Collector of Secrets

by Richard Goodfellow

  The group’s attention was focused on a man standing directly in front of them. Max couldn’t see his face, but he was dressed in a knee-length, olive green trench coat. He appeared to be addressing the officers while holding a clipboard, rotating it so all the men could see. With his free hand, he motioned in the air as if indicating the height of a tall person. The uniformed officers nodded at every statement. All of them were unusually attentive. In fact, they seemed apprehensive.

  The sharp, goose-like honk of a passing truck drew the attention of the group. The truck trumpeted at a miniature car trying in vain to squeeze past the construction work. As the Japanese man in the trench coat turned his head, Max could see that he had a trim black mustache and appeared to be in his late thirties.

  The shouting truck driver continued cursing out his window until an officer blew his whistle and motioned for order. The commotion seemed to signal an end to the meeting, and the mustached leader pressed the clipboard against his leg before bowing slightly. Turning swiftly, he strode toward the subway entrance. It would be mere seconds before he reached the top of the stairs.

  Max flipped his hoodie up onto his head and took a couple of steps back down into the station. He wasn’t sure why he felt so anxious. Maybe it was just his nerves getting the better of him, but he chose to trust his gut. Turning, he raced back the way he’d come, entering the tunnel to his right. The only place to go was the newspaper kiosk, by the far wall at the tunnel’s end. He grabbed the closest magazine, opening it to shield his face as he slouched down. Seconds ticked by while he remained motionless, noticing the veins in his neck pulsing.

  The guy must have walked past me by now.

  Max lowered the magazine an inch and peered over the top. The olive green trench coat was standing right next to him.

  Shit! His body stiffened in anticipation of an attack.

  Tense seconds ticked by while a stream of people continued to pour through the lobby.

  Lowering the magazine a little further, Max could now see that the man’s back was facing him. He had bent over, attempting to leaf through some newspapers with one hand while being jostled by other customers purchasing cigarettes and candy bars. Frustrated with his inability to find what he wanted, the man set down his clipboard and used both hands.

  Max felt his cheeks flush as a fresh wave of panic punched him in the gut. On the clipboard, staring back was a full-size photograph of his own face. He jerked the magazine up. The urge to run felt overwhelming. It screamed and rattled inside his brain, almost drowning out the little voice in the back of his head that commanded him to remain stone-still.

  He stood paralyzed for what seemed an eternity, until finally the kiosk owner’s angry voice forced him to lower his shield. Behind the counter, the owner was forming two fingers into a circle, demanding payment. Dropping the magazine, Max turned and scanned the busy subway lobby. The mustached man was nowhere in sight.

  I was right! The police are hunting for me.

  Max rushed to the nearby ticket machine, sorting hastily through the coins in his pocket while glancing uneasily around the station. His own suspicions had been confirmed, and it was a pretty sure bet that if the cops were looking for him then they were also looking for Tomoko. He needed to get back to the Love Hotel right away and warn her. They had to find somewhere safer to hide.

  VINCENT LEMOINE dozed in a half sleep. His facemask and earplugs insulated him from the surrounding first-class passengers. Lying prone in 2A, he could feel the comforting pulse of the 777-300ER’s powerful dual engines vibrating up through the flatbed seat. It was certainly a far cry from the military transports he’d taken a quarter century earlier as a young Navy Seal.

  Pulled into the CIA’s Black Ops program at twenty-four, he had resigned fifteen years later, having been approached quietly by Senator Andrew McCloy. The good representative from Tennessee had set forth an offer that Vincent couldn’t refuse. It was an opportunity to serve God and country, but more importantly, the chance to earn a boatload of cash in just ten years. The Freedom 50 plan—retiring to the French countryside—could be a reality. And so Vincent had bitten.

