Max tried focusing on his breakfast, but the chatty redhead next to him insisted on holding travelers’ conversation. He quickly learned that her name was Maxine and that she was from Bristol, as was everyone at the table. Most of them couldn’t find work, so they thought a trip seemed like a good way to piss away the time. She commented on how funny it was that his name was Max, and hers was Maxine. It was such a small world. They’d been in Japan only a few days, but had found it terribly expensive and were trying to find a cheap way to get to Thailand.
Max concentrated on his cereal. It crossed his mind that staying in bed a little while longer would have been a good idea.
Maxine continued on about how they were also planning to head to the Philippines to stay with her cousin Sarah, who was working in Manila for a British bank. It was odd that she wanted to go to Manila for a year, but then Sarah always was a little different.
Finally, Maxine took a much-needed breath, allowing Max a brief moment of silence. The conversation made him wonder whatever happened to his friend Janice from Manila. Her whole family had moved back there after she graduated high school.
Suddenly Max stopped chewing as an old yet familiar image formed in his head. He leaned across the noisy table and spoke to the cute brunette. “Could I use your laptop for a minute?”
The girl smiled and handed over the computer. “No problem.” Her boyfriend’s upper lip curled slightly before he smoothed his oily hair and looked away.
Maxine leaned over Max’s shoulder while he Googled for information. There were millions of hits for “Ku Klux Klan,” but he quickly found one that showed what he was looking for.
MIOAK stands for the Mystic Insignia Of A Klansman. Today it is most commonly known as the Blood Drop Cross. It is displayed as the patch seen on the robes of Klansmen. It is also a part of the Imperial Seal of the Klan.
The Klan symbol wasn’t at all like the one he’d seen hanging from the flagpole the day before. A second Google search used the criteria of “Philippine Flag.” It didn’t take long to find a picture similar to the one he remembered hanging in Janice’s former Los Angeles living room. According to the information on the screen, the Philippine flag had changed several times between 1842 and 1898.
An 1894 Katipunan flag had the three Ks, but also a sun that projected sixteen rays. It was the flag used during the Battle of San Juan del Monte, the first major battle of the Philippine Revolution.
Max felt an electrical charge course through his veins and he almost shouted, “It was Ben!” Attempting to stand quickly, his knees jolted the table’s underside. A chorus of upset voices erupted as several glasses slopped liquid on the table’s surface. “Damn!” He snatched the laptop from harm’s way and handed it back to the giggling brunette.
“Sorry about the mess.” He backed away quickly. “And good luck with your trip and the magic mushrooms and all that.”
Charging from the room, the last thing he heard was the boyfriend’s nasally voice. “What a bloody wanker!”
The living bamboo fence traced a line in either direction from where Max was standing. The taxi had dropped him on the closest road, and he’d run the rest of the way, only stopping to catch his breath. His ankle wasn’t throbbing much, he noticed.
What if Ben doesn’t speak English? The girl—Chiho—might be gone. Max smacked his hand against the gate repeatedly. I may still be out of luck. He worried as he paced back and forth. It had looked like a huge compound, and since they weren’t expecting guests, they might not answer. The dogs, however, heard the noise right away and barked wildly. They were the perfect doorbell.
An eternity seemed to pass before the inset window opened. A tanned, round face peered out, displaying no visible emotion. The man had trimmed gray hair and wide, flat nostrils.
“I, uh . . . hi, I’m Max Travers. It’s important that I find a man named Ben Takeda.” He felt like an idiot, but didn’t care. He could hardly contain himself. His heart was beating insanely fast.
The man’s stoic expression remained unmoving, as if cast in bronze.
“I have to return a diary that I think belongs to Ben . . . Mr. Takeda. Let me show you.” Max dropped to one knee and set the daypack on the ground. He undid the zipper and removed the satchel. Reaching inside, he noticed his hands shaking with excitement as he withdrew the yellow volume and raised his head in anticipation. But the window was closed.
