Her eyes widened, and she looked at Max. “What if it was Yoko? That has to be it!”
“Okay, now that just doesn’t make any sense.” The rising sun slipped behind a cloud. “Why would she have people break into her own father’s office? What would be the point?”
“I’m not sure, but I’ve never trusted her . . . and only Yoko or Kenji know where I work.” Tomoko snapped her fingers. “That has to be it.”
He toyed with the insane idea. “Seems unlikely, but I guess anything is possible, especially with her.” The fisherman eased the boat from the shore. The smiling man gave a shout and a wave as he revved the motor, and Max returned the wave, glad of the diversion. While the vessel shrank from sight, the fisherman’s faceless wife clambered to take a seat next to her husband’s standing figure.
Tomoko slid down and rested her back against the sun-warmed rock. Max reached for the daypack, unzipped it, and retrieved the pale yellow diary from the brown satchel. It felt old and rich with history. “You should see this.” He handed it over for her inspection. “But don’t get it dirty.”
The warning triggered a short burst of laughter. “When did you become the guardian of Japan’s past?” Her hands ran over the raised leather surface. Opening it to a random page, she read the Japanese writing.
The brilliant morning light greeted my eyes after another sleepless night. Yesterday, the tunnels of Teresa, south of Manila, were finally closed. Entombed alive were nearly one hundred laborers and foreign combat prisoners. It is the same each time a vault is closed. Huddled together in the damp caves, they wail and cry for mercy, which never comes. The sound of their collective voices echo inside my brain. The sunken faces and hollow eyes haunt my dreams and keep me from sleep.
Earlier, I sent word to Prince Chichibu, begging him to let me spare their lives, but he denied my request. The reply stated simply that we must guard the emperor’s belongings and protect them with absolute devotion.
I know my place and have faithfully carried out my duty, but in my private heart I cannot deny my feelings. The world has lost all reason, and I am descending into madness along with it. What kind of a world are my actions helping to shape? What will my children and my children’s children inherit? Will they ever understand the horror and suffering that their vast fortune is built upon? If they don’t know the truth, how will they learn from our mistakes?
The sun reemerged. Dancing waves lapped rhythmically as birds squawked and dove along the beach. Max slid to the sand and closed his eyes. He might have nodded off for a minute, but he wasn’t sure. When he finally looked over at Tomoko, her face was a mix of unreadable emotion. “What’s wrong?”
“This diary—it starts in 1942 and ends in 1947, when the prince and his family were made into . . . they were not royalty anymore.”
“You mean they became commoners?”
“Yes,” she continued, “and it says that during the war, Prince Takeda worked on a secret project called ‘Golden Lily.’ He was forced to hide stolen things for the emperor.” Emotion shook her chin. “It’s hard to believe this really happened.”
His comforting arm slid around her shoulder. “Toshi mentioned that as well—but I don’t get the part about the prince being forced to do it.”
“These are his private thoughts, Max. He was following orders, but he felt very bad. His words are filled with a great sadness.”
“You’re telling me this dude was a humanitarian?” he said, eyes half closed. “I’m not sure I can buy that.”
“I’ve only read a little, but it seemed he was unhappy about many things he had to do.”
“So what’s in there that makes the Yakuza—” Max threw on a jesting smile and held up both palms dramatically. “Oh, sorry, I mean the bad guys—want it so badly?”
“Don’t tease me.” Tomoko dug a gentle elbow into his ribs. “I’m not sure yet. The prince writes about digging tunnels and hiding ‘war treasure,’ but there are no details so far. I can’t find any maps, but there are a lot of pages. It’s big.” She tapped the inch-wide spine.
Max stared out at the water. “We won’t solve the problem from here. We should go back to Tokyo, and I’ll go to the U.S. Embassy. I can find a cheap hotel until they give me a new passport. And maybe they can help straighten things out with the police.”
“Or you could stay with my uncle in Hitachi for a while. It’s close enough for me to visit on the weekends.”