  In the years after World War II, General Douglas MacArthur’s office had charted a shadowy network of global informants. There was always someone close to those in power willing to do the job—easy money for very little work. Each man’s single task was to monitor chatter within his designated area. Anything that could threaten to reveal the past’s dark secrets or blow open the unsavory actions of the present was to be reported. The informants were instructed to take no direct action. They were simply required to dispatch information to a central location. The appropriate course would be determined only after careful analysis. The Code’s strict communications protocols were designed and implemented—and thus the role of “Lloyd Elgin” was born. Over the decades, the hitmen who monitored the chatter and acted on the reports each bore the same working name.

  Vincent’s mind ran back over his predecessor’s encrypted data files. The last trip to Tokyo had been eighteen years earlier. At the time, it appeared that former Prime Minister Takeshita’s fifty-eight-year-old secretary, Mr. Ihei Aoki, was getting ready to talk publicly—the prime minister had just resigned over the “Recruit” bribery scandal.

  The former Lloyd Elgin had found the distraught secretary face down in a karaoke watering hole and had befriended him. After several rounds of drinks, Ihei Aoki grinned and whispered to his new American friend that he was going to change the landscape of Japanese and U.S. politics forever. He would reveal truths that would make the current scandal look insignificant.

  In the early morning hours of Wednesday, April 26, 1989, the two men had stumbled from the bar together. But only one of them was actually drunk. The former Lloyd convinced the intoxicated Aoki-san that they should walk back to his apartment instead of taking a taxi. The remainder of the electronic file revealed an almost gleeful telling of the assisted suicide. While the American was efficient and effective, he also harbored a sadistic joy when it came to death’s delivery. Back at the apartment, the drunken secretary had passed out repeatedly. Each time he was revived, a razor was carefully returned to his hand. The sympathetic voice in his ear urged him to bear responsibility for Japan’s fallen leader. A death with honor was the right thing to do. After seventeen futile attempts, there was blood everywhere. A necktie and a curtain rod finished the job.

  Vincent felt a hand gently touch his shoulder, triggering him to remove his sleeping mask. Standing in the aisle next to his seat was an ANA flight attendant. She was grinning like a love-struck schoolgirl as she touched her lower lip and whispered in perfect English, “Mr. Elgin, we are going to be serving breakfast soon. Shall I bring you something now? Anything? Coffee perhaps?”

  He nodded his head and then watched her walk slowly and seductively toward the airplane’s cockpit. A little mile-high action would be an excellent way to wake, he thought, but he couldn’t draw undue attention to himself. And besides, there was his beautiful new wife to think about. In a year’s time, he would be unshackled from his work, and they would be living in a Provence villa.

  Vincent stretched his muscular torso before walking the several steps forward to the lavatory.

  Warm water splashed his tanned face while he mentally refocused on the job ahead. Staring into his own eyes, he whispered into the bathroom mirror, “Now is not the time to get sloppy, pal. Until you’re back in Washington, your only goal is to confirm if there’s a problem, and then eliminate it.”

  JUN’S HULKING frame paced along the stark edges of the dimly lit underground room; a single bare bulb illuminating a spot near the windowless metal entrance. The damp concrete walls were closing in all around, and he struggled to shake off the bad night’s sleep on the cold floor. Besides the two thin mattresses against the back wall—Hiro lying nearly invisible on one—the only other furniture was two chairs and a wooden table in the room’s center. The natural, unfinished top appeared stained, as if ink had be
en poured in abstract patterns over its rough surface.

  Flicking his fingertips lightly over his face, Jun felt the dried blood that had formed on the field of tiny cuts. Yesterday’s chase had gone from bad to worse. Not only had the Gaijin slipped away, but they’d had to leave Oto’s van nose-down in the ditch. Hiking west into the forests of the Hakone Mountains had seemed logical at the time, at least until it grew dark and the temperature began dropping.

  Finally finding a narrow country road, they had been able to direct a pickup car to their location. Within minutes, elation turned to trepidation as the driver stated that Oto wanted to see them, and he wasn’t happy. Several hours later, the sedan pulled into the underground parking garage of the Yebisu Garden Terrace. But instead of being marshaled to the elevator, the driver locked them overnight on the P5 level of the complex.

