Collector of Secrets

by Richard Goodfellow

  Max recalled the blood scarf trailing below Mrs. Kanazawa’s head. “I don’t know if I agree.”

  Ben appeared willing to accept a difference of opinion, and he nodded without speaking.

  As they approached the wooden mast, Max pointed up. “That Philippine flag was the thing I remembered. It brought me back here.”

  “Don’t tell my wife.” Ben chuckled. “If she knew that story, it would be removed by morning.”

  “But why do you keep it, if Japan became your home?”

  “My true father was born on August 30, 1896, the same day as the Battle of San Juan del Monte, the Philippine Revolution. He loved this flag.”

  Max continued staring up, feeling his guard slipping just a little, questioning his decision only a year before to leave California. “My dad loves only two things, baseball and football, the Chargers and the Dodgers. It drove my mom crazy.” The memory felt like a faded photograph.

  Ben stopped walking and turned, his face growing serious. “So have you come looking for treasure? For riches? For reward? Because if you have, then I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

  “No. Like I said, I’ve come for help. To make this stop. Mr. Murayama couldn’t help me, but he thought maybe you could. I’m tired of running and being afraid all the time.”

  “You have to forgive me. I don’t know who Mr. Murayama is.”

  “He’s a friend of mine. A diplomat who once worked with a guy named Tetsuo Ando . . . no, wait, that’s not right. His name was Tetsuo Endo.”

  Ben’s face lit up. “Aaaah! Tetsuo Endo. He was Prince Takeda’s personal bodyguard during the war. A greedy and dangerous man. He was the one who came and took the diary away from me. He thought it held directions to one of the 175 burial sites. I’m sure he was disappointed to find it holds no maps.”

  “So why did you give it to him?”

  “He owed considerable loans. I can still remember his half-crazy eyes as he threatened my wife and baby. Fighting is not for me. I have seen too much death.” Ben shrugged. “I gave it to him, and he simply went away.”

  “But Prince Takeda could have protected you.”

  “The prince lived his own life with his family in Chiba. By that time, I saw him perhaps once a year. I was deeply sad to see the diary go. It was my only link to the past.” Ben stared directly into Max’s eyes, unblinking, as if he were trying to glimpse the corners of the soul inside. “And now you’ve brought it back.”

  “Yes,” Max said with foreboding. “But there are others who want it.”

  Seconds ticked by before a reply was forthcoming. “That is a problem.”

  “So could the Yakuza—could Oto Kodama—still think there’s a map inside it?”

  “It seems the most logical answer for why a man of his . . . background would desire it.”

  Max looked away at the sculpted trees and reflective ponds. Time felt suspended. Yet outside the protective bamboo walls, he knew that events were racing forward. Something was coming, and he needed to figure a solution fast.

  “Ojii-chan! Ojii-chan! Grandpa!” Chiho’s high-pitched shout tore ahead of her running feet. She sprang from the grove of tall trees on the north side of the clearing and raced toward them. Ben’s wife also emerged from the forest. She spotted Max and stopped walking for a moment. Even from a distance, he could see her scowling face as she turned and stomped toward the two-story house.

  Ben stretched out his arms as Chiho approached, and the two collided in a hug. He whispered into her ear, and she giggled a reply as Ben stood straight again.

  “You will stay here tonight.” Ben said suddenly with an air of authority. “It’s the start of the holiday week, and all the hotels will be full. There is more to discuss. We should continue our conversation after I take Chiho home.”

  Max thought instantly of Tomoko’s promise to find him, but before he could express gratitude Chiho grasped each of their hands, connecting them into a chain. Then she burst into song, pulling them all forward along the gravel path toward the house.

  The wooden flooring beneath Max’s feet creaked. Translucent light glowed through the thin washi paper stretched over shoji screens on the opposite side of the hallway. He was viewing a procession of photographs that ran the length of the house’s main corridor, straightening them as he moved along.

