Toshi paused to sip his tea. “Countless stories tell of empires growing, then falling. This is a fate most countries suffer at some time in their history. My country is no different. For many years before World War Two, we controlled Korea, Taiwan, Singapore, parts of China, and other countries.” His tone grew solemn. Pain tinged the edge of his voice. “Many sad and shameful things happened then. Millions of people were made into slaves. Others were raped, tortured, or worse—murdered.”
Max felt himself being drawn backward into a past that he wasn’t sure he cared to know.
The priest continued. “Shinto and Buddhism do not teach us to do these things, but greed listens to no religion. Many people were hurt, and lives were destroyed. Also, much wealth was taken from these countries and brought back here. This happened for almost fifty years, and it continued during World War Two. The government would like to erase this history from our memory. They make half apologies with one face while the other face is in school and on TV, teaching us that it is a lie and the stories of other countries are exaggerated. But I have studied these things on my own, in America.”
“I get what you’re saying, but I don’t see the significance. If everything you’ve said is common knowledge, then why is this one book so special?”
“The thing this book speaks of—the thing that is not common knowledge—is that when America began to win the war, it became more difficult to bring the stolen goods back to Japan. This book claims to know how that wealth was protected. It says that years were spent hiding the foreign treasure in hundreds of secret places in the Philippines. According to the words here, thousands of slaves, including American war prisoners, were used to do this. Most of them died while working or were buried alive. This book clearly states that all of this was planned and directed by the emperor’s brother, Prince Chichibu. The secret project, named Golden Lily, was managed by one of his closest cousins, Prince Takeda.” Toshi edged forward on the sofa, his eyes full of noticeable apprehension. “Max, if these writings are true and this became public, the effect on Japan would be terrible and the royal family would be ruined.”
“So someone wrote a book with details about all this?”
Toshi’s grim face nodded. His voice rose in urgency. “Not just someone. These appear to be the words of Prince Takeda himself . . . his personal diary.”
THE SWISH of the sliding glass doors was drowned out by the tidal wave of noise, a clamoring resonance of falling metal balls competing with a disco beat and the bells of a hundred Vegas slot machines.
Hiro stood outside in the drizzle as the grating sound swirled onto the sidewalk. He loathed pachinko parlors. His recalled the childhood terror generated by the awful machine-gun noise as the stream of balls bounced down through spinning gates and clacking levers.
Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, metal balls are exchanged for prizes, which find their way to nearby alleyways, where the merchandise is exchanged for cash through slots in unmarked doors. Like most Yakuza, Oto Kodama worshiped pachinko not only as a national obsession, but also as a way for people to gamble in a country where it was otherwise illegal. Over time, vast fortunes grew ever larger, with money accruing not to the passive players, but to the crafty facilitators.
Each Monday afternoon, Hiro knew that Oto reviewed the revenues of his immense pachinko parlor in East Shinjuku. He had left a message demanding a meeting at 3 p.m. sharp.
Pushing against the initial sound waves, Hiro sidestepped his way past the businessmen and bleary-eyed teenagers slouched in the tunnel-like rows of machines. Reaching the back of the cavernous room, he spoke briefly to the leering youth behind the counter before being buzzed into the back through an adjacent steel door. The cacophony slowly faded as Hiro moved deeper into the bowels of the aging building.Soon he stopped before the looming presence of Oto’s two giant bodyguards before being ushered inside the office.
The bright interior contrasted sharply with the dingy hallway outside. Pristine walls met a white marble floor in the fifteen-by-twenty-foot room. Three stainless steel tables ran down either side of the room, holding stacks of cash organized by denomination. Observing the room’s perimeter, Hiro gawked at six identical females dressed only in bras, panties, and high heels. Each of the slender women had shoulder-length black hair and an excess of makeup, culminating in candy-red lips. They clutched clipboards and made tallies, accounting for the mountains of cash.
