Collector of Secrets

by Richard Goodfellow

  From her position in the hall, a mop in one hand, the cleaning woman watched through the office doorway as the elegant lady in blue collapsed to the floor.

  THE COMMANDER’S shadow stretched across the cracked tarmac. He watched the coral sun begin its slide below the western horizon. Dusk was settling on Osaka’s Yao Airport. A cell phone rested against his ear as he waited to speak to a taxi dispatcher. Beside him, a Cessna’s engine pinged and popped, cooling off after the short hop across the country.

  The Class Two private facility was quiet, probably since its dual runways could at most accommodate light jets.

  The pilot climbed from the cabin with a dark-blue duffel bag. He apologized again for the mechanical delay that had kept them waiting on the ground in Tokyo for over six hours.

  The commander acknowledged the excuse before entering the adjacent hangar. The waiting room at the building’s front was empty. Setting the duffel bag on the nearest bench, he retrieved a brown case from inside and glanced around before withdrawing his police-issued handgun. There was no point needlessly drawing anyone’s attention. It slid smoothly into the leather harness inside his jacket.

  Moving outside, he lit a cigarette and paced like a caged animal. His thumb and forefinger rubbed nervously along the twin sides of his mustache. The day was not going as planned. He should have picked up his rental car and been in Nara hours ago.

  The commander’s second cigarette was almost down to the filter when the taxicab finally appeared. Pulling into the darkening lot, the car’s back door popped open as the cabbie apologized for the delay.

  The duffel bag went in first. “I’ve had a day full of excuses. Just drive.”

  The two-lane access road hugged the wire fence running along the airport’s perimeter. The commander stared steadfastly out the cab’s window. A jet plane had landed, and he watched its outline as it approached the end of the concrete runway. It pulled onto the taxiway before rotating 180 degrees to sit facing back the way it had just come. The white, pointy nose was just back from the edge of the runway’s blast pad.

  Squeezing the muscles in his shoulders, he glanced ahead and watched as the outline of a man appeared, walking on the grassy edge of the road. And he thought how odd it was that someone would be walking toward the airport in the dark. The high beams briefly illuminated the lone figure before dropping him back into shadow.

  The commander let out a short, astonished grunt and spun around in his seat. Hastily unzipping the duffel bag, his hands dug inside. He yelled for the driver to turn on the light as his fingers groped for a folder. Yanking it from the bag, he scanned the single sheet of paper inside. The American’s headshot stared back at him.

  He pounded his fist against the glass while grasping for his gun. “Stop! Stop the damned car!”

  Max heard the taxi’s tires screech behind him. Without slowing his pace, he snapped his head around to see the red taillights fifty yards back. Something wasn’t right. The car was glowing from the inside, and he thought he could see someone staring out the back window.

  His ankle complained as he increased his pace to a jog.

  The straining, high-pitched whine of the car’s engine signaled that it was backing up quickly. Brakes squealed while it executed a three-point turn. Max broke into a sprint. Up ahead, the road veered to the left, and he could see the airport’s fence line.

  I won’t be able to keep this up for long.

  The car was now racing toward him. Its headlights illuminated the galvanized poles of the fence’s perimeter. Max cut to the right and slammed into the meshing at full force. He could hear the car door opening behind him. A hostile voice shouted for him to stop.

  His fingers gripped the cool metal while he struggled to get a foothold, and he cursed as his foot slipped from the fence and hit the ground. He jammed it harder the second time. From behind, the angry voice was drawing closer. The fence was only six feet high, but a line of barbed wire stretched across the top. Max managed to slip his hands between the razor-sharp barbs, and he got one foot on the shaky wire before chancing a backward glance. The silhouette of the shouting man was twenty yards back. He was bathed in the car’s bright headlights. Max watched with shock as the man dropped to one knee and raised both his hands.

  Oh shit—not another gun!