  The pictures told the story of Ben’s life in Japan, from his childhood through to his grandchildren.The voices of Ben and his wife could be heard in the kitchen at the far end of the hall. It was too distant to make out the words, even if he could speak the language, but it was clear from the strained tone that the conversation wasn’t going well.

  “How do you know he can be trusted?” Sayuri’s salt-and-pepper hair was pulled into a knot, her arms folded defensively across her chest. A row of creases decorated her forehead.

  “I don’t know that yet,” said Ben, “but he seems genuine.”

  “It could all be an act. I know what you’re thinking, but you must not . . . it’s too important to trust a stranger. He may just be a treasure hunter with a good story or even a foreign spy.”

  “He could be, but he may also be someone who truly needs my help.”

  “I have a very bad feeling about this.”

  “Well, Chiho likes him, and children are excellent at spotting liars. And I think he may be honorable—but that will take longer to determine.”

  “Yes, well . . . regardless, it’s time we don’t have. We need to leave, now. I’ll be finished here shortly.” She shook her head and turned back to the sink, returning to the task of washing the last of the bamboo shoots freshly dug from the forest floor. “Let him stay only one night.”

  “As you wish.” Ben exited the kitchen into the hall as the wooden floor groaned and echoed.

  Sayuri’s voice rang out behind him. “And he stays in the guest house!”

  Max was halfway down the hall, bent over examining a photo, glad for a brief moment to focus his mind on something other than his overwhelming problems. He spoke when he heard the creaking floor grow quiet behind him. “Is this your son in this climbing picture?”

  “Yes. He lives in Osaka now,” Ben replied.

  Max straightened up. “I love sport climbing―try to do as much as I can.” He longed for the return of carefree days of harnesses, ropes, and chalky hands.

  Ben smiled as he spoke. “I know only that it makes my son happy.” He motioned toward the exit. “I know you are looking for answers, and I do want to help you.” He seemed sincere. “We will talk again, soon, but for now I have to take Chiho to her home. I should be back this evening. Please— let me show you where you’ll stay tonight.”

  For the smallest space of time Max paused. As hospitable as Ben appeared to be, gaining his trust would take effort, and events would move at whatever pace he chose to set. Max nodded resigned agreement, silently hoping there was enough time, still unsure if Tomoko might come, praying the gamble would pay off.

  The two returned to the sunshine of the yard before turning north into the forest grove. The dense overhead canopy filtered out much of the blue sky, and a cool, lush feeling of moist air brushed past as the pathway changed to dirt. Max was puzzled but tried not to show it. Ground vegetation thickened as they approached a short slope between the bases of two enormous cedar trees. Continuing for another twenty paces, they stepped through a thicket of bushes into a great forest clearing.

  Ahead, in the center of the open space sat the square base of what must have once been an Imperial castle. The gently curving walls rose at least fifty feet. Moss-covered blocks of stone made up the foundation. Stacked diagonally, they resembled diamonds rising into the air.

  Max gazed up, craning his neck, and blinked with surprise. The image was astounding. “Whoa!” He turned immediately to look at Ben. The old man’s smiling face revealed that he’d expected the reaction.

  Perched on top of the stupendous ancient stone base was a modern, but rustic, wilderness cabin. A set of switchback stairs zigza
gged up the face of the structure, soaring high before meeting a jutting veranda suspended into space.

  Ben waved his hand like a vaudeville performer. “Welcome to my guest house.”

  THE PEN in Yoko’s hand was running out of ink. She rattled it in frustration before throwing it across the open gallery space. Overhead, powerful voices from Rigoletto’s quartet, “Un di, se ben rammentomi,” resonated from hidden speakers.

  She searched through the desk-drawer clutter. There was so much to do and so little time. The application lying before her was for the preview showing of the fifty-second International Art Exhibition, the Biennale di Venezia. Only professionals and the press would be permitted to attend. The application would be the key to the birth of her new life. It needed to be faxed no later than the April thirtieth deadline, just three short days away.

