Collector of Secrets

by Richard Goodfellow

  “Come in.” Masami Ishi continued to gaze out the window at the morning sunlight. “Do you have a girlfriend, commander?”

  “Not right now.” The man muttered, his eyes puzzling over the personal nature of the question.

  “That can be fixed once you return from Nara.” He turned to face the room. “I have just the girl for you to meet. She is extraordinary.”

  “Thank you.” The commander adjusted his wrinkled shirt. “Did you say I’m going to Nara?”

  “Yes. You’re here because I’m sending you on a special assignment—a hunt for the American.”

  “But shouldn’t the matter be handled by the regional police bureau for that area?”

  Masami Ishi knew he was exceeding his jurisdictional mandate, but he’d be damned if a mere boy was going to rob him of his chance to retire in luxury. This truth could never be revealed, so a lie would have to do, and the popular media had supplied him with all the ammunition he needed. He walked around and half sat on the desk’s front edge. “I’m going to tell you something that you need to keep only between us.”

  The commander stood a bit straighter.

  “I’ve been coordinating with the Public Security Investigation Agency. They’ve had Max Travers under surveillance for a while. It appears that he’s working with one or more terrorist groups in this country.” He patted a fake file lying thick on the desk. “In fact, they were just getting ready to arrest him when the burglary incident occurred.”

  “Why would he be working with terrorist groups?” The commander seemed skeptical, but Masami Ishi could tell that he wanted to believe.

  “Money.”

  “Are the burglary and the Izu incident both related to this?”

  “At this point, it’s unclear.” Masami Ishi punched a fist into his open hand. “But if we can get him alone, we may be able to get some details—names, places, dates, that sort of thing. And this all has to be done very quietly, so the other terrorists don’t get spooked.”

  “What about the American government?”

  Masami Ishi laughed. “If their government can keep prisoners indefinitely at Guantanamo Bay, then they’ll have little cause to complain about us holding Mr. Travers for a short period before laying formal charges.”

  “Yes, I understand, sir. But why Nara?”

  “A phone call came in this morning. There was an attack at a private residence just outside the city last night. The woman of the house reported it, and she gave Max Travers’ name. It looks like he was there, along with several Yakuza.”

  “But that doesn’t add up. The gangsters appeared to be chasing him on the Izu Peninsula.”

  “I’m sure it will all make sense in time.” The conversation needed to be wrapped up before many more questions could be asked. “Perhaps once we catch him, we can figure it out. An airplane is being readied to take you to Osaka. Find him!”

  “And my team?”

  “No. Too many of us arriving at once could draw the attention of the local authorities. Only you will go for now. We need to keep this under wraps. I’ll inform my counterpart in Osaka when the time is right.”

  “Shouldn’t the Public Security Investigation Agency have men working to find him? It’s a very unusual request, sir. I’m not sure that—”

  “Stop!” Masami Ishi pushed up from his half-seated position, his eyes bulging far more than normal. As he stepped forward, his comb-over slid down his forehead, adding to his semi-crazed look. “Are you questioning me in a matter of national security?”

  “Of course not!” The commander bowed low.

  “Good! Now get some clothes and get on the damned plane.” He moved closer to the younger officer. “And if I hear that you’ve spoken of this to anyone, I’ll have your head on my desk.”

  “I understand.” The commander bowed again.

  “Oh, and once you’re back, I’ll make that introduction. Trust me. You’ll like her.”

  THE NARA community police office was showing its age. A cluster of creaky metal desks, piled high with paper, were pressed one against another. Chipped linoleum tiles covered the floor, and the walls hadn’t seen fresh paint in a decade.

  In tourist brochures, the city was celebrated as the first capital of a unified Japan. The reality was that thirteen hundred years had passed since then. Regardless of the UNESCO World Heritage stamp, it was a quiet little backwater town in a country filled with dazzling mega-cities.

  The plainclothes officer excused himself from the smoke-filled central room. Heading for the toilet, he slipped out a side door and down the lane. Pulling a calling card from his pocket, he eased into a nearby telephone booth.

