Mr. Murayama winced as he coughed. “I know, my boy. I know.”
The reply was unexpected, and Max displayed his bewilderment. “But—”
“It’s not your nature to steal.”
Max inhaled sharply. Finally, something seemed to be going right. “Thank you.” He dropped his gaze to the floor. “That means a lot to me.”
“I sent a message—asking the police not to place charges. It may take some time, but soon enough they will lose interest.” He sighed. “Besides, stealing prince Takeda’s diary implies ownership, but I don’t own it.”
The old man sipped water through a straw while Max unzipped the daypack. “They also took your cell phone.”
“Why would they take that?”
“Maybe ’cause there’s a text message on it,” Max said with soft malice, “sent by Kazue Saito around the time he was murdered.” He stopped to let the potent words sink in. “It reads ‘eight-nine-three,’ followed by ‘O dot K dot.’ Tomoko said that it meant—”
Mr. Murayama waved two fingers in the air. “Oto Kodama! No need to explain. At least now I know who came looking for the diary.”
“So maybe you could tell me how to stop all this. Two people have died already.”
“Two?” The tempo of the heart monitor bounced upward. “Who was the second?”
“Tomoko and I went to hide on the Izu yesterday. The Yakuza followed us and they killed her mother’s friend, the owner of the onsen where we stayed. There was a car chase. We barely escaped. And now the police are looking for us both. My picture is all over town. Why do you think I snuck in here―and changed my hair?”
“I was wondering.” The old man’s mouth curled slightly at one corner but quickly grew somber again. “This is far worse than I expected.”
“So you can see why I need help—anything, please.”
“I was sure that the kami spirits brought you to me, in order to help return those watches. But now I know that your destiny is much greater than that.” Mr. Murayama seemed to gain strength even as he spoke. “The diary has chosen you as its new guardian.”
Max felt the prickly heat of distress sweep across his face. “That’s nuts! First off, I don’t believe in any magical spirits, and second, even if that’s true, I don’t want the responsibility.”
“You have no choice. After decades of time, the chorus of so many who have suffered and died cannot be silenced. It’s your destiny.”
Max was unsure whether Mr. M. was suffering medicinal hallucinations. “Then I’ll just drop the book with you and disappear.”
“And leave your girlfriend to suffer the consequences? You won’t. You care for her too much.”
The chair squeaked as Max leaned forward. “So help me figure out what to do.” He spoke each word separately. “Give . . . me . . . something.”
“All right.” Taking another sip of water, Mr. Murayama began. “After Kazue Saito’s murder, I knew someone would come, but I didn’t expect Yakuza.”
“Who were you expecting? ” Max shrugged. “And why’d you lie about knowing Kazue Saito?”
“Sometimes a person tells so many lies that it’s difficult to remember the truth. Let me explain.” Mr. Murayama grimaced as he shifted slightly. “A man named Tetsuo Endo was an old friend who possessed the prince’s diary at the time of his death. We served together in the military, many years ago. Afterward, we both went into diplomacy. I worked in Washington. He worked here in Tokyo in the legal department. Kazue Saito was his assistant. When Tetsuo died in 1961, he instructed Kazue to bring me the diary, for safekeeping.”
“Safe from what?”
“Endo-san, believed there must be a treasure map hidden among the pages. You see, during the war, he was Prince Takeda’s private bodyguard, and for almost fifteen years, from the time he and the prince left the Philippines, he thought constantly about that map. Which is why, the year before he died, he went to get the diary. Cancer was killing him already, so there was little risk in him trying to recover it. He found the book’s caretaker and took the diary from him by force.”
“So, was there a map inside?”
“No, but he found something else. He found words of truth and wisdom.”
“Words? That’s it?” It was going to take more than words to get out of this mess.
Mr. Murayama squeezed his fingers into a fist. “Ideas contain power, Max.”
“Okay, so after Lieutenant Endo died, Kazue brought the diary to you. But why?”