Ahead, Oto sat alone in the center of a sofa against the far wall. Dressed in a gray pinstripe suit with a peach-colored shirt stretched over his protruding stomach, he was smoking a stubby cigar and talking on a cell phone. Jerking his hand, he motioned for Hiro to stand in the empty center of the room, next to the mouth of an open floor safe. The leader’s cell-phone conversation dragged on.
Hiro ruminated as he stared at his cheap dress shoes and shifted his weight from foot to foot. He was sure that being made to stand on ceremony was just another way for the fat man to humiliate him.
Jun is always talking about “Father this” and “Father that,” but you’ll never hear me call you Father. You’re just an old slavemaster. He remained glued to the spot.
Finally, Oto ended his call and spoke. His gruff voice dripped with disdain. “I asked you to do one simple task, and you failed again.”
Hiro’s sweaty palm smoothed the curls on his head. “We were surprised by the owner of the restaurant. Jun was making so much noise. I wanted to . . . asked you . . . it would have been better doing this job on my own.”
“Careful where you place blame!” the Yakuza leader growled.
“Forgive me, Master. It was my fault entirely, and I will do whatever I must in order to correct things.”
“That’s a better attitude.” Oto took a puff on his Cuban before reaching into his inside breast pocket and withdrawing a folded piece of paper and a photograph. “I spoke with a contact this morning at the police department. I want you to find and follow Tomoko Asano. She works for Polo.
Hiro stepped forward and took the offering as Oto continued speaking.
“She’s the girlfriend of the American who, the police tell me, ran off with my prize. She lives with her parents in Chiba prefecture. Find her, and chances are you’ll find the foreigner.”
“And what should I do with the American?”
“Just scare him into giving you the satchel. I don’t need any more attention, and I’m sure he won’t put up much of a fight.”
Hiro stepped backward in preparation to leave. “Understood.”
“My patience is wearing thin. Fail again, and you may find yourself without a family. And we all know what happens to Yakuza without family.” Another puff on the cigar let the moment sink in. “Go!”
Hiro quickly left the sterile room and exited the rear of the building. Stepping into the flat gray light of the overcast afternoon, he paused to look at the photograph. It had been taken outdoors, in front of the green patina of the Daibutsu, the thirteenth-century Great Buddha in Kamakura. A group of people in the background, standing close to the aging bronze statue, were dwarfed by its massive height. In the foreground was a smiling older Japanese woman—beside her was the American. It had been difficult to get a clear view of him during the chase, but from the photo, he looked to be mid-twenties, about six feet tall, with a full head of blond hair. Picking him out of a crowd would be easy.
Hiro’s slender, knobby fingers opened the folded piece of paper—a portrait ripped from a Waseda University yearbook. Tomoko was dressed in a graduation gown, and her long black hair framed a clear-eyed face with a relaxed, confident smile. The breath caught in his throat. She was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, a woman that most men only dreamed about. The kind of woman he knew he would never have.
Carefully refolding the paper, he hurried down the alley.
MASAMI ISHI exited his government-issued car and climbed the stairs to the brown building’s fourth floor. Standing quietly, he peered from the English school’s hall
way at the woman seated behind the office desk. Her skin was wrinkled and the jet-black hair was likely dyed, but there was no mistaking the face. It had been more than twenty years, but it was indeed her.
He straightened his tie, adjusted his thick glasses, and brushed his comb-over back into place, before rapping on the open door. “I need to speak with you about the burglary last night.”
Yoko gave a slight start, and her mouth pursed into a frown. “I told everything I know to the detective this morning.”
“Oh, I think you do have more to say,” he said gently, but firmly, as he stepped into the office.
Yoko rose up behind her desk. “Excuse me? You can’t just come in here!”
“You may run from your past, but it will eventually catch up with you.” Masami Ishi stepped forward again. “Don’t you recognize me?”
Her hand flicked the air. “I think you need to leave!”
