Max opened the door to the narrow hallway, and Tomoko stepped inside. She was dressed casually in jeans and a long-sleeved top, and her shimmering hair cascaded forward from her shoulders as she bowed low from the waist. “Murayama-sensei, it’s an honor to finally meet you.”
“She can only stay for a minute,” Max interjected. “She’s off to Hokkaido this afternoon.”
From his seated position, the old man watched with interest; Max could see he was captivated by her beauty. “I love the North Island. Wonderful place.”
“I’ve heard the same,” she replied, “but it’s all work.”
Max took Tomoko’s hand, guiding her forward to the long wall of photos. He spoke over his right shoulder. “I mentioned all your amazing pictures.”
Tomoko moved from photo to photo, floating her slender fingers over them without touching. “Amazing,” she exclaimed. “There are so many famous people. This is the White House . . . and . . . that’s you with Ronald Reagan!”
Mr. Murayama beamed. “Yes. That was during my second posting to the Washington Embassy.”
“How did you get so many?”
“During a thirty-year career, there are plenty of meetings and dinners.” His old eyes watched her examine the photos with keen interest before he spoke again. “Which do you think is my favorite?”
Tomoko looked taken aback. “I don’t know how I could guess that.”
Mr. Murayama’s face took on a mischievous grin. “I think you can. Take some time.” He pointed a bony finger at Max. “And you—no helping her.”
Tomoko looked at Max, who shrugged, then perched himself against the edge of the desk in the center of the room. She turned and slowly walked back and forth along the length of the wall. Several minutes of focused attention passed before she finally stopped at the room’s far end, with the drafting cabinet at her back. “It’s this one,” she said confidently, pointing to a simple matted photo in a slim copper frame.
Mr. Murayama leaned forward, serious. “Why do you think?”
Max perked up. “Yeah, why?”
“This copper frame has changed color only on the side edges—the two spots are the size of thumb prints. I think this picture has been held many times.” She paused, seeking confirmation. “Am I right?”
Mr. Murayama clapped his appreciation. “Very well done.” He let out an audible sigh. “Yes, that photo of John F. Kennedy—” He stopped speaking, appearing to catch himself in what he was about to say. “—JFK was a good man.”
Tomoko beamed and laughed before glancing at her watch. She returned to Max’s side. “I’m sorry, but I have much to do before my flight. Domo arigato, Mr. Murayama, for your time.”
“You’re welcome. Next time please give a warning, so I can prepare three cups of tea.” He shot Max a look.
She ran a hand along Max’s face while whispering, “I see why you like him so much.” Seeming uncertain how to act, given the setting, her thumb stopped to rest in the dimple on his chin as she placed a light kiss on his cheek. “See you soon.”
“Trunk-u hitotsu dake de,” Max whispered back, cupping her elbow tenderly in his hand. Even though only the two of them knew the meaning, Tomoko blushed slightly. The phrase “with a single trunk” was from the song “Romantic Airplane.” Soon after they’d met, he had spent a maddening week memorizing the Japanese words. One night at a karaoke club he had calmed himself, swallowed his pride, and taken the microphone for the very first time. Much to Tomoko’s delight, he dedicated the performance to her. A foreigner covering a local song was unheard of, and although he missed most of the notes and a few of the words, the bar went crazy with applause. Ever since, it had been their song.
Neither man spoke until they heard Tomoko’s footsteps begin the descent down the stairwell.
“You never told me,” Mr. Murayama stated while he poured tea into the two cups.
Max dropped onto the center of the sofa. “Never told you what?”
“How beautiful she is.”
“Really? I’m sure I mentioned it. I didn’t mean to upset you by bringing her.”
“No need to worry. Let’s move on. I have something very personal to show you today.” Mr. Murayama reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and withdrew a series of interlaced rings laden with dozens of keys. His shaking fingers leafed through them. “And since I have seen you carry one, I am sure you’ll find the items interesting.” At last he selected a key. Handing over the ring, he gave Max instructions to go to the wall at the far end of the room, to the second of the five tall cabinets. “In the bottom drawer, you’ll find a wooden box. Bring it here.”