  Jun stopped pacing as the rusting lock on the door cranked open with a groan. One of Oto’s bodyguards entered the room, followed by the great man himself, dressed in a purple velvet tracksuit. The aging leader looked as if he could have been out for a leisurely morning stroll. Oto pointed at Jun and barked a command. “Sit!”

  The bodyguard dragged Hiro to his feet and shoved him roughly him into the second chair.

  Oto paced in the meager pool of light. His dog-tag chains slapped against his protruding belly. “You greatly disappoint me. I gave you a simple task. ‘Go and get me a book.’ Is that so hard?” Saliva clung to his lower lip. “I guess so, because you let a boy pluck it from your grasp. Then I asked you to follow his girlfriend and find him . . . and the result is that you jump the wrong Gaijin.” Oto’s deep voice rose and echoed inside the cave. “And finally, I send you to the Izu for a second chance to get it back. What do you do? You kill an old lady, smash a few police cars, and abandon my van.”

  Even in the dim light, Jun could see the heavy veins protruding from Oto’s neck. “Father, we tried—”

  “Don’t speak, boy! Excuses are not what I’m looking for.”

  The hinges on the metal door sang out of key as the second bodyguard entered the room. Bowing at the waist, he handed a dagger to Oto, then stepped back away. Sliding the simple knife from its metal sheath, Oto walked to the center of the room. He jabbed the dagger into the center of the table, where it stood upright.

  “You’ve shamed me. You know the rules.” The words resonated in the windowless room.

  Without hesitation, Hiro place his right hand on the table. Palm down. His fingers were spread wide. His face remained bowed.

  It suddenly became clear to Jun where the dark spots on the wooden table had come from. His troubled eyes locked on Oto’s angry face as he placed his own trembling hand on the table.

  “Not you! It’s your Sempai’s responsibility to take the blame for this.”

  Jun snatched his hand back and held it close to his groin.

  Oto pulled the knife from the table. He seemed to be drawing out the moment, as if savoring the taste of a fine wine.

  “I will give you one more chance to redeem yourself. Catch the girl for me.” The lone light bulb glinted off the shiny metal blade. “You can catch a little girl, can’t you?”

  Suddenly the blade sliced through air and bone, slamming hard against the table.

  A howling scream of agony tore upward, twisting and echoing its way through the parkade. At street level, a lone attendant listened and shuddered before sliding the window of his booth closed.

  TOSHI TOOK two crystal glasses from the cupboard while Max stood in the open kitchen doorway. The shaggy blond hair and pale skin were gone. He eyed his reflection in a hallway mirror while towel-drying his short brown hair, unsure of whether the right decision had been made. “I think that drugstore tanning lotion worked too well. I look like George Hamilton.”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Changing appearances will do little.” Toshi shrugged as he spoke. “You’re still too tall.”

  “At least I won’t resemble the police mug shot.” Max hoped the transformation would also reduce his growing feelings of paranoia. “I really appreciate you letting us stay here tonight. I couldn’t risk staying another night in a busy hotel.” He leaned against the wall. “Plus, I saw the pair of cameras out front and I think this place is probably more secure.”

  “My father was a very cautious man. He put in security systems.” Toshi cracked open a bottle of whiskey. “In the end, it did no good. They killed him in public, on the subway.”

  “They?” Max’s head jerked up. “Who are they?”

  “I have theories.” Toshi handed over three fingers of amber liquid. “Drink this.”

  “It’s only two o’clock.” Max’s voice registered mild surprise.

  “After everything that’s happened?”

  “True enough. It’s hard to believe that three days ago I was minding my own business, and now . . .” Goose bumps raced up Max’s arms. “I never realized how violent this place could be.”

  “You’ve seen what you’ve been told to see: sushi, karaoke, capsule hotels, geishas, and sumo wrestling.” Toshi sighed. “You haven’t moved beneath the surface. This country has both good and bad. It shouldn’t be a shock.” He raised his glass. “Let’s drink a toast . . . to understanding our weaknesses and making them strengths.”