He had pondered this moment on the drive over from the National Police Agency, and it was unfolding just as he’d expected. “Think back, Yoko—back to the time before your last name changed, before you disappeared in 1985, back to when I knew you as Yoko Endo and not Yoko Murayama. You were one of the best grifters I ever caught. Your ability to make people open their wallets was astounding. Even to this day, I’ve never encountered a con artist with more skill and personal charm.”
Yoko’s face held a look of blank surprise and hint of a gasp escaped from her burgundy lips.
Masami Ishi watched with pleasure as the recognition flooded her eyes, like a bursting dam thundering down an abyss.
Yoko sank back into her chair. The shock was so great that she almost failed to push the button hidden beneath her desk. The video camera in the room’s corner blinked silently to life, along with an audio recorder.
“The police report I read a few hours ago was very interesting, considering your past—our mutual past, really.” Masami Ishi casually removed his tan trench coat while he sat uninvited in a guest chair facing the desk. “It seems that you’re about to make this school into a publicly traded company. It will likely be the biggest financial deal of your sordid career. One that will make you very wealthy, I’m sure. I suspect this burglary couldn’t have come at a worse time, could it?”
Yoko felt the pressurized past rush into the room, making it vibrate and sway. In a flash, she relived her father’s death and the discovery of his massive loans. She felt again the angst and heartache of learning to survive regardless of the cost. Her horrible nightmares were coming back to haunt her. This simply couldn’t be happening.
“But . . . how?”
“It is an odd coincidence. You have to imagine my surprise when I saw a photo of you in a burglary case that wouldn’t have reached my desk except for its extraordinary link to a high-profile case. How could I ever forget your lovely face, even twenty years later? The report noted your name as Murayama, and then I realized how you had slipped away from me all those years ago. You didn’t run—you simply used a name change to sweep away your past and create a fresh start. You were hiding in plain sight. But the thing I still haven’t figured out is why—why—a diplomat of Takahito Murayama’s standing would agree to lend you his last name? You must have something really good on him. Perhaps you’ll tell me in time, as we get reacquainted.”
Yoko’s bloodshot eyes jerked up to meet his icy stare. She clenched her teeth and her jaw became rigid. “I would rather choose prison than let you put your greasy hands on me again.”
Masami Ishi chuckled. “You’ve aged well, but I’m not here for sex.”
The muffled sound of giggling children could be heard in the classroom next door as she eyed him warily. “You must want something. After all these years, you wouldn’t have come here simply for conversation.”
He pressed his palms together as if to pray. “You’re right. I do want something else. It’s not sex, but that other thing that most of us can never get enough of.”
She nodded with understanding. “You want a cut, don’t you? You want to steal my money!”
“Those are very strong words coming from someone in your position. I’m simply looking for a charitable donation to my upcoming ‘retirement fund.’ Perhaps two wrongs can make a right.”
Yoko stroked her bobbed hair and straightened her shoulders while struggling to regain her composure. Pressing her chair back, she crossed her legs and smoothed her skirt. Regardless of what he said, he was still a man, after all. “What size of charitable donation are you looking for, Masami-kun?”
“Fifty percent of everything you get from the sale of shares.”
Her shoulders stiffened, but she refused to allow her face to flinch. “That seems a steep price.”
“You can settle for it, or you can get nothing . . . except some jail time.”
Yoko counter-offered. “Crimes require proof. I’ll give you twenty-five percent—and your wife never has to find out that I’m aware of your unusual birthmarks.”
A smile spread across Masami Ishi’s overbite. “Thirty-five percent, and we let my birthmarks offset your criminal past.”
Her sense of the room began to stabilize. It wasn’t a perfect arrangement, but seemed necessary if she was to survive another day. “Fine, but I have one additional request.” She raised a single index finger.“The police report of the burglary will point to a teacher at this school—Max Travers. However, until the sale of shares is finalized, nobody can know about Max’s involvement. The investors would lose confidence, and everything I’ve worked for would instantly fall apart.”