  Her future identity had arrived by courier in a sealed envelope. A week from now, she would disappear to Venice. She would wander the canals and stroll again through the palaces and palazzi. Then she would sharpen her Italian and drink in the works of the Venice Biennale before buying a space and opening her own gallery.

  The terrible past would fade into distant memory once and for all. Death and debt would haunt her sleep no more. Her life would consist of rising late and sipping coffee at outdoor cafés. Afternoons would be spent with guests, ushering them through her latest exhibit. She could almost feel the warm evenings filled with operatic crescendos, rich wine, pasta, and worldly company.

  The bobbed haircut in the passport photo was hers, but the new name would take some getting used to: Vera Weaver. It had an old-school movie star ring to it. She would become a new and better person. She would step into the skin of her newly acquired life and never look back.

  The cell phone next to her buzzed and bounced on the desktop. The display read, “Masami Ishi.” She chose to ignore until a text came through: “I know you’re at the gallery. Call me.”

  The conjoined operatic voices reached a climax as Yoko dialed the missed call and stepped from the front door onto the concrete sidewalk. Sunlight and shadows from the surrounding buildings painted the narrow, car-lined street in wide stripes.

  Her voice betrayed frustration, but she did her best to remain calm. “How did you know I was at the gallery?”

  Masami chuckled. “See the tan car across the street? Did you think that I would just trust you?”

  She retreated into the recessed gallery doorway. “You’re a bastard.”

  “You will not slip away again. At least not until I get my money. Speaking of which, how is the sale of the school’s shares coming along?”

  Yoko wanted to lash out, but she bit her tongue instead. “Everything is on schedule. The shareholders will be meeting me at the lawyer’s office tomorrow to sign the final documents. They think Max has gone traveling with his aunt. The money should be transferred within ten days.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Any news from your side? This whole process could still unravel if Max is publicly arrested.”

  “I’m suppressing the crime details from the media. We’re also following up a lead from the Izu, but so far he’s remained elusive.”

  “Well, perhaps your men should work a little harder.”

  Masami Ishi’s voice rose to a shout. “Do not tell me how to do my job. You focus on your tasks and let me do mine.”

  Yoko smirked to herself. Her voice became soothing. “Of course, Masami-kun. I didn’t mean to imply that you weren’t trying very, very hard.”

  His snorting breath simmered down. “My officers tell me your gallery opening is tomorrow.”

  “Yes. I’ll be bringing the shareholders here after the meeting at the lawyer’s office. Make sure your men are invisible.”

  “They will be.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Yes, I suppose—”

  Yoko snapped the phone shut before he could finish.

  Thank you again for showing your cards, Masami. My next vanishing act may require more finesse than the last one—challenging, but still doable.

  She eyed the wicked car before turning back inside.

  TOMOKO WATCHED as Hiro squirmed in a hard-backed wooden chair, rubbing his eyes. Minutes had stretched into hours as he adjusted the pages of Cry Freedom against the shadows created by the prison cell’s single overhead light bulb.

  The door scraped open, and in stepped the skinny sentry. He’d brought one of Oto’s bodyguards with him. “Father wants to see her.” The sentry motioned with his goatee toward the room’s back wall.

  Hiro set down his novel. The legs of his chair screeched against the bare concrete floor. “Please do as they say. You’ll be forced to go, anyway.”

  Silently, Tomoko rose and brushed the hair from her face, having known this moment would come. She hoped her eyes were expressionless, hiding the dread that was wrenching at her stomach. “Fine.”

  Pressed into the back corner, Tomoko felt the elevator trip to the thirty-first floor would take forever. A symphonic version of “I Will Always Love You” drifted from the ceiling. As they arrived, she reminded herself that the fear of the unknown was usually worse than the pain of dealing with it, or so she hoped.

  They crossed a marble foyer and entered the mansion’s living room, but Hiro remained back, almost out of sight.

  Ceiling-to-floor windows showcased the evening twilight and the first glow of city lights stretching into the distance. The room’s sleek opulence was designed to impress.