“No more rifles please.” Max recalled their previous class with an uneasy chuckle. An accidental discharge of gunpowder had made his ears ring and sent him ducking for cover.
“No, no. They were returned to the bank’s vault.”
Max quickly located the cabinet, thinking how incredibly satisfying it must feel to have gathered so many artifacts over the years. Murayama had a life well lived. Already Max had seen dozens of samurai swords, stacks of ancient scrolls, and crates of marvelous wood-block prints. And yet they had barely scratched the museum-like storage room in the building’s back room.
The requested drawer slid open easily, revealing the dark polished box. “I can see it.”
“Me, too.” Mr. Murayama sighed. “Finally, I can see why you were brought to me.”
“Huh?” Max was down on one knee, trying to figure the best way to retrieve the tight-fitting box without damaging it. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Mr. Murayama replied. “Just keep the box flat.”
Max thought the comment odd but let it pass, choosing instead to listen to the old man’s raspy cough, which seemed to be growing more persistent lately. “Why? What’s in here?”
“Something I’ve wanted to show you for a while . . . and . . . I have a favor to ask.”
Max played along, amused by the old man’s desire to begin each session with a sense of mystery, noting that it was a small price to pay for something that clearly provided a great deal of joy. He returned to the front of the room. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
Mr. Murayama nodded silently as the box came to rest on the coffee table. The wooden case was a perfect cube, one foot square. An inch-wide light wood inlay decorated the perimeter of the top, while the center was the same dark wood as the rest of the box. He slid his handkerchief into a pocket as he shifted forward, studying the box before moving it one-quarter turn. Then he pressed the inlay four times in a clockwise motion, starting with the right side. On the fourth push, the dark center of the top made a light popping noise and rose slightly. Grunting with satisfaction, he removed the lid.
“How did you know which side to press first?” Max examined the box closely, but each side of the inlay appeared identical.
“If I told you, then I wouldn’t have any more secrets, would I?”
Max sat back with arms folded. He had learned that the silent treatment was the best and only way to pressure an aging diplomat.
Mr. Murayama relented as expected. “All right. All right. In the game of Mahjong, there are tiles representing the four winds. The East wind always goes first. To open this box, the single thing that matters is for East to go first, then South, then West, and last, North.”
“Then why’d you turn the box once before pressing down the first time?”
“To appear more complicated.”
Max laughed.
Mr. Murayama’s self-satisfied grin washed away as he lifted a crimson velvet cover, revealing a tray of antique pocket watches. He selected a shiny silver timepiece and lifted it tenderly from its resting place before handing it over.
“Like my grandpa’s . . . ” Max examined it carefully. The script on the back was similar to the calligraphy used throughout Japan. The difference was the extensive use of circles in many of the symbols. “I don’t recognize the writing. What language is it?”
�
��Set that one down on the cloth. Here is a beautiful one.”
Together they reviewed the contents of each tray in the box, and soon more than twenty timepieces covered the table. Finally, Mr. Murayama lifted out the last tray, revealing the lowest level in the box. “Here is the most special one. Notice the pearl dragon behind the hands.”
The fine gold metalwork was stunning, and the inlaid design was vibrant with colors and intricate detail. Max took the antique in both hands. The mysterious language etched into the gold back appeared similar to many of the other watches on the table. He looked up to address his unanswered question and was surprised to see the old man wiping tears from his eyes. “Are you all right?”
Mr. Murayama nodded but seemed choked with emotion. He struggled to retrieve the handkerchief from his pocket. “I have something to tell you.” Pausing, he blew his nose. “I received these during the war. They are Filipino or Korean, some Chinese.”
A distinct feeling of unease settled over Max and he squirmed in his seat, praying that the moment would fade quickly.