“To protect it for future generations. The days of the Second World War were—still are—too recent for some. There are people who would not want the public to know what really happened. It would create great political difficulties.” Mr. Murayama shook his wrinkled fist in the air. “But ideals should not be allowed to die. That diary should be used to teach future generations, so they do not repeat the mistakes we made in the past.”
“But Japan’s not aggressive. You only have a self-defense force.”
“A few years ago, I would have agreed with you. But look at your own country—there’s something very wrong. Your government has forgotten about Vietnam too quickly and is repeating the same mistakes around the world. And just last year, my government passed laws forcing schools to teach patriotism again. And the Defense Agency has changed to a proper ministry for the first time since the war. Politicians are also at work altering our constitution to allow a full army again. We are already beginning to forget, Max. It’s only a matter of time now. This diary is more valuable than ever.”
“But the Yakuza wouldn’t want it for its truths. They must believe it holds a treasure.”
“Yes, that’s a good point. Kazue must have lied to them when he offered the diary for sale. A valuable prize would increase the price he could demand.”
“So if I now give the Yakuza the diary, and they don’t find a map, then they’ll accuse me of stealing it. And I can’t imagine that ending well.” Max cocked his head as he thought back to the words he had heard only moments earlier. “Wait a minute. If you didn’t expect the Yakuza to come for the diary, then who did you expect would come?”
Mr. Murayama turned his face away. “I can’t say. It’s for your own good.”
“Great—so what do I do now? How can I make this all go away?”
“You can’t. I believe destiny has given you a calling.” Mr. Murayama took another sip of water. “In our meetings, you’ve confessed to wanting more from your life.”
“Honestly,” Max replied with a shake of his head, “I was thinking more like getting a decent job and a nice house.”
“You can be forgiven for having a young man’s vices—optimism, recklessness, and a little greed. I wish you could see that money and wealth are an illusion. There is never enough, my boy . . . never enough.” His wrinkled face grew focused with intensity. “If you want to be special, to do something truly important, then change history.”
“But—”
Mr. Murayama raised his hand, signaling for silence, as a noisy conversation approached and then passed outside the door. “You need to find the caretaker and return the diary. Perhaps he can also help you with the Yakuza—explain to them that no map exists.”
“By caretaker, you mean the guy who handed over the diary . . . almost fifty years ago? He’s probably dead by now. And if not, then why can’t I give it back to you—then you give it to him?”
“This is my journey’s end.” The old eyes grew watery. “I’ve known that I was dying for some time now.”
“Don’t say that.”
“But truth will find a way to be spoken, my boy. It can’t be hidden forever.”
Max leaned back and rubbed his temples, fighting the icy panic washing over him. The conversation wasn’t going the way he’d hoped, and his chest filled with a heavy breath of resignation as he asked the next fateful question. “So, who is this caretaker? Where’d he live?”
“He lives in the countryside near Nara.”
For a moment, the roo
m felt as if it were swaying. It was just a minor tremor and Max realized it was probably only in his head, but it forced him to sit up a little higher in his seat. “Did Kazue ever tell you the caretaker’s name?”
The old man paused before speaking. “His name was Ben.”
Benjie—the kid from the Philippines—was the caretaker?
“You mean the boy from the diary?” Max could barely believe what he was hearing. “And Tetsuo Endo took the diary away from Benjie? Which is how you eventually ended up with it?”
“Yes. Exactly.”
“So, why didn’t you ever return it?”
“I thought about it many times . . . but I couldn’t bring myself to give it away. I like to find and keep things. Old habits . . .” Tears rolled down both sunken cheeks. “My plan was to protect it until I died—I left instructions in my will so that after my death, copies would be sent to the media and a small group of well-known intellectuals. The information would then be impossible to contain.”
It’s all becoming clear.
Outside in the hallway, the sound of a squeaky wheel came to a stop on the other side of the door. A female voice was speaking to the on-duty officer. From her high-pitched giggle, it sounded as if she was flirting.