  Oto was reclining on a sofa, with the second bodyguard towering behind him. Dressed in a pure white Nehru suit, his black socks peeked over the top of his patent leather shoes. A crystal glass rested in one hand while his lecherous eyes played slowly over her form. “So good you could join us.”

  Standing between the entranceway and the furniture, Tomoko felt suspended in a kind of no-man’s land. Her vacant eyes belied the tension in her body as she chose not to speak.

  “I understand. You’re giving me the silent treatment in order to show your displeasure.” Oto sipped his drink. “Maybe you’ll speak if I pick your parents up again and question them all over?”

  Tomoko edged forward, bristling heat raking her skin as the guard behind her locked a warning grip on her shoulder. “They aren’t stupid enough to return home,” she spat while pushing the guard’s hand away. “Don’t touch me!”

  Oto sat up. From his irate expression, it was clear he wasn’t used to being addressed with such insolence. “So you do have a tongue. Well, perhaps you can use it to give me the information I want, so I don’t need to go looking for them.”

  “What could I know that would matter to you?”

  “Begin with the diary. We know your Gaijin boyfriend has it and that he’s gone to Nara. Why go there?”

  “You’re mistaken. I left him. It’s over, and I have no idea where he went.” She motioned back toward Hiro. “His partner—the big ape—made the assumption Max went to Nara because of an address he found in my pocket. But in fact, it’s my manager’s summer home.”

  “We’ll find out soon enough if you’re lying.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Oto ignored the question. “I also want to know if you got a look at the map.”

  “Map? What are you talking about? What map?”

  “Don’t lie to me!” The Yakuza leader flared as he rose and pointed directly at her with two fingers, like the barrel of a gun. “During the war, my father was a rear admiral in the Navy and an advisor to the prime minister. He knew exactly what was going on, and he swore there was a diary with a map. You and your stupid American boyfriend are not going to take what belongs to me!”

  “Too bad your father wouldn’t swear that you were actually his son.” The moment the words left her mouth, she knew she’d gone too far. Tomoko and the guard both ducked as Oto’s crystal glass sailed overhead and shattered on the wall. The Yakuza leader was red-faced as he screamed, “Get this bitch out of my sight!”

&
nbsp; The guard lurched forward and wrapped his massive arms around Tomoko, running his open hands across her chest, making her gasp. She reacted by raising her right knee and driving her heel into his instep. He groaned in pain and briefly relaxed his grip. The movement freed her arm for the next self-defense move. Twisting her upper body, she hammered an elbow backward into the center of his neck. The big man gasped and swayed, giving her the chance to spin around. A kneecap caught him in his groin at the same time as his fist impacted with her right temple and she shrieked as the force sent her diving to the ground. The guard careened backward, toppling over a clear vase. Glass shards and smooth stones blanketed the floorboards.

  Oto and the second bodyguard remained motionless, both men clearly shocked as Hiro raced forward to scoop Tomoko from the ground. “I’ll take her downstairs.” He fled to the waiting elevator, carrying her in his arms.

  “You care about her so damn much? Then you can stay locked up with her.” The great man’s bellow echoed out into the grand foyer. “And just so you know, little girl, your American boyfriend is going to die.”

  Tomoko balanced on the creaky chair with her knees tucked to her chest. A bowl of steaming water sat on the wooden table; Hiro dipped a cloth into it. Leaning forward, he attempted to pull her hands from her face, but she tensed and refused.

  “You’re playing a very dangerous game with Kodama-san.”

  Her muffled voice was defiant. “I’m tired of being a victim.”

  “If you want to live, you’ll be whatever he tells you to be.”

  Tomoko removed her left hand from her face. She pointed at the bandage covering his pinkie finger. “You may have chosen to survive that way, but I won’t.”

  “The difference is that I’ll live.”

  “If you call it living.”

  “Call it what you want. Now move your other hand so I can see your face.”

  Tomoko could sense that he was serious about helping, although why he was being so kind was still a mystery. Her feet slid to the floor, and she dropped both hands into her lap. Her right eye blinked and fluttered when she opened it. Surprisingly, the vision seemed fine.