  The liquid bit hard on its way down and Max was forced to take a deep breath before speaking. “Surviving this is gonna take more than just strength. It’s gonna take a miracle.”

  Toshi stroked the vertical strip of hair beneath his lip and his eyes grew unfocused, as if he were watching something in the center of the room that was only visible to him. “Sometimes the spirits require us to do things we don’t think possible. It’s how we grow and find who we truly are.”

  “But people aren’t usually dying as a result.” Max’s chest swelled. “Tomoko’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” His words grew hushed. “If she ends up getting hurt, I could never forgive myself.”

  “I understand. So the question you must ask is . . . what was the single thing that set the current chain of events in motion?”

  Max thought back to the moment as he crouched in Mr. M’s dark office. “Going to the office and then grabbing the daypack. I should have never picked that damned thing up.”

  Toshi sipped his drink. “The Yakuza probably wouldn’t have chased you, and the policeman may not have noticed you.”

  “I know where you’re going with this, and trust me, I’ve thought of returning the stuff to Mr. M. But what if he doesn’t believe me? What if he blames me for the robbery and all the damage?”

  “But if he does believe you, he can tell the police to close the case. He may also have a way of helping with the Yakuza. The man was a diplomat, after all.” Toshi took another sip. “If you want, you could leave the diary with me and I could return it for you.”

  “Thank you. That’s incredibly generous.” The offer seemed sincere, and the urge to seize it so tempting, but one completely innocent person was already dead. Max was resolute not to make it two. “No. You’ve already done way too much for us. I can’t let you do that.”

  Miki’s head seemed overly large on Toshi’s wall-mounted fifty-inch flat-screen monitor. Still, Tomoko had been relieved to see her friend’s face.

  “And they killed her?” Miki was still gasping when she finally lifted her fingers away from her mouth.“You have to go to the police!”

  “I know! But Max is convinced the police will charge him with the break-in.” Tomoko’s tear-filled eyes stared back. “And he thinks they’re all connected to the Yakuza.”

  “That’s just stupid.” The two friends nodded together in agreement. “So where are you hiding?”

  “With a friend of Max’s, a Shinto priest. He seems like a good guy.” Tomoko wiped her eyes with a tissue. “But I don’t know what to do next. I need to make sure my parents are fine, although I’m afraid to call home. What if Max is right? What if contacting them just adds
to the danger? Their phone must be bugged. It’s the only way the Yakuza could have found us at the onsen. Mrs. Kanazawa must have talked with my mom and told her where I was.”

  “You need to go home and warn them!”

  “I know.” The response caught in her throat. “Max doesn’t understand how much I love them. How could he? He’s not close to his own family. He can’t know how I feel.”

  “Then use my little trick.” Miki leaned closer to the camera, further distending her image on the big screen. “Tell him what he wants to hear . . . and then do whatever you need to do. He’ll get over it.”

  Silence hung in the air while the two girlfriends stared anxiously at each other. Miki finally sat back, changing the subject. “I followed up on the information you asked for.”

  “You found where the prince lives?”

  The corners of Miki’s mouth crept into a grin as she swept the blonde hair away from her face. “I know I’m fabulous, and we can talk about that later, but I have to warn you, it’s not good news. Visiting Prince Takeda will be a little difficult, since he died in 1992 at the age of eighty-three.”

  Tomoko’s head dropped into her cupped hands. She felt like crying.

  Miki continued, “Prince Tsuneyoshi Takeda owned an estate in Chiba Prefecture that was sold by his family after he died. There was also one other property. It’s near Osaka, in the mountains outside the old western capital city of Nara. It wasn’t part of the family estate, but was transferred separately to someone named Ben Takeda. Interestingly enough, the prince had five children, but none named Ben.” Miki rifled through a stack of loose papers and pressed the page with the address toward the camera.

  Tomoko grabbed a scrap of yellow paper to copy the information. Something was tingling in the back of her mind, and she struggled to figure out what it was. “Did you find out any more about this Ben person?”