The Secret Meaning of Blossom: a fast-moving spy thriller set in Japan

by T. M. Parris

  The Secret Meaning of Blossom

  By T.M. Parris

  Clarke and Fairchild series Book 4

  Copyright © 2021 T.M. Parris

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or treated as fictitious with no factual basis. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

  The Clarke and Fairchild series of novels

  is written in British English.

  This book is dedicated

  to the real Takao

  with apologies, and thanks.

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 1

  Funny, that, the woman showing up at his hotel room. But the oddest thing about it didn’t occur to James until after she’d left.

  When the knock came, James assumed it was Housekeeping and did a double-take when he saw her standing there. Yellow was the theme this time, from top to tail, as it were: strappy sandals with enormous heels, a short – very short – dress with a bit of frill about it, and some kind of band or other in her hair, with flowers. The whole effect was, he had to admit, rather pleasing.

  “James-san! It’s so good to see you!”

  “Mirai! You too, of course! What a wonderful surprise.”

  She seemed to expect him to ask her in. So he did. She leaned in delicately to deliver two pecks on the cheek that James had to stoop to allow. He didn’t realise kissing was the done thing in Japan, but he was generally the kind to go with the flow. He got a wave of some floral perfume. Purple petals came to mind. Irises, maybe, or violets.

  By the window of his rather small room were two chairs either side of a tiny table. Mirai, glancing at the bed as she squeezed past, sat in one of them and crossed her legs, revealing, James couldn’t help but notice, quite a lot.

  “Would you like a drink?” he asked. “I could order some tea.”

  “Tea?” She giggled, covering her mouth with her hand as if he’d said something shocking. Her eyes, terribly wide, were fixed on his face as she laughed.

  “Maybe not, then. Terrific view from here, isn’t it?” He pointed out of the window. “Fabulous city, Tokyo. It all seems rather futuristic to me. It’s the noises, I think. The cars slide along so smoothly, but everything else seems to talk to you out there, even the billboards and such like.”

  She was frowning at him now. She wasn’t following, was she? He’d been struggling generally with getting himself across out here. Fiona normally did the talking when they went abroad, or indeed anywhere for that matter.

  “So, you enjoy conference?” she asked.

  Good! A change of subject. James shoe-horned himself into the other chair. “Yes, very much. I don’t know how my paper went down. Never had a paper accepted at one of these things before. Well, truth be told, I’ve never tried before. It was Fiona’s idea, actually. My wife. I think I mentioned her yesterday, didn’t I?”

  “Yes.” Mirai’s voice was flat.

  “Yes, well anyway, I did ask for feedback, got lots of nodding heads from the organisers. I expect you’re used to that.”

  A slightly baffled smile. Of course she was used to it, you fool.

  “And you?” he asked. “I have to say I wouldn’t expect someone like you – I mean, of course, I’m glad that IT security is a subject you’re so engaged in.”

  She’d been a striking delegate the previous day, in an eye-catching red outfit then, sitting amongst the tired-looking audience of global IT professionals, largely middle-aged men like himself. She couldn’t be more than twenty, twenty-one, though it was hard to tell really. He thought he remembered asking her that, towards the end of the evening, when it got to the stage where they were laughing at everything. He rather lost track of how much whisky he’d consumed before finally persuading her into a taxi and staggering down the road to the hotel. All part of the experience, he supposed.

  Mirai suddenly looked glum. “You go home soon.”

  “Yes, soon!”

  “That makes me sad.”

  “Oh, well, I’m sorry to hear that.” He didn’t know what else to say, so started gabbling again. “My flight’s tomorrow. Couldn’t get one today. All booked up. So I’m just getting on with a bit of work.”

  He nodded at his laptop. She gazed at the screen curiously. He reached out and closed it. “Nothing interesting, believe me.”

  Her eyes snapped back to him. “You want to do something more interesting?” Her lips opened into a smile, no hand over the mouth this time.

  “Well! Yes, I suppose it is a bit of a waste sitting in this hotel room when there’s a city to explore. How about a walk? Looks like a bracing winter’s day out there.” He could do with getting out of this cramped little room. “You mentioned a park last night, that you like to go to.”

  A moment of blankness, then her face brightened with delight. “Yoyogi Park! You remembered!”

  “Yes, that’s it.” He couldn’t help feeling flattered that this pretty little thing was so bothered by what he thought.

  Then her face fell. “But that’s for weekend. Sundays. Today, nothing.”

  “You mean the park is closed?”

  She frowned. “Closed? Not closed.”

  “But we can’t go to the park?”

  “Eh – tooooo…” She gave a low humming sound as if contemplating how to phrase something extraordinarily delicate. “So, Yoyogi Park, Saturday, Sunday. For music, cool clothes.”