“That’ll just delay things. It won’t solve them.” He shook his head, wishing he could propose a genuine solution. Every path seemed to have almost insurmountable obstacles. He looked into her eyes. Her lovely face was so close. She was holding her breath, and he could feel her desire to respond, but the moment slipped away.
She rose up and swiped the back of her jeans with her hands. “I’m hungry,” she muttered. “Let’s eat. If we walk a few minutes, there’s a train station. We can catch it into town.”
Max stood up and placed the satchel and diary back in the daypack before swinging it over his shoulder. “I could use some comfort food—eggs, toast, potatoes.”
“Is your ankle all right to walk?”
“Yeah, sure, no problemo. It’s almost good as new.” The first steps were edged with sharp pain, but he distracted her by grasping her hand. “Hey, did I tell you that Kenji remembered a picture of Yoko and Mr. Murayama together?”
She laughed. “Nice try—proves nothing. I saw a picture of them on the office wall, but it could have been taken yesterday.”
Max gestured with his free hand. “No, I mean a picture of them when Yoko was a little girl. Kenji said it shows Mr. Murayama pushing her on a swing.”
“Really? And he’s sure it was Yoko?” The skin on Tomoko’s forehead wrinkled slightly. “But Miki was positive Mr. Murayama didn’t have any children.”
Max shrugged. “Well, there’s always a first time for being wrong.”
SENATOR MCCLOY needed to be warned about what was transpiring, but the Washington-based satellite phone couldn’t be used for the late-night call. It was a basic protocol of the Code that communication chains should never be continuous. Extensive military training and field operations had drilled the routines into Vincent Lemoine’s head until they were second nature.
He dialed instead from a Georgetown pay phone and waited. It could be an FBI, CIA, or NSA number he was ringing; he would never know for sure. Several seconds passed while automated systems determined that the communication link was clean. Finally, a synthesized voice instructed him to leave a message.
“This is Lloyd Elgin. I received a call from an old friend who invited me to Japan. He’s concerned about some recent business deals that have taken place. After careful consideration, I’ve agreed to the invitation and will be catching United 9678 to Tokyo at 10:45 a.m. tomorrow. Prepare my usual goods and have them delivered to the Shinjuku Century Hotel. You can expect another message from me within the next thirty-six hours.”
TWELVE MEN in heavy, polished boots charged up the stone stairway before making a stealthy, single-file dash under the little shrine’s Torii gate. Racing across the blacktopped courtyard, the highly trained troops remained slightly hunched. They made a sharp left before moving along the shoulder-height cinderblock wall running alongside the Tokyo Poor House. Approaching the T-junction at the path’s end, the unit commander held up a gloved hand and the group slowed to a stop. From beneath his combat helmet, the commander peered both ways down the wider laneway. It was empty.
He reached back and slipped a silver-handled collapsible device from his belt case. A single swift movement extended the metal baton to its full twenty-inch length, then he stepped around the corner and drove the sole of his boot into the front door. Wooden shards exploded as the rotting timber holding the lock in place splintered. Like a dam unleashed, the uniformed officers poured into the molding interior of the old house. Shrieks of confusion and anger filled the morning air. The creaking structure shuddered and swayed under the weight of the po
lice and the agitation of the astonished occupants.
With his hands clasped behind his back, Masami Ishi paced beside the nearby police vehicles. In his left hand he gripped a day-old search warrant, obtained after visiting Yoko’s office. It had taken some serious arm-twisting before the reluctant judge had finally issued the document with one caveat—there would be twenty-four hours of surveillance before any action was taken.
Twenty aggravating hours had ticked by, revealing nothing, until finally Masami Ishi’s patience had worn thin. They were just a bunch of Gaijin, after all, and would never be able to navigate the complex judicial system. His biggest concern was how to hold the American out of sight for two weeks―if he could find him―without placing any charges.
A walkie-talkie squawked as the commander sent back his report. Masami Ishi heard the noise and approached the driver’s side of a white police van. He motioned for the window to be rolled down. “What’s going on?”