The face had vanished.
Max was stunned. This can’t be happening. Failure and despair swept down like a cold wind whistling from the treetops. It was all for nothing. The twisting path had led to a forested dead end.
Where do I go from here? How do I make this stop?
He cursed and threw down the diary before punching blindly at the solid gate.
“Owww!” Max slumped backward into the rut of the dirt path. His eyes watered and his bleeding hand ached as his head hung down between bent knees. It shouldn’t be this way. He’d bought into Mr. M’s bullshit speech about ideas and wisdom needing to survive—but ideas don’t feel pain. The book was a curse, not a treasure. He shouldn’t have to suffer for it. People shouldn’t be dying. He had simply wanted his passport. Was it too much to ask?
Why did I ever leave the States? I should never have come here. What was I thinking?
Max gripped the sides of his skull, pressing hard with his palms. He desperately tried to crush away the anger and self-loathing swelling inside his chest. “Dumb . . . dumb . . . dumb!”
Unexpectedly, the air was pierced by the sound of squeaky hinges. The high gateway groaned as it swung away and the same gray-haired man stepped out into the laneway. Dressed in denim overalls with a brown work shirt, he appeared to be just a little over five feet tall. He approached and motioned for Max to stand. “There’s no need to be upset. I was simply putting the dogs away.” The man’s soothing voice had a refined, lilting accent. “I see you’ve hurt your hand. We can find a bandage.”
The throbbing in Max’s head eased slightly as he rose up and dusted off his jeans. “Thanks.” He wiped at his flushed cheeks, overcome with a bloom of gratitude and embarrassment.
The tiny man retrieved the daypack and satchel, handing them over, but he held onto the diary. Cradling it between his chest and forearm, his fingertips lightly brushed the raised picture on the leather surface. “It’s still so lovely.” His eyes glowed, transfixed. “I haven’t seen this in a very, very long time.”
Could it be? It didn’t seem possible. Max could hardly believe his ears.
Blinking rapidly, the man seemed to catch himself. “Mr. Travers, my name is Ben. Come inside with me.”
FLUORESCENT PULSES of red light created peaks and valleys on the heart monitor’s face. Outside the windowless hospital room, the police guard sat propped up in a chair, his chin resting above his protruding belly. The sedative from his coffee would wear off in an hour or two. In the meantime, the hospital staff would think he was just catching a little catnap. Nobody walking past would give it a second thought. Luckily, police reputations around the world were notoriously similar.
Vincent had observed the doctor finishing his post-breakfast rounds. It would likely be another thirty minutes before anyone came to check up on the patient again. The hum of equipment was the only noise in the room until Mr. Murayama spoke first.
“I was expecting someone to come. Are you here to hurt me?”
“Yes.” The lethal green eyes stared at the shell of a man lying in the bed. “If you don’t cooperate.”
“Well, you have competition. I think the doctor is trying to kill me first.”
Vincent came forward and stood near the bed. He straightened the sleeves of his charcoal Kilgour suit, the only thing he would ever concede that the British made better then the French. “I’m here to discuss what was taken from your office five days ago.”
“My phone and some antique daggers. Nothing important. It’s all in the police report, which I’m sure you’ve read.”
Vincent ex
haled sharply, not buying what was being sold. “All right, let’s begin with why Kazue Saito was murdered.”
Mr. Murayama coughed before speaking. “I don’t know, but since his divorce, he’s been gambling. I helped him with money sometimes, but it appears the Yakuza killed him. Probably men he owed loans to. He may have told them that he possessed a map to—” He paused to glance at the closed door. “—to something they wanted.”
“So why come after you?”
“When he couldn’t deliver the map, I believe he lied and gave them my name.”
“And they came to your office, but took nothing important?” Vincent shook his head. “I can guarantee you if I came looking for something valuable, I would leave with more than trinkets.”
“Please, I’m telling the truth.”
“Then why is the prime suspect in the police report an American English teacher?”