Mr. Murayama’s shaky voice continued. “I thought it was important to have them.” His drooping eyes appeared to transport him backward in time. “Many years ago, I served in Manila . . . the Philippines, during World War Two. Many terrible things happened―it was war.” He paused again, lost in thought.
The mantelpiece clock ticked steadily on the nearby desk, seeming to grow louder with each passing second. “When people wanted things done, they gave me gifts—I could get papers signed by the Admiral’s Office. I don’t know where the gifts came from. But I’m sure they weren’t purchased. Do you understand what I mean?”
Shifting restlessly and nodding his head, Max dared to speak. “So, why are you telling me?”
“I won’t be around forever, and these watches should go back to the families they were stolen from. Everything I have spent my life gathering will be passed to museums when I die, but this one task must be done sooner than that, by someone I trust. I need some peace of mind before I go.” An uncomfortable silence descended on them, blanketing the room.
Mr. Murayama’s pleading eyes flicked upward, drilling into Max. “I want you to return them.”
IN THE darkness, retired diplomat Kazue Saito ran across the open stone courtyard of the Yasukuni Shrine. A sliver of moonlight cut the sky. Passing beneath the Torii Gate, he could make out the broad open doors of the Great Gate just ahead. The late hour meant that the lone guard was asleep at his post. Saito and his attacker were the only two awake in the shrine’s compound.
Glancing backward as he fled, Saito tore the white medical mask from his face and wiped the trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth. Behind him, illuminated, he could see the white exterior curtain of the Hall of Worship skirting the arching rooftop jutting into the black sky. Below its wooden eaves, facing the open hall, stood his attacker —revealed only as Jun— in silhouette with head bowed as if in silent prayer.
Drawing closer to the Great Gate, Saito chanced another glimpse backward. What a terrible mistake, he thought as his burning lungs urged him to rest. I should never have tried to sell the diary to the mafia. To his horror, he saw that the attacker was now striding in pursuit. At sixty-eight, he was no match for the speed of the shadowy figure approaching.
The man was right behind him now. He was broad-shouldered with a shaved head, and his deep voice carried easily in the thin night air. “You promised information. Where is it?”
“I told you . . .” the former diplomat wheezed, “I need the money first. Please!”
“Your price is too high, Mr. Saito, but you will give me what I want.” Drawing closer still, the burly attacker pulled a Surujin chain from inside his leather jacket. On one end was a round metal orb the size of a baseball. Swinging the chain in a circular motion, he launched it toward Saito. The weighted end wrapped swiftly around the older man’s neck, then back around the chain itself. Jun yanked backward abruptly. Saito’s feet shot outward, and he shrieked in pain before striking the hard ground.
Saito felt a massive hand grasp his trench coat by the collar. He was dragged to the edge of the wide stone causeway before being propped into a sitting position beneath the golden chrysanthemum set high on the Great Gate. Crouching, the younger man leaned in close so that his foul breath was only inches away. “I want the information you agreed to give to my Father.”
Saito stared at the jagged scar running down the right side of the man’s face from the outer edge of his eye to his lip. “Oto said he would meet me. He said he’d give me money . . . I need the money.” Saito coughed violently and rubbed at his throat.
“Things have changed.” A rigid finger poked Saito hard in the forehead. “Tell me what I want to know, and you might live. That’s the new deal.”
“Please, can we speak with your master?”
The young Yakuza scowled and then sprang to his feet. Grabbing Saito’s trench coat, he again dragged the kicking diplomat over the rough stone until they were well behind the Sacred Water Basin.
Jun paced back and forth, making grunting noises. He bounced the weighted end of the Surujin chain in one palm while fingering the heavy silver links with his other hand. The bladed end of the chain swung free.
Saito realized with a sickening sense of dread that there would be no reasoning with the Yakuza. He fumbled to open his coat and pulled a business card from his breast pocket. Rolling onto his back, he held it in the air with a trembling hand. “Murayama . . . is the man who holds what you’re looking for.”