The young officer struggled to turn down the volume on the crackling handset. “The commander says they have four foreigners, but none match the American’s description. He also says two of the foreigners’ visas have expired, and one Israeli needs medical attention. He resisted arrest and is bleeding from a head wound.”
“Damn it.” He’d felt sure the American would be hiding in the house, cowering in his bedroom. Masami Ishi took the two-way radio. He stepped away from the vehicle, just far enough to be out of earshot of the driver. Pressing the rubber button, he spoke. “Commander—are you there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Take the Israeli to the hospital. Then bring them all in for questioning.”
“Affirmative,” came the quick response.
“I also want you to leave two men behind. Make the house look occupied. If the American comes, then grab him, but do not harm him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I have one special request. If your men do catch him, I want you to call me first—on my personal cell phone—before making any report to headquarters.” Masami released the radio’s button. The pause in communications was noticeably longer before the reply came back.
“I understand, sir.”
TOMOKO SWUNG the plastic 7-Eleven bag containing underwear and deodorant from one hand while the other grasped Max’s as they walked back along the beach. “What else is in that backpack?” she asked.
“A novel, some daggers, a few bracelets,” he said. “And a cell phone.”
She shot him a playful grin. “Don’t forget you owe me a new phone.”
“Maybe I should just give you this one. Course I don’t know if it belonged to the guys who robbed the office. And it had an odd text message on it.”
“What do you mean? What did the message say?”
“Eight-nine-three-O-K.” Max’s arm tugged backward as Tomoko stopped dead in her tracks. He turned and repeated himself in response to her shocked look. “The message showed the numbers eight, nine, three, and the letters O and K. Why? Does that mean something?”
“Let me see the phone.” Her voice was urgent.
“Give me a sec.” He unzipped the daypack and dug around the bottom before pulling out the phone and tossing it to her outstretched hands. “It has a built-in GPS, so you shouldn’t . . .”
She flipped it open and powered it up.
“. . . turn it on. Or you could simply go right ahead.”
Tomoko’s head remained bowed over the small screen. “I just want to see the owner’s name.”
Max rested his weight on his good ankle while he waited.
“It belongs to Mr. Murayama.” Several more beeps followed before she powered it off. “And the message is different from what you said. There are dots after the letters.”
“So? So what if it’s O dot K dot or the word OK? Doesn’t it mean the same thing?”
“No, Max, it doesn’t mean the same thing.” She shook her head vehemently. “There’s a Japanese card game called oicho-kabu, and in that game the worst possible hand you can get is an eight, a nine, and a three. The cards together are called “Ya-Ku-Za.”
He looked at her, surprised that she expected him to be aware of such an obscure cultural reference. “Are you serious?”
Tomoko nodded. “And O dot K dot doesn’t mean okay. They’re initials for one of the most famous Yakuza in the country. His name is Oto Kodama.”
Max felt stunned. “How do you know all this?”
“Everyone born here knows the meaning of Eight-Nine-Three, and Oto Kodama is famous because his father was famous. The Yakuza gangs are over three hundred years old, but Yoshio Kodama is called the ‘Godfather of Vision,’ because fifty years ago he brought many enemy gangs together into one large group. He’s as well known in Japan as . . . nanda-ke? . . . you know, the famous American mafia man.”
“Al Capone?”
Tomoko nodded. “Yes, Al Capone.”
“So the message was meant to tell Mr. Murayama something about this Yakuza guy, Oto Kodama? But why? Who sent it?”
“It was sent at 11:41 p.m., on April nineteenth, by someone named Kazue Saito.”
Max fell silent. He felt lightheaded and moved to sit down on a nearby rock. It was too much information to digest all at once. Tomoko stared at his perplexed face as she sat beside him. “What is it?”
“Kazue Saito . . .” Max thought back to the shrine murder article in the newspaper and the question he had raised. “Mr. Murayama told me he didn’t know the guy.”
“Who is Kazue Saito?” she implored.