“I . . . I don’t know.”
It was obvious that the old man’s diplomatic mask was slipping a little, and Vincent leaned closer. “Ever since the end of World War Two, there have been rumors of someone spending considerable amounts of money to gather proof of Golden Lily, and the fact that it has become the source of the Black Eagle Trust and the M-Fund. As you well know, this evidence is something your government and mine would prefer to keep private.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“This rumored person was said to be hoarding maps, photographs, letters, waybills, contracts, tax records, insurance documents, audio tapes, and the like. There were stories of him quietly hunting and gathering for many years. But in our business, you can never be perfectly quiet. The rumor was that this collector of secrets would come forward at some point to demand a ransom for his silence.” Vincent paused, watching for a reaction, before he continued. “Did you know, because of your diplomatic knowledge and extensive collection of artifacts . . . at one time you were on the list of prime candidates?”
Mr. Murayama sputtered, “I have never done anything—”
Vincent clicked his tongue in condescension. “Don’t look so shocked. No, you’ve proven your loyalty and greed far too many times, and besides, why would someone gather evidence in order to point a finger back at themselves? Several times this elusive collector was nearly caught, but he always managed to slip away. Years ago, the trail went cold and the rumors died away.” Vincent paused to let the moment sink in. He knew that fear took longer to work its way into the thick skin of an experienced diplomat.
“But then recently a strange thing happened.” Vincent adjusted his gloves. “Rumors began circulating of information being offered for sale to the highest bidder. The items for sale were a very old diary and a map. A buyer came forward. Perhaps it was the Yakuza you mentioned, or maybe it was the elusive collector at work again. Then within the last week, Kazue Saito was murdered, and your artifacts were ransacked. To the less observant, these may seem like completely separate things.” His voice deepened and grew deadly serious. “But to a mind that has spent a lifetime drawing lines between events and people, these are three dots in the same connected picture.”
“Please go.” Mr. Murayama said. “I’ve told you everything. There’s nothing more to say.”
Vincent straightened up and reached into the side pocket of his suit jacket. From within, he extracted a clear plastic syringe and removed the cap. He’d fully expected to use the serum, but it was always worth exploring an easier avenue.
“This little puzzle is one that I intend to solve. So you can help me either willingly or unwillingly. The choice is up to you.”
A thin line of serum sprayed across the pillow’s face.
Raising his hands, Mr. Murayama wiped the fluid from his cheeks. “You’re insane!”
The room was dark and warm. Mr. Murayama’s eyes fluttered, then shut again. He was drifting on the edge of sleep, but Vincent was shaking his shoulder and pulling him back. “Wake up! Wake up! It’s Max. Help me. Please help me.”
The old man’s thick tongue struggled against dry lips, and his words slurred. He was fighting to speak clearly. “But . . . but you were supposed to find Ben.”
“I lost the information.”
“Where are you, Max? I can’t . . . see you.”
“I’m so scared. Please, Mr. Murayama, help me remember what to do. I’m in so much pain.”
“Ben in Nara. You must . . . Ben Takeda in Nara . . . give him the diary.”
“But where in Nara?”
“I did . . .” The old body spasmed and shook.
Vincent glanced at the rhythmic squiggles on the heart monitor as they grew increasingly chaotic. Administering truth drugs, even the latest generation, was not an exact science. There was plenty of room for error. “Help me! Where does Ben live?”
“You . . . in the country . . . Nara . . . Ahhhh!”
Mr. Murayama’s withered frame convulsed violently. The line on the monitor bounced, then slowed to a trickle before the alarm began screeching.
It was time to move. The information was enough to go on.
Stepping out of the room, Vincent almost collided with a youthful nurse running down the hall. Her panicked demeanor changed to a look of confusion as she raced past him into the room. The shrieking noise rose and died away as the door opened and shut.
Vincent casually made his way to the nearby stairwell. He was already thinking about the Bullet Train reservation he needed to make.