  A growly voice picked up on the second ring. “Yes.”

  “I have information that will be very valuable to your boss.” He paused briefly before continuing. “And I was hoping I could get paid more this time.”

  The response was brushed with disdain. “Listen, I don’t make those decisions.”

  The policeman was silent.

  “Are you still there? If not, I’m going back to sleep.”

  The officer sighed while he stared from the booth at a half-dozen kids riding by on bikes.“All right. A woman came into the station this morning to report a late-night break-in. She said that several men invaded her country home. It appears that one of the men was involved in a fight—and he lost. She turned in a bloody wallet. The identification gave his name—Jun Hirano.”

  “And where is Hirano-san now?”

  “I don’t know. Officers have gone out to the house, but they haven’t reported back yet.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Yes. But please make sure to tell Oto that this time I could really use more money.”

  “Yeah, sure.” The man’s snort was cut off by the buzz of the disconnected line.

  THE MASSIVE eight-hundred-year-old Nandaimon Gates welcomed the most recent band of visitors pouring off a seemingly endless stream of air-conditioned coaches. Two immense Niomon Guardians, their snarling faces and bulging muscles carved from wood, towered over the flow of people coming and going. A bright procession of orange-robed priests moved single file down the wide stone walkway leading up to the Todai Buddhist Temple. The rare display resulted in a touristic frenzy of jostling, gawking, and picture-taking.

  Vincent pulled unnoticed into the slipstream of a group of Germans. Many of them were smoking unfiltered cigarettes, and there was a great deal of finger pointing as they approached the curving dual eaves of the world’s largest wooden structure.

  The group moved into the temple through the gaping left entrance, while Vincent broke away and stepped over the threshold of the entrance to the right. A forty-five-foot bronze Buddha rose above the group’s tour guide, who was frenetically trying to pull his flock back together. His Germanic shouts echoed in the cavernous chamber but were ignored by the amateurs circling the 550-ton statue, each photographer searching for the perfect shot.

  Vincent strolled among the temple’s shops before stepping past the clearly marked NO ENTRY sign. He made his way out of the building’s side door, undetected.

  It had been a stroke of early-morning luck when he’d begun a conversation with an elderly man sitting on a bench outside the city’s tourist office. The octogenarian informed him that “Old Ben Takeda wouldn’t be at home on a Saturday morning.” The man spoke between puffs on the stem of a bamboo Kiseru pipe. “Takeda-san teaches painting classes. Today I think he’s on the lawn behind Todai-ji. Nice view, and not so many annoying foreigners getting in the way.”

  Just ahead of Vincent, a set of stairs led down to the temple’s back lawn. Standing at the top, he counted at least twenty-five people scattered on the grass below, parked behind matching easels. Their heads intermittently peered over their work as they gathered glimpses of the imposing structure.

  Vincent placed an oversized wad of chewing gum into his mouth and descended the steps. He focused his mind back to the blue-collar accent he’d been practicing earlier that
morning. It was important to get this impersonation over with as quickly as possible—less time for questions. Approaching one of the female painters at the front of the group, he made sure to speak in rapid English between smacks on the gum.

  “Hey there! I’m looking for a Mr. Ben Takeda. Do you know where I can find him?”

  The woman shrugged, her face clearly conveying a lack of understanding.

  Vincent knew it was important to appear ignorant of the obvious signals, so he raised his voice while over-enunciating on the second attempt. “Ta-ke-da-san! Ben Ta-ke-da!”

  “Aaaaah!” The women smiled with recognition and motioned toward a slight man at the back of the group. He was hunched over a canvas, providing instruction to a nodding student.

  The small man eyed Vincent warily before straightening up. “I’m Ben Takeda.”

  Vincent sidestepped his way past the whispering members of the class. As he approached, he stuck his arm straight out and formed the biggest grin he could make. “I hate to interrupt your class, but I could sure use your help.”

  Ben vibrated from the vigorous handshake. “What can I do for you?”

  “My name is Charles Travers, and I’m looking for my son. I heard he may be visiting you.”