  There was no warning shot as a bullet punched into the fence. Max felt himself hurtling forward, spinning, before the daypack bore the impact in the tall grass. Piercing pain shot up his spine, but there was no time to stop. A second bullet kicked up a nearby dirt plume. He scrambled to his feet and ran. Behind him the fence rattled as the stranger struggled to climb over.

  The Christmas lights on the taxiway ahead drew him on, toward the plane.

  Learjet 40XR—please be the right one.

  His ankle was screaming as he raced across the grass toward the back of the parked jet. Charging along the plane’s side and ducking under the wing, he narrowly missed a third bullet, which ricocheted off the concrete near his feet.

  Ahead, the plane’s front hatch sat open. Max vaulted the two steps before tumbling inside and smashing into the far wall. He lay in a heap on the floor, struggling to catch his breath.

  A flight officer stepped from the cockpit. Max stared up at his round face and saucer-wide eyes.

  He doesn’t know me. I’m in the wrong plane!

  The idling twin turbines revved louder and the jet crept forward as the officer closed the exterior door. When he turned back, he spoke the single word “seatbelt” before retreating into the cockpit.

  Max crawled into a beige leather seat. Blood was streaming from his left hand as he struggled with the metal clasp at his waist. Miraculously, he had escaped the bullets, but the barbed wire had torn a gash down the center of his palm. He pinched the wound closed and held it. Peering cautiously out the side window, he searched the darkness. The gunman was nowhere in sight.

  The aircraft picked up speed before rising swiftly into the air. It banked sharply to the south, its left wing dipping dramatically.

  Max could hear Toshi’s reassuring voice shouting from the cockpit. “Sorry, We took off against the air traffic—had to get out of the way. I’ll have trouble explaining that to the aviation officials.” Toshi was grinning from ear to ear as he stepped into the main cabin. “I’m going to put that into a video game.” The grin vanished instantly from his face. “You’re hurt!”

  “I’m okay, really.”

  Toshi grabbed a nearby towel and wrapped it around the injured hand. “Who was the man chasing you?”

  “I can’t be sure. He saw me walking toward the airport and just came after me.” Max shook his head, exhaling frustration. ‘But I couldn’t see his face.”

  “Hold the pressure while I bandage it.”

  “It’s not only the Yakuza and the police looking for me now.”

  “Who else?”

  “I’m not sure, but the guy is American—someone named Lloyd Elgin. Also, one of the Yakuza caught up with me in Nara—he told me Tomoko was dead, but then he said she was okay.”

  Toshi pulled gauze from an emergency medical kit. “Well, they did drive away with her.”

  “What?” Max bolted upright, his voice erupting. “How do you know?”

  “Two days ago, when Tomoko left the house early, she triggered the motion sensors. I was very concerned for her safety, so followed to her parents’ house.” He paused to cut a strip of tape. “I couldn’t return for you, otherwise I would have lost her trail. I was hoping you would wait for me to return before you left for Nara.”

  Max rubbed the ball of his good hand against the center of his chest, his fear crystallizing like a massive, crushing weight.

  Toshi continued. “I was watching from a delivery truck. At the beginning, everything seemed all right. But eventually two men drove away with her in a Mercedes. I tried following, but they were lost in traffic.”

  Max’s anguished face stared up at the cabin’s arching roof. This can’t be happenin
g. “Turn the plane around! We have to go back and find her!” He could barely stay seated.

  Toshi was still kneeling, and he pressed his hands together as if in prayer. “Where would we go, Max? Where would we start looking? You know how vast Tokyo is. It will not work, I guarantee. You will never find her unless they want you to.” He shook his head. “There has to be another way.”

  A wave of nausea raced from Max’s stomach to his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut and blew out great puffs of air, allowing the feeling to pass. “I have to stop this. I have to make this right.”

  “I understand your pain, I truly do, but your best action is to continue forward.” Toshi stood. “If you go to the Yakuza with the diary but no map they could harm you both. What you need is to have something ready to exchange for her—and the more valuable, the better.”

  Max pondered the chilling words, letting them settle before he spoke again, unsure if he wanted to hear the answer to the question in his head. “How long do you think they’ll hold onto her?”