Exiting the hospital, he looked up at the crucifix above the Nursing College next door. As he dialed the Japan Rail train office, he made the sign of the cross with his right arm. “In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Lord have Mercy. Amen.”
THE QUEEN of Korea did not go quietly. The cordial face that she initially presented in 1895 to the conquering Japanese quickly turned to irreverence and finally contempt. Her refusal to support the scheme to conquer her people ended in fiery flames. Servants watched in horror as she was set ablaze, making a desperate, screaming run through the peaceful grounds of Seoul’s Gyeongbok Palace. Having had their way with her, the Japanese Black Ocean agents smirked and giggled like schoolboys with a frog as she thrashed and stumbled. She tried, with arms outstretched, to reach the nearby lake. A kerosene inferno consumed the billowing layers of her silk dress. The fragrance of the normally flowered setting lay blanketed beneath the sweet, awful stench of searing flesh. Finally her arms ceased to beat the air, and she fell forward. Her smoldering skull rang out as it struck the rocks on the pathway, while the last of the flames licked away what little exposed flesh remained.
“My mother told my sister and me that story,” Ben clutched the diary and spoke in a calm voice as they walked in the late morning sun. “The murder of Empress Myeongseong was the beginning of fifty years of death and theft. Mother told us never to forget that if the empress fought to the end, we should do the same.”
“How could that happen?” Try as he might, Max couldn’t stop the unsettling wave sweeping over him. The words seemed so out of place in this pastoral setting. A lush and intricate garden had been carved into the surrounding forest. Winding pathways edged the curves of the central pond. Sculpted bushes grew alone or huddled together. The main house, made of dark brown wood, stood to the northwest, its helmet of bullet-gray ceramic tiles glowing through the surrounding green leaves. Scatterings of cherry and maple trees brushed the scene with pink and smoky red. “Where’s your sister now?”
“She disappeared. When I was a child, soldiers came and took her. They killed my mother when she tried to stop them. I never saw my sister again, but I hope she died quickly.” Ben hesitated. “A quick death would have been better than what those men had planned for her.”
Max exhaled horror, struggling to accept the statement.
“It is strange to wish death . . .” Ben whispered, “for someone so loved.”
They strolled past a thatched hut next to the path, allowing the aching moment to dwindle and pass. Max still wasn’t sur
e it was all real. Any second, he expected to wake in a tangle of sheets at the Nara hostel. “So at the end of the war—you were brought here?”
“Yes. 1945. We came in a submarine. I was eight years old and terrified.”
“And you were adopted by the prince.”
“I was raised with a good education and a stern British-trained nanny. This place has been my home for the past sixty-two years.” Ben looked up with an odd smile. “My adoption wasn’t written in the prince’s diary. How do you know that?”
“Tomoko, my . . . my girlfriend. She did some research.” How can I forgive her for leaving like that? He would have been relieved to express his angst and frustration, but the story was too personal to share with a stranger, at least so soon. Max looked away, masking his mixed emotions as he deftly changed the subject. “So didn’t you ever want to go back to the Philippines? To your real home?”
“A place is only a place, Max—it’s the people you are with who make it home. Prince Takeda became like a father, and then when I grew older, I met my wife, Sayuri.”
“But wait a minute.” The logic felt circuitous, as if the thread were looping back upon itself. “It was Prince Takeda who killed your real father . . .”
Ben continued walking with an even, rhythmic pace as he spoke. “I know it must be difficult for you to understand, because when you think of the prince, you see a tyrant. He appears a dangerous and evil man. I also thought that way once, but in time, I came to see a man torn between duty and personal conviction. He was required to do things he didn’t want to do. But every chance he could, when duty did not clearly dictate, he chose the better path.”
“But in the diary he confessed to burying hundreds of people alive.”
“True, and my birth father was one of them. But is redemption for the sinner possible? Can a lifetime of terrible actions be erased with just a few good ones? I believe the answer is yes.”
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