lowest book from the pile, briefly checked the inside page and handed it to Kingston, who started to flip through its pages.

‘Were you aware that there could be a book missing?' Cardwell asked, casually.

‘Yes, I was, as a matter of fact.'

‘Our cryptographer spotted it, too. A gap in the dates.'

Kingston closed the book and looked up. ‘I suppose there is the possibility that Cooke stopped hybridizing for a while,' he said. ‘Went on holiday, maybe.'

Cardwell shook his head. ‘No, it's not only the dates that don't match, nor do the hybridizing numbers. But you weren't to know that. They're out of sequence, too. Anyway, if he'd gone away, surely he would have picked up where he left off.'

‘You're right.'

‘That's not all.'

‘What do you mean?'

A disconcerted look clouded Cardwell's face. ‘There's something else you should know.'

‘What's that?' Kingston asked.

‘A few days after we'd decoded your journals somebody brought the missing book in and, unbeknownst to me, our chap decoded it, too.'