Jun turned and snatched the prize from the outstretched arm, then caught the chain’s bladed end and plunged the attached knife into the center of the diplomat’s chest. Saito’s eyes shot open, and a look of confused horror crossed his face as he lay dying on the ancient stones.
Appearing almost gleeful, Jun’s mouth mimicked the roaring dragons at the end of the causeway. “You would have been better to tell me inside the sacred shrine. I would never have killed you in there.” Pocketing the card, he turned and disappeared into the night.
Saito pressed both hands to the wound. The end was near. He could feel his lifeblood flowing out, yet his greatest concern was the name on the card.
What have I done to my old friend? There’s no time to warn him. No time to explain.
Despite the searing pain tearing at his body, a glimmer of an idea took hold in his mind. He retrieved his cell phone from a coat pocket. The case was visibly cracked.
Please let it work.
His bloodied fingers struggled to open it, and as he pressed the ON button, a familiar cold blue glow illuminated the dark ground around him.
Maybe there is a way . . .
“MAXWELL EARNEST Travers, you’re officially mad.” Zoe tugged nicotine-stained fingers through her spiky platinum hair and laughed hysterically. In her usual blunt British style, she got right to the point. “You’ve kept on working for that nutter Yoko, and now her father wants you to carry World War Two junk into the Korean and Chinese embassies?”
“I couldn’t find another school that would sponsor me for work.” He took a gulp of beer.
The living room of the Tokyo Poor House had seen better days. The tatami floor’s straw was fraying thin, while against the edges of the room lay stacks of decrepit pillows. Dark panel board covered the walls, and the cool late-night air crept in around the open window frame where the sliding plastic panels no longer fit. A battered television sat on a shaky table between the two open entranceways joining the room to the hallway and the tiny kitchen. Peeking out from beneath the table was a rusty breadbox-sized heater. Its red glowing coils hummed in a vain struggle to warm the room.
The two roommates were seated facing each other on the floor, their feet nearly touching in the center of the cramped space. Max was only half absorbed in coiling his rope, getting ready for a trip to Yugawara in two weeks’ time. His fascination with rock climbing hadn’t yet rubbed off on Tomoko who preferred instead to spread a blanket on th
e ground and watch the activity from a safe distance, tucked behind the pages of a novel.
Max knew he needed to find the right time to discuss his return plane ticket with Tomoko, but he set aside the thought along with his rope. “You’re making the situation sound worse than it is.”
“Am I, really? Wasn’t it you who told me that Yoko was changing her English school into a corporation so she could sell shares to the naïve parents of her students? She’s stealing their money, but not really, since each of the daft women are willingly handing over a million dollars. And the other day she sent you to fetch a three-thousand dollar outfit she bought in Ginza?”
Max’s reply was cut short.
“No, no, I’m not finished.” Zoe’s eyes brightened. “Let me quote you from the other night—‘The Dragon Lady is nuts. She’s robbing good people of their money, and they don’t see it. I’ve got to do something’—and now you get this bizarre request from her father. You should just get another job.”
“Okay. Yeah. I may have said some of those things.”
Zoe hopped up and walked four paces into the kitchen to check on the midnight meal. “You said all those things, you wanker.”
Protesting was pointless since she was right; instead, he leaned back against the corner pillows and watched her rakishly thin arms chop vegetables. At times her mind was sharp, like now, and he felt as if he really knew her, but then she would unexpectedly disappear for days, only to reappear, high and disoriented. Zoe Pitman had moved into the TPH six months earlier, but nobody had seen her for the initial weeks while she dried out from a Thailand heroin addiction. She had stayed in her ground-floor room, screaming and bouncing off the walls. When she finally appeared for the first time, her hollowed cheeks, worldly manner, and the deep dark circles under her eyes all served to hide the fact that she was only twenty-nine years old.
Max refocused his attention on Zoe’s inquiring face. She was standing in the kitchen doorway. “Are you bloody listening to anything I’m saying?”
Collector of Secrets Page 3