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

by T. M. Parris

  Boots thudded down the stairs. “All clear,” said a voice at the door.

  “Really?” said Rose. “There’s no one here?”

  “Come and see for yourself.”

  Rose ran up the stairs and into the only room with a light on. Fiona, Henry and Sophie were inside. They’d been tied to chairs but were otherwise unhurt.

  “Rose!” Fiona almost started crying when she saw her sister-in-law.

  Rose helped the soldiers free them all. “What happened? Are you alone here?”

  “They just left. When all the commotion started on the screen, they packed up the laptop and ran off. Just left us here.”

  “Fairchild!” That was Henry. Fairchild had just walked in after her. There were smiles all round. Typical he got more of a welcome from her family than she did.

  “The house is clear,” said Fairchild. “Nobody else here.”

  “Who was in here with you?” said Rose to Fiona. “It wasn’t the yakuza, was it? The mafia?”

  “No, they were outside. The two in here, one was a young guy, Russian I think. He was operating the laptop. The other one was older.”

  “Older?”

  “Really old,” said Henry.

  “Everyone’s old to you,” said Rose.

  “He was quite old, though,” said Fiona. White hair. Well-dressed. Well spoken.”

  “British?”

  “Yes, sounded like it.”

  Rose and Fairchild exchanged glances.

  “Did they say anything about why they left you here?” Fairchild asked Fiona. “Did they not think about taking you with them?”

  “He said, I’m not a monster.”

  “Which one said that? The older one?”

  “Yes. That’s all. Then they left.”

  “Daddy! Daddy!” The room exploded into uproar. James rushed in like a hurricane, and they were all over him with excited shrieks. Everyone seemed to be crying.

  “You were supposed to stay in the van,” said Rose, but no one heard. She backed off; she had no place here.

  “Rose!” James called after her as she was about to head down the stairs. He came over. “What can I say? Thanks for being there. Thanks for not being ordinary.”

  “Glad I could help.” They hugged, but it was strained. “You’re pretty far from ordinary yourself.”

  She escaped into the street, taking big gasps of air, not fully understanding what was making her so shaky. They were meant to go back to the base to update Zack, but she was going to slip off. They could get everything she knew from other people. She needed time alone.

  Fairchild had followed her down and was standing there.

  “We need to talk about this,” he said. He meant the man in the room, the older man, who claimed not to be a monster. They both knew who he was.

  “We do. But not now.” She walked off down the dark street, knowing he was watching her leave.

  Chapter 41

  Meetings and debriefs were still being had, repercussions considered and priorities revisited, a couple of days later, when on his way into the US Embassy, Fairchild bumped into Tim Gardner coming out. This was lucky as he’d been trying to get hold of the guy.

  “Yes, of course, this favour!” said Tim as they greeted each other.

  Fairchild wasn’t intending to let him get away – he’d earned the favour, for sure. He quickly summarised what he wanted to know.

  “Sutherland?” said Tim. “Well, you know, this famous Sutherland did serve in Japan for a short while. In the late sixties.” Another thing Walter had never told him.

  “He left under rather a cloud,” Gardner continued. “Something to do with the loss of an agent. Anyway, I probably still have some details on file, if you’re interested. I’ll dig them out. You don’t believe those rumours about the chap still being alive, do you? Sounds like nonsense to me.”

  Inside, Rapp was waiting for Fairchild in a meeting room. To say the woman was under pressure would be an understatement; she was facing scrutiny from the highest level. It showed on her face and in her manner: subdued, formal, dressed all in greys and blacks.

  “So what’s this about?” she said.

  Fairchild sat down. “I’ve come to apologise.”

  That surprised her. She waited for more.

  “Regarding what happened in the cavern. On reflection, and having revisited the incident in my mind, I feel I was mistaken about what happened.”

  A pause. The only sound was distant talking in another office. Outside the window the sky was a bright December blue.

  “Go on,” said Rapp.