  “Oh, yes! I remember.” Something about dressing up to go there. Why that meant you couldn’t go there during the week was rather lost on him, but it didn’t seem to be an option anyway.

  Her eyes had moved to the bed. She shifted in her seat, leaning over so that her front was full on to him. “We stay here a while. Maybe relax?”

  “Oh, well…” What to say? “You don’t want to go for a walk? A bit tired, maybe?”

  “Tired?” She gave a kind of pout, as though he’d said something ridiculous. It was pretty ridiculous, to be fair.

  “Not tired then.”

  “No. But walking. These shoes, not so good.”

  She held up one leg, giving him, he couldn’t help noticing, a clear view up her skirt, and pointed to the strappy sandals.

  “Oh, yes. I see your point. Must be tricky. Don’t know how yo
u ladies manage in them.”

  “I take them off?” she asked brightly.

  “Oh, sure! I guess it’s the Japanese custom, though doesn’t seem to apply in these big hotels. But why not, if you want?”

  James was wearing a pair of those disposable white slip-ons over his thick brown socks. It did cross his mind how silly they looked, but your toes got so cold in these sparsely-heated rooms. He was glad of his cardigan as well. Mirai was undoing her sandals and slowly pulling them off. Her skin looked terribly smooth. She ran a hand up her shin, taking his eyes up to her thigh, and then somewhat inside her legs, rather.

  “I take off something else?” She lowered her head and blinked at him.

  “Oh!” Good Lord. His mouth was dry. “Well, not on my account. I mean, I certainly don’t want, you know—”

  “But I want.”

  She stood up and faced him, then looked over to the bed again. Now she seemed a bit uncertain. She hesitated, then turned back towards James and did that pouting thing again while trying to back towards the end of the bed. But the space didn’t really allow for such a manoeuvre and she stumbled.

  “Oops! Careful how you go.” James didn’t know whether to get up or not but decided it was safest to stay put.

  Mirai recovered and perched on the bed. They looked at each other, a bit of an awkward moment. “So, I get undressed now.” She slid her shoulder straps down and reached behind herself.

  “I rather think – well, it would be best if you didn’t, actually.” Damn this country! He’d read somewhere it was rude to say the word no, which did make things difficult sometimes. “Mirai, this is all very flattering, believe me, but I really don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  She’d unzipped something and was persuading her bodice downwards, giving James a partial view of her bra, which was exactly the same colour as the rest of her outfit. How did women manage these things? Was the underwear sold as part of the whole get-up? Put that thought aside, James. Time to take action.

  He stood. “No!” He put his hand out like a police officer stopping a line of traffic. It must have looked rather foolish. But Mirai, thankfully, stopped. She looked up at him with those wide eyes. “We really can’t be having this, Mirai. You’re a lovely girl, but it just won’t do. Now, I’d be delighted to take you down to the bar for a cup of tea or whatever, or, as I said, perhaps for a walk, although as you mentioned earlier your footwear might not be ideal, but…”

  His voice trailed away. Mirai’s face had crumpled into a picture of shame. She seemed to shrink as she got onto her knees to reach for her shoes.

  “Now, now – I don’t want to upset you.” But from her pink cheeks it was clear that he had. She struggled with the tiny buckles.

  James floundered. “As I said, this is all very flattering, it’s just, you know, with the wife and kids, it’s not the kind of thing I go in for these days. Though whether there were any days when I did go in for it is another matter.”

  She was still wrestling with the darn shoes, not looking up at all. One of them was done up but the other wasn’t playing ball. The seconds ticked by. Eventually she climbed to her feet anyway and made a beeline for the door.

  “Do be careful there.” Her foot was slipping around all over the place. Come on James, try and be a little gallant about this. He stepped over and opened the door for her.

  She glanced up at him just for a swift moment, but enough for him to see that her eyes had filled up. “Sorry,” she whispered, stepping out. She walked unsteadily away, having to limp somewhat with the floppy sandal. James briefly thought about going after her, but what would that achieve, really? He closed the door, having to admit to a feeling of relief. The room smelled of purple petals.

  Funny old place, Japan. But here’s what was really odd: how did she know where he was staying?

  Chapter 2

  Rose knew, looking at the young man’s face, that she would be the first person he killed. Lying on her back in a wet Paris street, she saw the barrel of his gun glitter as it trembled in his hand. But that wasn’t it. It was in his face that she saw what was coming, a realisation in his eyes, a horror then an acceptance, a hardening of the jaw, a re-setting of the chin. He was going to do it, for sure.

  But it was no big deal, as she said to the counsellor back in London, and as she said now to her boss Walter, sitting in front of her in a gloomy bistro near the Gare du Nord, a lightly dressed slice of cucumber speared on his fork.

  “I’ve had a gun pointed at me before. Why all the fuss? I mean, a counsellor evaluation? What for? I’m still here, aren’t I?”