“You didn’t see it? In the paper? The diplomat who was killed last Thursday night.”
Tomoko dropped the plastic bag at her feet as she put her hand to her mouth. “I saw the headline, but never read the story.”
“The article said he died around midnight. That means Mr. Murayama lied to me. And it also means this text message was telling Mr. Murayama who his killer was.” Max stared into Tomoko’s fear-filled eyes. “So you still think the Yakuza aren’t involved?”
Her hands began to shake. “Fine—whatever. You were right.”
He thought back to his earlier assumptions. “You know, I could have had it all wrong. Maybe the Yakuza aren’t looking for Prince Takeda’s diary after all. Maybe they found out Kazue Saito sent a text message, and they’re trying to get back the phone. Get rid of the evidence.”
As Tomoko shivered, Max slid an arm around her shoulder and closed the loop with the other. “Hey—hey, don’t worry. It’ll be all right. We’ll figure something out.” She said nothing, and he tried to reassure her by lightening the moment. “Grab our high-end luggage out of the sand.” He pointed at the plastic bag. “Let’s go say goodbye to Mrs. Kanazawa. She’s probably wondering where you are, anyway. We’ve been gone for hours.”
Max limped slightly as he climbed the stone stairs rising up the lush, tree-covered hillside, his mind drifting, lost in a spiral of consequence and recourse. Arriving at the top, he realized they were on the property adjoining the Fairlady onsen. “Damn!”
Tomoko looked up from her feet. “What?”
“Wrong stairs. We should have gone around the corner on the beach. They all look the same from the bottom.” Tomoko turned to go back, but Max motioned for her to follow him. “My ankle’s not feeling so great. Let’s find another way.” He squeezed through a gap in some nearby bushes. “Come on. We can walk to the front this way.”
“Are you sure?” Tomoko pressed gingerly into the space between the fence and the bushes. As they approached the front of the property, the shrubs closed in tight. Forward movement was impossible.
Max motioned for them to stop. “Looks like we’re climbing over.”
“Ahhh!” Tomoko swiped away a cobweb. “We should have used the stairs.”
The plastic bag went over the fence first, just before Max winked and wove his fingers together, motioning for her to step into his outstretched palms. She did not appear convinced. “If I hurt myself, you’re in big trouble.” Stepping
up, Tomoko grunted and disappeared over the fence top.
He could hear her brushing herself off. “Here, take this.” Max swung the daypack over the wall before pulling himself up and over.
They were standing on the south side of the Fairlady onsen, with a rectangular window directly ahead. “This is Mrs. Kanazawa’s office,” she whispered, leaning forward. Cupping her hands to block out the sunlight, she pressed her face against the glass. But a short, sharp gasp escaped her lips as she stumbled backward and slammed against the fence. Her face twisted in soundless terror before she leaned down to vomit uncontrollably on the ground.
Max leaped to the window, tensing as he peered inside.
Mrs. Kanazawa’s lifeless body was slumped forward across her desk. Her pinned-up hair hung loosely to the side of her oddly twisted head. Bright blood ran down the desk front, like a scarlet scarf draped below her vacant face. Through the partially open office door, he could see the back of Thick Neck. The killer was watching the front door while keeping himself shielded from direct view.
“She’s dead!” Max gasped, spinning around to gather Tomoko into his arms, before pulling her back to the wall, away from the window. Her body was shaking with irrepressible shock, and he struggled to form his own screaming thoughts into a cohesive plan. “Sh-sh-sh-sh. You’re all right. You’re all right.” He was hoping that saying it would make it seem more believable. Seconds ticked by as he rocked her gently and stroked her hair.
We can’t stay here. These guys will kill us for sure.
His voice was quiet but firm. “Give me your keys. We have to move.”
Sobbing, she dug into her front pocket.
Fear gripped Max’s mind, but he was much calmer than he expected—someone had to be. “Tomoko . . . Hey, look at me . . . do you trust me?”
She sniffed an acknowledgment and wiped at her streaming eyes.
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