  “The team was under time pressure to locate the remaining hostages. The force you used to persuade the prisoner to disclose his identity was proportional, given the situation. There were very low levels of lighting in the cavern and it would have been easy not to notice the shattered glass on the ground. The facial injuries sustained by the prisoner were probably accidental.”

  “Accidental?”

  “In my opinion. In the absence of radio contact with mission control, as high ranking officer you were in command. It was wrong of me as a civilian observer to question your orders, particularly in front of other officers. I regret that.”

  She raised her eyebrows but said nothing.

  “Having pulled away from the officers ordered to detain me, I ran back into the cavern. I arrived there before the soldiers. I saw Milo try to overpower you, with the aim of grabbing your weapon. I saw you pull away from him, draw your gun and shoot him, having given him a warning.”

  Her eyes were on his face, trying to read him.

  He continued. “Shooting the prisoner before he could get away was a reasonable action to take to avoid the risk of escape. Particularly given the seriousness of his crimes on American people. It was a fast-moving situation. I have no reason to think you were deliberately intending to kill him.”

  That bit stuck in his throat a little. Hopefully he wouldn’t be called on to come out with all this too often. He’d struggle to carry it off every time. It might not work, of course. The whole situation looked bad for her, and she had an undeniable personal motive. But if others were inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt, Fairchild’s testimony might tip the balance.

  It wasn’t for nothing, of course. She realised that. “Well, that’s all very gratifying,” she said. “So what happens now?”

  “Regardless of his skills and expertise, James Clarke will not be a part of any future attempt to investigate or infiltrate Fire Sappers. He and his family go home. Any approach to any of them in relation to this will end badly for you. The same for the Japanese students. Agreed?”

  She looked pained. “Agreed.”

  “All complaints that you have made about Rose Clarke will immediately be withdrawn.”

  A flash of amusement crossed her face.

  “If it weren’t for Rose Clarke,” he said, “all of them would be out somewhere at sea by now. She brought you Milo. She brought you Fire Sappers. The fact that you then screwed up doesn’t reflect on her. Any kickback on her will mean kickback on you. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.” Spoken like a sulky teenager.

  “You have nothing but praise for the way Zack handled operations.”

  “Oh, please. Anything else, while you’re here?”

  He met her gaze with an uncompromising one of his own. “If I think of anything I’ll let you know.”

  “You wouldn’t have done the same? To a person who took someone you loved?”

  “Not if there were other lives in the balance. Innocent lives. And besides, Milo could have taken you into their organisation. You think you’re going to break them by shooting them one by one? You could have closed them down, with the information he’d have given you.”

  She stared out of the window. Her lips were pressed together.

  “There are plenty of enemies you can’t outgun,” he said. “You have to outsmart them. It takes patience, and compromise. And working with people you don’t want to w
ork with.”

  “Thanks for the lecture, but I bet you’ve done plenty of outgunning in your time. How did you get away from those armed officers, anyway? You’ve seen your share.”

  “Maybe. Does it feel better, killing the guy who killed your mother?”

  She turned to look straight at him. “It sure does.”

  That set something off inside him: regret, guilt, an awareness of unfinished business. Would he ever have the certainty he could see in Rapp’s face? Instead, things seemed to be getting ever more murky and complicated. Particularly with Milo gone. Now another opportunity may have emerged to fulfil Tang’s promise, but it was one he never thought he would have to take. The idea of it made him loathe himself.

  He got up. “Remember me,” he said, and left.

  Chapter 42

  Takao had suggested meeting outside McDonald’s: prosaic but findable. The man had already apologised at length to Fairchild on the phone, but when they met face to face, Fairchild had to endure another round of breast-beating.

  “Takao, really, it’s not your fault. You’re not a bodyguard. I didn’t think his family would be in danger. This group was much more sophisticated than we thought. And they’re all okay now, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, all okay,” sighed Takao. “I offered them lift to airport. Least I could do. All turned out good in the end.”