  “Max is your son?”

  “Yes, he is. I came all the way from California looking for him.” Vincent chewed his gum, noting a slight flexing in the man’s shoulders.

  “What a pleasure.” Ben said. “Max mentioned to me once that you’re a fervent soccer fan.”

  “Absolutely! Best sport going.”

  “Yes, yes. American football is good, but soccer is much better.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.” Vincent tapped his watch with his index finger, unclear where the small man was going with his strange banter. “I hate to change the subject, but it’s urgent I find Max. I’ve been to his house in Tokyo and talked with his roommates. I’ve also visited his school and spoken with a Mr. Murayama. Nice older man. He told me that I might be able to find my boy here, with you.”

  The slight man eyed him blandly. “May I ask why you’re looking for him so urgently?”

  “We haven’t heard from him in weeks—his mama and me—and, well, Martina’s taken ill. If he comes home, it would really make his mama very happy. It may be her last wish.”

  “Well, I can tell you he was here, but he left yesterday.”

  “Dammit! I need to find him, Mr. Takeda. Do you know where he was going?”

  “Back to Tokyo.” Ben crossed his arms. “I’m sure if you return, you will find him there.”

  “I knew I should have stayed and waited for him. Thank you very much.” Vincent stepped forward, grasping him in a bear hug, triggering snickers from the surrounding students. “Thank you very much.” He kept his hands attached to the Ben’s shoulders as he pulled back. “Tokyo. You’re sure he said he was going back to Tokyo.”

  Ben’s reply was flustered. “Yes . . . yes. That’s what he told me.”

  “All right, then.” Vincent let go and straightened up. “Sorry for interrupting your class.”

  “Not at all.”

  Vincent slid into the driver’s seat of his Avis rental car. A flick of his fingers pushed the blanket from the passenger’s seat to the floor. He plugged a gray metal box into the cigarette lighter and connected it to his laptop through the USB port. As he inserted an earbud into his left ear, he powered on the receiver. This latest UHF circuitry wouldn’t be on the market for another five years or so. The advanced technology provided drift-free operation along with excellent range.

  You’re a liar, Ben Takeda.

  The monitor on the laptop blinked awake, invoking the digital scanning tools, causing the earpiece to crackle. Within moments an outside conversation burst forth. The silver pen resting in Ben’s jacket pocket was doing its job.

  Vincent listened.

  “You’re doing much better this week. The brush strokes are showing more feeling.”

  “Thank you, Sensei. It’s easy to paint in such a powerful place.”

  “But remember that purpose comes from within. Never be afraid of your own power.”

  “Yes, Sensei. I won’t forget.”

  MAX’S HAND found his face as his bleary mind pulled itself awake from the nightmare; which of Thick Neck’s stories was the truth?

  A uniformed station attendant was kicking at his feet, forcing him to lift his cramped neck away from the wall where he’d drifted off. Every muscle in his body ached, and he was exhausted. Following the serpentine flow of the river into Nara had taken most of the night. The flashlight’s battery had given out after a few hours. He’d stumbled into ruts and fallen over logs. The cuts, bruises, and dirt on his forearms and shins gave evidence of the journey. But at least he was alive.

  The chubby station attendant was vocalizing his displeasure. He kicked Max’s feet again.

  “Yes. Yes,” Max said, groaning. “Wakarimashita! No sleeping here. I understand.”

  He stood to his full height as smarting ribs joined in to accompany the pain from his throbbing ankle. The station attendant backed away warily and watched as he shouldered the daypack.

  The Osaka Station corridor disappeared into the distance in either direction. It didn’t really matter which way he walked. He just needed to get some food and kill time until the travel agencies opened. Calling the airlines directly hadn’t worked. Nobody on the domestic travel desk could speak enough English.

  The holiday week was in full bloom, and it seemed the entire country was on the move. The corridor teemed with travelers, families with children in tow, and cooing couples off for some holiday fun. In fact, it was so busy that there were no seats available on any southbound Bullet Trains for the next two days. Using local trains for the journey would take much too long. The ferries to Okinawa were also jammed full. The situation was growing increasingly desperate.