“The nurse is coming. I have an appointment for tests. You need to hide.” Mr. Murayama motioned with a flick of his hand. “Go into the toilet. The policeman will take a break when I’m away. Then you can leave.”
“But I’m not done. We haven’t finished talking.”
“Hurry.”
Max jumped to his feet and in one swift movement stuffed the diary into the daypack while charging into the bathroom. Pivoting on his heel, he turned back. “One more thing. Yoko—is she really your daughter?” The nurse’s voice was growing louder. She was just outside the door.
“Ask President Kennedy.”
“What?”
Mr. Murayama coughed. “Ask President Kennedy.”
“But that doesn’t make any sense.”
“Hide, Max. Hide!”
DRESSED ONLY in loose cotton pants, Vincent Lemoine spun and kicked at the air. The thirty-fifth-floor hotel curtains were pulled wide open, all the better to take in the view of the dazzling city lights.
The Century Hotel’s executive rooms were spacious and uncluttered, just right for a workout. He twisted again and unleashed a flurry of jabs. Ducking left, he rolled across the floor before flexing his entire body and springing back to his feet. A roundhouse kick cut the air. His torso glistened with sweat.
The self-designed routine appeared similar to the Brazilian art of Capoeira. But in fact it was much deadlier, blending Krav Maga, the Israeli military hand-to-hand combat system, with key elements of Muay Thai martial arts. Decades of training had taken him from a mere student to a master. He was both lethal and effective.
The day’s visit to Max Traver’s House had yielded little. The documents retrieved were spread out on the desk next to a recently opened bottle of cognac. There was a sparsely written journal, several pay stubs, and only a few photos that merited any examination. He had already noted and memorized the relevant details before sending an encrypted verbal report to Senator McCloy.
Vincent prized his almost perfect recall. Friends often commented on his uncanny ability to retain the smallest of details. Names, dates, faces, and addresses—it was a CIA skill that had saved his life on more than one occasion. Not to say that brute force wasn’t necessary on occasion; but while force and firepower came in handy, information was the most powerful weapon of all. Without it, an agent became just another sharpshooter.
The kid’s a nobody from a dead-end family. He won’t even be missed; just another traveler who never made it home.
Long ago, he had made a conscious decision to never waste time thinking about all the people he’d killed. Whether it was Hong Kong, Seoul, Beijing, or a dozen other places, it didn’t really matter. Secrets needed to be kept, security needed to be safeguarded, and those who were a threat needed to be eliminated.
There was a knock at the door. Vincent paused to admire his ripped abs in a mirror before walking to the entranceway. “Who is it?”
A male voice with a Southern drawl carried through the door. “A package for Mr. Bob Elgin.”
“I’m his brother, Lloyd Elgin. Just leave it there.” Several seconds ticked by before he peered out into the hallway. There was no point being too hasty. A camouflage duffel bag rested on the carpet. Glancing down the corridor, Vincent could see the courier’s back as he strode away. The man was dressed in a cheap suit, but walked with a crisp authority―probably a U.S. Marine from the nearby Yokosuka military base, just making a little extra money. No questions asked.
He retrieved the bag and emptied its contents onto the bed. Everything he’d asked for was provided, right down to the two modified ASP handguns, their unique features and rounded edges made them the best covert guns available.
Vincent slung the hotel towel over his neck and felt the weight of the weapons in each hand. The moment was good, and he allowed himself to revel in it. A strong body, an exotic city, fantastic toys, and the thrill of the hunt.
He couldn’t help but smile. It didn’t get any better than this.
Thursday, April 26
TOSHI’S FOYER was silent as a grave, Max mused as he sat in the open hallway, clutching her note, gazing bereft at the duvet that had covered Tomoko’s curving silhouette. But she was gone. In fact, the entire damn house was empty. He’d scoured the place twice after waking alone, refusing to believe, shouting noisily and banging on any door that didn’t yield. He’d been abandoned at exactly the moment he believed he was finally set to do the right thing. It was quarter to six in the morning and the place was an empty tomb.