  “All right, so let’s get to the next thing then. The address?”

  “Ah yes! I can find. Funny, it’s just round the corner from Yonemura’s place. You noticed?”

  Fairchild had. That was why he’d picked it out from the confidential list of Sutherland’s agents in his file, which for some reason had survived numerous paperwork culls over the decades. He was sure there was more to Yonemura’s words than he’d managed to fathom so far. They found the place relatively painlessly, a dark wood-panelled house squeezed between two shiny new concrete apartment buildings. Overgrown plant pots crowded the veranda and a grimy air conditioning vent hung on the wall. The sliding door was sticky, and was persuaded open by a harassed-looking thirty-ish woman. As Takao explained to her who they were, the sound of children floated through from the back. Doing a project about people who’ve lived in the area a long time, said Takao. For a university. Maybe a book. Social history. Oral history. This house very historic. Anyone here who remembers this area in the 1960s?

  She looked reluctant. More long-winded assurances weren’t working. Takao was on the verge of offering to come back some other time, when a door inside opened and a hunched, grey-haired man came shuffling out. As was appropriate to their relative status, Takao focused his respect on the gentleman, who listened with his jaw hanging slightly open. Encouraged by Fairchild, Takao took the opportunity to mention that they believed there may once have been someone living here named Saburo?

  The old man’s face stiffened as though an electric bolt had run through him. The woman stepped forward, her hand up as a warning.

  “Song-Ho!” said the man. “Song-Ho! Yes, Song-Ho lived here.” He shuffled back and made some remark to someone inside.

  Takao turned to Fairchild. “They’re Korean. Maybe Zainichi. Been in Japan a long time.”

  “Their names aren’t Korean.”

  “Some change their names. Makes things easier.” A smoothing-over of the discrimination many Korean citizens of Japan experienced over the years.

  “Come, come.” The man beckoned them in with small, quick movements. The woman turned to him, concerned. He batted her away with a flick of his hand. She couldn’t insist; in Japan, the elder of the home had authority. With one lingering look she returned to the children at the back of the house.

  Takao and Fairchild entered. An old lady, with white hair in a bun, sat in an armchair, looking up from the floor when they came in but saying nothing. The man didn’t sit; he was unsettled, walking around as if hunting for something. Takao started with the cover story, life here in the 1960’s. It was harsh, said the man, as part of a description prompted by Takao. That rang a bell; Yonemura had used a similar phrase. Fairchild had assumed he was referring to the era of the prints, the floating world, or fleeting world.

  Fairchild prompted Takao in English. “Ask them about raising children, what it was like to raise a child.”

  That prompted more of the same, the food shortage after the war, the devastation, the factory jobs, things getting better. No specific mention of Saburo, or Song-Ho, though from the details in the file he must have been the younger generation.

  “Ask them if they had children,” said Fairchild.

  Two, was the man’s short response, followed by a silence. It felt like they wanted to talk but didn’t know how, or didn’t feel that they could.

  Fairchild had the prints with him. He got them out and unrolled them on the tatami mat at the feet of the elderly couple. When he looked up they were pale, eyes wide. Angry, he thought. They were angry.

  The man spoke, accusing now, pointing a weak finger. “They belong to you?”

  Fairchild answered directly, in Japanese. “One of them belonged to my parents. But I don’t know where they got it from or what it meant to them. The other one belonged to – someone else I’ve met.”

  They listened intently with none of the amazement he often got as a foreigner speaking the language. They were foreigners too, he supposed.

  Fairchild carried on, gentle. “You mentioned Song-Ho. Is there some connection between Song-Ho and these prints?”

  A slow turning of heads towards each other, though their eyes didn’t seem to meet.

  “Was he your son?” Fairchild asked.

  The woman shuddered. He was being too direct, he knew. He looked at Takao, who came in with some softening phrases. They subsided into silence. Had he blown it, being too impatient? But there was something here. They knew these prints. As with Yonemura, the artwork seemed to conjure old feelings of great sadness – but here also fury.