“So what do you want me to do?”
“I want you to double the number of police needed to catch him, then I want you to hold him quietly until after I finish selling the shares. It should be complete in the next couple of weeks.”
“Are you insane? Hold an American without announcing his capture or formally charging him?” Masami Ishi’s voice rose in pitch. “That’s kidnapping. As superintendent of the CIB, there are limits to what I can do. My actions are closely watched by the National Public Safety Commission.”
She leaned forward in her seat. “I remember you being very resourceful Masami-kun. You wouldn’t have risen to the position you’re in without having some influence. I’m sure that for the sake of your ‘retirement fund,’ you can find a way.”
“I’ll do what I can, but I can’t make any guarantees.” His cheeks reddened, and he rose to his feet. “Either way, when this deal goes through, I want my thirty-five percent.” He turned and left the room without looking back.
Yoko breathed a sigh of relief as she listened to the stairwell door slam shut.
From the hall, Kenji peered into her office. “Sensei, is everything okay?”
“Yes. It was just a salesman, but I sent him away.” She waved a tired hand. “And one more thing before you go. You need to cover Max’s classes. The story is that he’s on a trip with his aunt who is visiting from America.”
“But Sensei—I’m no good at lying.”
“Please don’t argue with me. I’m not going to put up with it.”
“Yes, Sensei.” He dropped his head.
“Good. Now, I need some quiet. Don’t let anyone else come in.”
As the door closed out the unforgiving past, Yoko reached for the bottle of Tylenol in her desk drawer. She needed relief—something fast. Something that would stop the throbbing pain threatening to split her skull wide open.
“IT’S ALL GONE WRONG!” Max’s voice stammered as Tomoko played his message again. Etiquette dictated that she shouldn’t use her cell phone on the train, but she couldn’t help herself. He sounded distressed, although it might be just a ploy just to get her to talk. Tomoko closed her phone, noting the blinking low-power warning, and stood up as the subway car braked. She briefly contemplated sticking to her plan to let him suffer a while longer. But he sounded genuinely upset. The message said to meet at 6 p.m. near the statue of Hachiko the Dog. It had been a hectic afternoon at the office, and she checked h
er watch—6:55.
Climbing the stairs to the cavernous western gallery of the Shibuya train station, she wove through the throng of high-tech Bit Valley workers and tanned Kogal girls loaded with shopping bags. Having spent a summer in San Diego, she had described the unusual female subculture to Max by comparing them to California’s Valley Girls. It really wasn’t much of a stretch, since there were so many similarities: rampant materialism, lots of attitude, and a style all their own.
Several Kogals stopped directly in front of Tomoko as she hurried toward the exit. Pressing her way through the group resulted in one teenager dropping a shopping bag, its contents scattering across the floor. A mistaken attempt to stop and help only subjected her to a chorus of swearing and catcalls. Throwing up her hands, Tomoko sneered at them before turning and continuing on her way outside. “Stupid girls,” she spoke to herself. “Where have all the smart ones gone?”
As the blonde Kogals gathered their strewn merchandise, one of them, dressed in a flowery miniskirt and matching platform boots, chased after the last of the runaway parcels. Before she could reach it, a muscular man bent down and picked it up. He stretched out a tree-trunk arm to return the package and she caught a glimpse of the intricate tattoos beneath the rolled-up sleeve of his dress shirt. Biting her frosted lower lip, the giggling young woman batted her heavily blackened eyelashes. The thick-necked Yakuza winked at her and continued on his way out the exit, following a shorter, pinched-face man.
Rising overhead, massive video screens blinked and glowed atop the central Shibuya intersection. The entire area was flooded with people and, as much as he tried, Max couldn’t watch every direction at once. He glanced quickly into the daypack. The diary was still there, along with his own expiring plane ticket. Together, they felt like a lead weight pulling on his shoulder as he paced under a darkening sky.
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