  The trailing attendant eventually lost interest and vanished as Max limped away.

  Soon, a deserted side room with public telephones appeared. His paranoia had reached new heights, and he glanced suspiciously around for any police before moving into the dead-end space. He dialed the Okinawa number and slid to the floor, listening as the number rang repeatedly. On the fourth ring, he sighed, knowing the call was headed for the answering machine again.

  Suddenly there were sharp scuffling sounds as if the receiver on the other end was being dragged across gravel. Muffled cursing could be heard. Jeff’s froglike voice whispered into the line, “Has there been a death I should know about?”

  Max gripped the receiver tighter. “Jeff! Man, I can’t believe I finally got you.”

  “Maaaax.” A raspy cough followed. “Bro—how’s it going?”

  “Not so great.” Just speaking the words to a friendly ear brought relief.

  “Really? Was that you calling here this morning?”

  “Yeah. Why didn’t you answer?”

  “We hit this great beach party. So, what’s up, bro?”

  “It’s a long story, but I’m in trouble, and I need your help.”

  “Sure, man.”

  “I need to stay with you for a while.”

  “Great, but I have to warn you that my domicile is what one might call cozy. Objectively speaking, man, it’s kinda cramped, but you’re more than welcome.”

  In the background, Max could hear sheets rustling, followed by a giggling female voice. “Thanks, buddy. I’m in Osaka right now. Trying to get a ticket to Okinawa is almost impossible.”

  “Yeah, the Golden Week curse.” Jeff’s voice pulled away from the phone. “Hang on, babe, I’m talking here.” The distant giggling continued.

  Max wanted to unload the ordeal of the past few days, but the timing was wrong, Jeff was clearly distracted. “I’ll keep you posted once I get a ticket—let you know my arrival time.”

  “Sounds cool, brother.” Jeff’s voice pulled away again. “Hey . . . hey . . . don’t touch the phone!” A woman’s voice could be hea
rd.

  “You sound busy. I’ll let you go.”

  “Okay, buddy. Keep in touch.”

  The call ended with a raucous surge of high-pitched laughter. Max reached up, replacing the receiver, and suddenly, abruptly, he missed Tomoko very, very much.

  It would be another half hour before the travel agencies opened, and Max desperately needed a distraction. Unzipping the daypack, he retrieved the second diary. The exterior was bound in a simple dark blue cloth, very different from the leather splendor of the first volume.

  While examining the book’s spine, a folded paper slipped out and drifted to the tiled floor next to him. It was yellowed with age, and the inside surface displayed three separate grids with a line of numbers running along the bottom and another down the right side of each grid. The look was similar to the mathematical game of Sudoku that had people hunched over in coffee shops and on trains, but it wasn’t exactly the same. It was impossible to tell if the paper even belonged with the diary, or if it had simply been Ben’s bookmark. Max flipped it over. Numbers and letters were also written on the four outside edges:

  N 26° 11′ 13″ – E 127° 40′ 36 ″ – N 26° 11′ 9 ″ – E 127° 40′ 30 ″

  A shiver shook his shoulders and spiraled down his backbone. They looked like coordinates, but to what? Could this be what he had been sent to find?

  He knew he’d have to get to the Internet to find out what the numbers meant—Google Earth could help—but it would have to wait until later, maybe after the travel agency. Max stared at the paper before folding and reinserting it between the pages. He flipped to the beginning of the diary and read.

  Two and a half years have passed since the emperor surrendered. On August 15, 1945, the Imperial voice crossed the airwaves in order to stop the terrible bombs that slaughtered our innocent countrymen in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The wounds are still exposed and infected. The horror is too dreadful to think on.

  I have seen firsthand the destruction inflicted on Tokyo. The once beautiful streets and gardens now lay in ruins. The city’s heart is burned out. Noble veterans in shaggy uniforms line the streets, armed only with begging bowls. Gangs of children with dirty faces run between the shacks bordering the muddy streets.