  The silence went on for so long he was about to ask Takao if it was time to leave. Then the man started up, his voice unnaturally loud.

  “He loved pictures. Pretty things, colourful things. Mountains, trees, blossom. He didn’t fit in at school, with the other children.”

  He gave a chesty cough, and carried on more quietly, with a warble in his voice. The woman watched him, expressionless.

  “We worried about him. About what would become of him when he left school. But he got a job in the shop. It was perfect for him. He was in there all the time anyway, staring at the paintings, handling the objects. He knew all the facts. He could tell you everything about when they were made, who made them. He had a good memory. Facts and numbers, he was good at those. People, not so much.”

  He stopped. His wife reached out and touched his knee, briefly, then drew back.

  His eye roamed the prints. Then he resumed. “There were three of these. He loved them. Knew all about them, everything. I’m sorry, my memory is poor. I can hardly recall any of that.”

  Takao leapt in with reassurances and gratitude. Fairchild asked a question via Takao. “The shop. Was it the shop of Yonemura-san?”

  His eyes brightened, and the woman looked up. “Yes! Yes! Yonemura-san. His shop. These,” – he pointed to the prints – “were in the shop a long time. Too high a price. People were poor! Not too many could pay. Then the Gaijin came.”

  He used the Japanese word for foreigner, with a certain emphasis – the Gaijin, not just any gaijin. This was a particular outsider, someone who particularly didn’t belong.

  “The Gaijin was friendly. They chatted a long time. He bought the prints, all three of them, paid a very good price. Song-Ho was proud of that. But it wasn’t the end of it. Song-Ho talked a lot about the Gaijin. He came back. Very often. They became friends, Song-Ho said. He’d never had a friend before. He was delighted. We weren’t sure. But what could we say? He was so enthusiastic. They would talk about the paintings and the objects, other parts of the world. The Gaijin had been everywhere. Then came the litt
le tests. The Gaijin would give him puzzles.”

  “Puzzles?” That word again – it kept cropping up.

  “Codes, games with numbers and letters. He knew the Latin alphabet. He was good at them. But he became secretive.”

  He cut off and nodded at his wife who stared at him. It was a shared look, no words necessary. “He hid papers in his room. He thought we didn’t know. But we did, of course we did. He thought he could hide things but he’d never tried it before. Then we heard noises in the room, crackling, voices. He had a radio up there. What for? It was bigger than just an ordinary radio. We looked, when he wasn’t there.” He seemed ashamed of this act of dishonesty. “Then he got very excited. Something was happening. But he went very quiet, too. He was out every evening, up during the night in his room. I said to him, Song-Ho, you don’t leave this house again until you tell me what’s going on. He cried. He cried! He said he couldn’t tell me, it was a secret. But I insisted. So, he said, he’s going on a mission.”

  “A mission where?” said Fairchild.

  “To Korea! To Korea!” The old man’s voice cracked.

  “You mean North Korea?”

  His eyes filled. “My son, in North Korea! It was madness! But he wouldn’t listen. The Gaijin had got into his head. It’s important work, he said. To reunite our country. Japan is our country now, I said. No, he said. Korea is our country. One Korea. I can help. They need someone good with codes and numbers on the radio. I can be useful. Oh, he was so eager!” His face was wet with tears. “We tried again and again to dissuade him. But he stopped talking to us, came and went without saying a word. Then one evening he left and never came back.”

  A long silence. The end of the story, except for the decades of hope and dread and wondering and suffering and guilt. Fairchild had known decades like that. But he couldn’t put it into words, not in awkward Japanese. He muttered some sympathetic sentiments. Takao managed something more eloquent.

  “Did no one come to explain?” asked Fairchild. “What about the Gaijin?”

  “No, not him,” said the man with sudden bitterness. “Not him. But someone came. His wife.”