  “The risk becomes greater with time. My guess would be four, maybe five days, but it’s just a guess. I have no way of knowing the criminal mind.” Toshi shrugged and glanced forward to the cockpit. “I’m sorry, but I have to attend to some things. My copilot will finish with your wound.”

  “Just leave me the tape.” Max shook his throbbing head. “You’ve already done so much. I owe you big time.”

  “I had planned a business trip to Taiwan, anyway. It’s just a short detour.” Toshi gave a tiny wink as he backed toward the cockpit. “Next stop—Okinawa.”

  SENATOR ANDREW McCloy’s plaid slippers shuffled across his kitchen floor. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafting through the Washington, D.C., apartment had awakened him from a deep sleep. He poured a cup and took a seat at the kitchen table. Pressing a button on the telephone opened a secure connection to his encrypted voicemail.

  Saturday’s newspaper displayed the carnage of another bombing beneath a screaming headline, DOZENS DIE IN BAGHDAD ATTACK. He pushed the paper away. It was too early in the morning to stomach another story just like the one the day before.

  Savoring the chicory in his coffee, the senator closed his eyes and listened to the first message. Vincent’s voice was providing an update. Progress was being made, although it was slow. So far he had killed only once. The matter-of-fact tone could have been that of someone describing a trip to the grocery store. The man was a methodical machine without a conscience, built for the job. The message terminated with a single critical request.

  The senator deleted the message and then proceeded to make a call of his own. He glanced dispassionately at the early morning hour displayed on the Swiss wall clock.

  Ray Hylan’s sleepy voice answered. “What do you want?”

  “I just received an update from my guy in Japan. Do you remember that conversation we had about possibly needing your assistance at some point?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Good—because I believe that moment has arrived—and I need it fast.”

  SAYURI TAKEDA’S voice rose over the sound of creaking floorboards as Ben climbed the stairs to the second story. “Are you coming to bed?” she demanded.

  “Just a moment.” Ben’s words echoed along the upstairs corridor. He pressed apart the paper-white shoji doors, backed out of his slippers, and entered the sparsely decorated bedroom. “The house seems so much emptier without Chiho’s sweet voice, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes . . . and without the Yakuza as well.” She was cocooned in her bed; the slim mattress with a generous duvet lay on the floor next to his.

  Ben concentrated on changing into his nightclothes. He wasn’t going to let Sayuri goad him into another argument about the previous night’s excitement. And he certainly wasn’t going to tell her about the strange American who had come looking for Max earlier in the day.

  He moved a nearby ceramic bowl a bit closer and emptied his pockets. Dry paint flecks and slender brushes clattered into the container, along with a silver pen. Ben picked up the shiny object, noting its solid feel. He wasn’t sure how it had arrived in his jacket pocket.

  “Are you listening to me?”

  “I’m sorry. I was trying to figure where this pen came from. It looks expensive.” He laid the mysterious object next to the bowl before resuming the process of changing his clothes

  Sayuri clicked her tongue in annoyance. “You never told me if you gave anything to the American boy,” she said.

  Ben sighed. She wasn’t going to let him sleep until he confessed. His shirt slid over his head. “Yes. I let him have Prince Takeda’s diary back—on loan. Are you satisfied?” There was no point making things worse right now by mentioning the second diary.

  Her tone was sharp. “I knew it. How could you? There’s so much at stake.”

  “Because, unlike you, I want to believe that some people in this world are good.”

  “You’re too trusting.”

  Ben’s voice rose almost to a shout. “And you do not trust enough. I would never do anything against the prince’s plan. It’s out of our hands now. If that boy can use the diary to save one girl’s life while still guarding the secrets, then I believe Prince Takeda would approve. Remember, I know the pain of watching someone I love taken before my eyes. I don’t wish that sentence upon anyone else.”

  Sayuri’s voice grew subdued, chastened. “Then you sent him to Okinawa?”

