The Samurai Inheritance

XXXVI

When he sucks on his false teeth the old man looks like a bulldog chewing a wasp, Jock Colville thought affectionately, but his master’s consternation was hardly surprising given how close to home this particular bombshell had struck. Colville stood before the big desk in the office-bedroom beneath the Treasury building where his master spent most of his waking hours. Surrounded by metres of concrete, on the wall beside him was a giant map of southern Britain while behind the desk hung a smaller scale map of the European mainland.

Winston Churchill looked up from the paper he was reading, the fleshy lips jutting and lower jaw sticking out like a battering ram. ‘Are they certain?’ he rasped.

‘As sure as they can be without hauling him in and giving him the third degree,’ Colville replied steadily, meaning rigorous interrogation.

Churchill winced as if gripped by some internal cramp. ‘Give me the details. I can’t condemn a man on tittle-tattle.’

Not a man, Colville thought, but an old and very close friend; a confidante who has been selling you and his country down the river for decades. You were told, but you didn’t listen. But he couldn’t fault the old man, not really, because loyalty had stayed his hand and loyalty was one of his most appealing characteristics.

‘His affection for the Japanese before the war was well known.’ The other man grunted — ancient history — so he moved on quickly, reciting the facts as if he were giving evidence from the witness box. ‘The security service was first alerted to the possibility of an informant close to the heart of government in the summer of nineteen forty-one after your meeting with President Roosevelt in Canada on the Prince of Wales. We intercepted and decoded a communication between the Japanese Embassy and Tokyo—’

‘I remember,’ Churchill snapped. ‘Accurate transcript of the conference notes, down to the very words and phrases.’

‘That’s correct, Prime Minister. The investigation was inconclusive and the closure of the embassy after … at the outbreak of the war with Japan, meant a temporary end to our ability to read the Japanese codes, specifically Code Purple.’

‘Temporary?’

‘From mid nineteen forty-two we have been able to intercept messages between their embassy in Berlin and the Japanese government in Tokyo. The diplomatic communications continued to be sent in Code Purple, but the people at Bletchley Park noticed that certain others were sent in what at first was assumed to be a personal code. However, they continued to work on it and last week they were able to begin deciphering the backlog. It wasn’t until yesterday they began on this.’ He handed over the flimsy sheets of paper and took a step back from the desk. ‘Fortunately, Brigadier Tiltman understood immediately that it must be for your eyes only and sent it to me by courier. The cryptographer who decoded it has been encouraged to apply an even greater degree of secrecy than is usual at that establishment, if that’s possible. I think the words Tiltman used to the poor woman were “on pain of death”.’

Jock Colville had been private secretary to Winston Churchill from the day he walked into 10 Downing Street and he had seen him confronted with many setbacks, some of them five-star disasters, but he had never witnessed him grow old in the space of a single heartbeat.

‘The Americans …’

Colville shook his head. ‘We believe the Berlin — Tokyo link is our domain. We share Code Purple transcripts, but as far as we’re aware this is our exclusive property.’

Churchill grunted from deep in his chest, a deep bass rumble like a male lion challenging its rivals. ‘Keep it that way. They are playing what Mr President calls hardball, whatever that is, over the Pacific transcripts, so it’s what they should expect.’ He hunched low over the desk, his broad shoulders around his ears. ‘You know what it would mean if this ever became public, Jock? Particularly now, when we are embarking with our allies on the planning for this greatest of all military enterprises.’

‘Yes, sir, I think I do, sir.’ He remembered the day he’d brought the original intelligence to the man on the other side of the desk. It had originated with a double agent in Tokyo, a man who spied for the Soviets, but who shared his take, and the requests of his masters, with British intelligence. A devastating piece of information that could save many thousands of lives. He’d expected a shout of ‘Eureka’ or some such and the usual explosion of energy, barking of orders and boundless enthusiasm. But he’d been wrong. Winston Churchill had studied the piece of paper for a long time, his head down and his face as sombre as Colville had ever seen it. There would be a meeting of the Cabinet inner circle to discuss it, but the decision had been taken in those first few moments. No action.

‘Comrade Stalin already has his eyes on half of Europe in the event of ultimate victory. If he had this information he would demand the other half.’ Churchill picked up a document from the side of the desk, scanned it and produced a harrumph of displeasure before initialling it. ‘And you know, Jock, I should have to give it to him. That is how important this is.’ He paused for a long moment, his eyes on some distant image before focusing once more on Colville. ‘We’re sure it’s him?’ he asked again.

‘Counter-intelligence narrowed the field to two men; the other was a Commander McGrath, who was also in Japan before the war. We had them both followed, and I’m sorry to say, sir, that there’s no doubt he’s our man. We have enough evidence to charge him under the Treason Act.’ He licked his lips. ‘Presumably he could hang, sir.’

The Prime Minister of Great Britain glared at him over the top of the reading glasses he refused to let the public see in case they looked like a sign of weakness. Colville knew he had made the civil servant’s greatest mistake, positing a solution unacceptable to his minister.

‘No,’ the other man said softly, and Jock Colville felt a twinge of distaste that the person he admired more than any other should show such a human flaw; to put personal friendship before country. But he was mistaken. ‘Certainly, he deserves to hang, but he is too high, too prominent and with too many well-placed friends.’ Churchill allowed himself a self-deprecating smile to acknowledge that he was one. ‘The King would never forgive me, but it is not friendship that stays my hand. To drag him before the courts, even a secret court, would cause a scandal. We would alert his spymasters and, worse, those who spy upon them. I doubt we can afford that, Jock. No, I think we must promote the honourable gentleman.’ He saw Colville’s instinctive look of disgust and his eyes took on a mischievous twinkle, like a little boy bent on dirty deeds. His voice changed tempo, all hesitancy gone. ‘A memo to the First Sea Lord. Commander is too low a rank for one so diligent and so talented. Another stripe, I think. Yes, captain sounds much better. There must be a post for such an officer in the far north. Scapa Flow, I believe, has a vacancy for a supply officer of that rank, and if it does not we will create one. Counting long johns and crates of ships’ biscuits should keep him too busy to make mischief. Any refusal or demur to be met with a mandatory posting to the North Atlantic convoys. If not Scapa, Murmansk, eh, Jock? That should take the starch out of our spy. Now,’ he smiled grimly, ‘let us get on with the war.’