  “I think that’s rather the point,” said Walter. “I’ve seen this with other officers, Rose. This is a life and death game sometimes. But not always. It’s mainly about patience and persistence, finding agents, cultivating relationships. Every now and then push comes to shove and we’re up against our adversaries face to face. But most of the time we’re dancing round each other, skulking in their shadows, trying to outguess them.”

  The cucumber was consumed, followed by the last pieces of tomato and dill. Rose stirred a bowl of brown soup. The bistro was almost empty. How did these places make money? They were only here because Walter had just got off the Eurostar from London. Had a couple of errands to run in Paris, he said. He wasn’t here just for her. Like everything Walter said, Rose only half-believed it.

  “I’ve taken on these things because you’ve wanted me to, Walter.”

  “Oh yes, yes, I’m aware of that. But sometimes people who’ve had too much direct exposure, well, they can get a bit…”

  “A bit what?”

  “They think their luck is always going to hold, because it has done so far. But it’s a percentage game, Rose. Just like at rolling dice, your luck will only last for a while.”

  “You think I’m getting careless? That’s nonsense.”

  “They tell me you didn’t have to go after the man. You could have waited.”

  “No, Walter. He was getting away. He suspected me as soon as I walked into the store. He made some excuse and hightailed it through the back.”

  “He was running down an alleyway that was covered at both ends. You could have held back. He had a gun.”

  “How was I to know that?”

  “You should have considered the possibility. Dead bodies are no use to us, Rose. Yours or his.”

  The waiter approached with some lamb edifice for Walter and a long white fish for Rose, drooping over the side of the plate. When he’d gone, Walter started tackling the lamb.

  “He’s not dead,” said Rose. “And neither am I, as you can see.”

  “But you could have been. We’re all flesh and blood. This line of work is all about weighing up risks and seeing the bigger picture, but we need to stay human as well. MI6 is about human intelligence after all.”

  Rose’s fish stared up at her, untouched. “You think I’m losing my humanity? Is that what the counsellor said?”

  “Well, not exactly.”

  “So what did the counsellor say?”

  “A lot of things, but what it boiled down to is that you’re too caught up in the work.”

  “Caught up? Caught up how?”

  “You’re wound up too tight and it’s affecting how you’re dealing with situations.”

  “Situations? The guy was detained. He turned on his colleagues. He’s now an informant. With the help of MI6 the French now have insight into a radical Islamist group recruiting young Muslims for terror operations across Europe.”

  “You almost shot him.”

  “I gained possession of his gun and was holding him until the backup arrived.”

  “They only just got there in time. They had to prise the gun out of your grip.”

  “Who said that? Nonsense.”

  Her mind went back to the alleyway again, the desperate kick with her foot that sent him staggering, her fist hitting flesh, his yelp of pain. Grabbing the gun and gripping the trigger, the running footsteps stopped her,
the hand on her arm: we’ll take it from here. She’d put her hands in her pockets to stop them trembling as she walked away, the man on his knees now, surrounded, hands on head. Had it ever been that close before?

  “Well, I didn’t just take anyone’s word for it,” said Walter. “I sent you for a counsellor evaluation. But they backed it up, I’m afraid. Said you were in denial about how traumatised you were by it.”

  “And you go along with that, do you? Walter, you know me. How many years have we worked together?”

  Walter sighed. A pink piece of lamb wobbled on his fork. Was there more to this than he was letting on? Walter had been around for ever, knew too much to be let go, people said. His soft voice and fondness for a waistcoat and cravat gave him a fussy air which masked a wit of steel. He was a mover in the present as well as the past, but a furtive one. Despite their long history, her last operation in France had given Rose reason to wonder more and more about Walter. She didn’t look at him in quite the same way these days.

  “Where’s this coming from?” she asked. “Is it about the painting?” During the most recent operation, an extremely valuable masterpiece had met a sticky end. To Rose, it was a pragmatic decision but Walter had been shocked, and he wasn’t the only one.

  “No, not that, my dear.”

  “Salisbury, then?” MI6 Chief Marcus Salisbury was a man Rose found very difficult. Walter seemed to have some unspecified influence there – another mystery.

  “No, Rose. It’s much more simple than that. This really is about you and your wellbeing and abilities. You seem so single-minded about the work. As if there were nothing else.”

  “What’s wrong with being committed? Loads of people in the Service live for the job. It’s demanding work and it’s important.”

  “It’s also important to keep a sense of perspective.”

  “I’m supposed to be married with kids, am I?”

  “Well, hardly. I didn’t do that myself, did I? It’s not about your private life. It’s about your work. You’re very – what do people say? – hardball. The way you dealt with Fairchild in Monaco, for example. You were working well with him and could have done with his help at the end. And there were things you didn’t share. What we do is a team effort, at the end of the day.”