Talking things over as they drifted toward sleep, she had again raised the idea of going home, before finally conceding. The Yakuza won’t give up, and I can’t go to the police—at least not yet. Finding this caretaker may be the last shot. It’s my fault everything went wrong. First, they would go to Nara and only then would they contact her parents. That was the agreed on plan. But she had lied.
Max hammered an incensed elbow backward into the wall. How could she?
The corner of the note resting in his hand was folded into an origami bird; something Tomoko only did when stressed or bored. The handwritten words claimed she would find him in Nara, and asked for him to wait, but was it true? Or had she simply changed her mind about their relationship?
And where the hell was Toshi?
Despite his battered ego, Max rose and descended the open staircase. In the stillness, each feather-light creak of the floor felt like an explosion of noise.
Searching for her family home would be pointless. He knew they lived in Urayasu, but nothing else. She had never taken him there. How could she have, since her parents were oblivious to his existence? He was just a foreigner after all, a Gaijin, an exotic fucking pet.
Adjusting the daypack, he approached the front door looming large before him. But what if she changes her mind and comes back? Reaching for the handle, Max bit his lip and clenched his fist, hammering an invisible tabletop. Should I wait awhile? It was the point of no return, and his resolve began to slip. He steeled himself against weakness as he turned to survey the two white urns resting beneath the vaulted foyer.
Mr. M’s passion and remorse had weighed heavily on his mind: “The chorus of so many who have died cannot be silenced.” Throughout the night, the lingering words had echoed in his dreams: “The diary has chosen you as its new guardian.” Even if it were not the case, even if the old man was losing it, the power of action, any action, was better than cowering and hoping the threats would simply go away. Too many of his childhood moments had been spent sitting next to his careworn mother, praying for help that never came. A miracle hadn’t happened then, and it wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. Max recalled, as if it were yesterday, the small-town American preachers speaking in a rising crescendo, their pseu
do-prophetic words spiraling upward to meet climactically in the air with the stinging slap of two palms: “The Lord helps those who help themselves!” Hallelujahs, waving arms, and thunderous applause always followed.
Nobody forced her to leave. She made her own choice.
Max slipped into the crisp morning air. Outside the sanctuary, he pulled on a baseball cap and trotted down the stairs. The trains would start soon, and there was a long way to go. Time was short, and he started to run, slowly at first, but more quickly with each passing building. Block after block, he raced an invisible enemy until his burning lungs screamed as loud as his mind, “You have been chosen!”
IT WAS almost eight in the morning, and the prefab suburban neighborhood was quiet. The house in the middle of the block showed no signs of life. For over an hour, Tomoko had stared at the rolled shutters of the two-story white aluminum building. From her vantage point down the street, she could easily spot any activity. A tiny patch of grass served as the front lawn, with an adjacent concrete pad for a single car. The community was well planned, orderly, and perfectly uniform; a compact version of the American dream.
Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. In fact, it wasn’t unusual for her mother to spend days indoors. The regular routine had been twice-weekly grocery shopping, a flower-arranging class, and Wednesday’s “Lady’s Lunch.” Even as a child, she had found the suburban homemaker’s life unimaginably dull. She vowed that she would never be dependent, waiting each day for her man to come home.
Crouched next to a utility shed, staring through the hedge, she ached with the thought of rushing into her mother’s arms. But she held back. The last few days had trained her to be wary. Nothing could be taken for granted. People were being murdered, and she would not put her family in harm’s way.
Tomoko watched a FedEx Kinko’s van drive slowly past. The faceless driver stopped and started several times but didn’t exit the vehicle. He was probably lost in the maze of copycat streets. Reaching the T-intersection at the road’s end, the van turned and disappeared from sight.
Collector of Secrets Page 18