  “Yes.” He finished changing before approaching her mattress and kneeling down. Her watery eyes gazed up at him as his fingers adjusted the duvet under her chin. “You are a wonderful wife for your concern and care.” His palm stroked her flowing hair lying loose about her head. “If you don’t trust Max, then please at least trust me.”

  Her chin nodded in silent consent. Ben leaned down and kissed her forehead.

  A short mile away, Vincent sat in a dark car. He smirked to himself and removed his earbud.

  Okinawa, is it? I pegged you right, you liar.

  He opened the driver’s side door, allowing the night breeze from the mountain to flow inside. Vincent gathered the electronics off the passenger’s seat and added them to the contents of the two duffel bags in the trunk before signaling a flashlight at the nearby line of trees.

  Within moments, two brawny soldiers materialized near the car, both dressed in military fatigues. The taller man spoke. “Can we help you, sir?”

  Vincent pointed down. “Pick up this kit and follow me.”

  Using the flashlight, he made his way to the nearby ridge top. On the wide-open plateau beneath a sea of bright stars sat a CH-53 Sea Stallion heavy-lift cargo helicopter. It was definite overkill for moving just him and his equipment. The Stallion could carry up to fifty-five troops at a time. Nevertheless, his message to the senator had asked for transport, and it had been provided.

  My boss has influence.

  The grass on the ridge bent low from the immense rotor swooping to life. Vincent charged underneath a wash of air and leaped up into the side doorway. The two camouflaged men nodded, wide-eyed and grinning.

  Vincent shrugged his shoulders and shouted over the growing noise. “What?”

  The taller one spoke. “We just aren’t used to a Jody—I mean a civilian—being so agile. You’re ex-military, right?”

  Vincent realized his actions were betraying his cover, and his cold green eyes locked them in a stare. “Focus on the task at hand. Tell your pilot we’re going to Okinawa—the main island.”

  The soldiers bristled with formality. “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m going to get some sleep. Wake me when we arrive.”

  Vincent made his way to the back of the thirty-foot cabin. The mission was now into its fourth day, exceedingly long for a Lloyd Elgin operation. Andrew McCloy would soon be growing angry and impatient. It was time to box in the quarry and end the game.

  Sunday, April 29

  MAX CHECKED his pocket watch for what felt like the hundredth time; it was 1:07 a.m. The
taxi driver had assured him that the address was correct, and for the exorbitant price charged, he hoped the guy was right. Knocking on the front door had produced no result. The house was dark and quiet. Shōwa Day had officially begun, and there was still no sign of Jeff.

  He could smell the nearby ocean’s salty tang, even if it wasn’t visible. Sitting on the ground beneath the single outdoor light, he swatted at the bugs buzzing around in the muggy, semi-tropical air. His shirt was stuck to his back where it pressed against a concrete post. He watched a spider perched in an elaborate web suspended between the bungalow’s exterior wall and a twenty-foot palm tree.

  A maroon sedan drew his interest as it crawled past the house. Max stood and limped to the driveway’s end. He was sure he’d seen that same car drive by thirty minutes before. Even if it was just his imagination playing tricks, he needed to stretch his stiff legs. Sitting on the stoop was causing his muscles to tighten. It was also providing too much time to conjure up a variety of horrible fates for Tomoko. In the distance, he observed the car’s taillights turn and vanish from sight.

  Looking back at the house, Max watched with surprise as the opaque vertical windows on both sides of the front door suddenly grew bright. He glanced up and down the silent street. That was odd, since nobody had come in from the road. The only other way in was the beach.

  He walked up to the door and banged loudly. A slurring voice from inside yelled in response. “Come in, babe. I unlocked it already.”

  Turning the handle, Max stepped into a rectangular room housing both a kitchen to the left and an adjoining living room at the far end. Beyond the sofa were two plate glass windows looking over the illuminated waters of a kidney-shaped swimming pool. The butt of Jeff’s shorts protruded from an open refrigerator. He was wearing an untucked shirt and no shoes. Max felt lightheaded with hunger as he watched his friend push plastic containers around in an obvious quest for food.