Max moved back toward the incline’s base. “Can you translate what it says?”
“It’s a Haiku-style poem. Basically it says:
I kill an ant
And realize my three children
Have been watching.
Jeff’s lips moved silently, reading it over again. “I think . . . whoever built this place was concerned about his kids learning to murder innocents based on his actions.”
“Three innocent people have already died in just the last few days.” Max bent down to stare at the inset letters. “I just hope for Tomoko’s sake . . .” He wanted to finish the sentence, but the words caught in his throat, and he fell silent.
“Don’t worry, man, we’ll get her back. As a matter of fact, what are we waiting for?” Striding forward, Jeff spun the round metal handle in the center of the steel door, then heaved on it. The door groaned and opened, revealing a chamber the size of a closet and an identical steel door on the opposite side. They each tried the handle of the second door but it refused to budge, so Jeff sealed them inside the airlock while Max again tried the handle. The door swung outward easily, and he had to catch himself from falling forward as fresh, dry air rushed in.
High above, at the apex of the arching ceiling, a fluorescent light clapped on, followed by another equally noisy light, then another and another until at last a row of more than two dozen lights blazed overhead, stretching seventy yards into the distance.
Max stared at his friend, whose childlike astonishment mirrored his own. “It’s a freakin’ warehouse!” His shouting voice echoed and bounced.
A ten-foot-wide central corridor stretched ahead, the length of the bunker, looking almost canyon-like as it carved its way down row after row of multilevel storage tiers that filled the room’s width and rose fifty feet to the curved ceiling. A jumble of wooden crates of all shapes and sizes filled the visible shelf space to overflowing. At the front, on either side of Max and Jeff, ran a string of dozens of gray filing cabinets. Directly ahead sat a table, upon which rested a square black television, a Betamax video player, and a lone cassette case.
“What is this place?” Jeff massaged the tension from his neck. “How could this be built without anyone knowing?”
Max shook his head. “I have no idea. Check that TV—maybe there’s a message.” He walked to the left and opened the first cabinet’s top drawer. It was stuffed with documents. Unwedging a single beige folder from its hanger, he fingered through the papers. “These are all written in Japanese, but they look like receipts or government documents.”
Jeff was puzzling over the old-fashioned video equipment. “Let’s see what this thing has to say.” He pressed the power button, then popped up the tray on the suitcase-sized machine before breaking the seal on the cassette case and inserting the videotape.
The image of an elderly Japanese man blinked into view. His thinning hair appeared glued to his skull, and he was seated in a straight-backed chair. A midnight blue kimono wrapped around his protruding belly. Dark, intelligent eyes stared directly from the screen as the stilted delivery of his words betrayed the fact that he wasn’t used to speaking before a camera.
A few moments passed before Jeff motioned at the screen. “He said he’s Prince Takeda.”
“Max moved closer to get a better look at the withered face. The man on the screen looked so frail, not at all like the powerful picture he’d formed while reading the second diary. “What’s he saying?”
“He’s talking about responsibility for the past.”
“What about the map? Did he say anything about the extra burial site in the Philippines?”
“Bro—” Jeff pressed the pause button and placed the palms of his hands together. “Go check out the warehouse and give me a few minutes here. By the time you’re back, I may have more info.”
“I get it.” Max moved off down the main corridor, before turning down the second side row. The face of a massive, snarling dragon had caught his attention. He touched the statue’s polished neck and muttered in wonder when his hand barely reached the bottom jaw of the intricately carved stone.
Wooden crates rose on the shelves towering overhead. The video voice whispered in the distance as he turned back into the main corridor and continued away from the sound. Trolling up and down the museum-like rows, he followed the oversized yellow numbers painted on the floor. Turning out of row 6, Max stopped cold. Just ahead, in the reflection of a shiny metal container, he could see the outlines of two men standing in the next row. No! He threw his back against the closest crate, fighting to quell his raging panic.
It can’t be! How did they get in here?
He’d seen only two men, but there could be others. How many more were lying in wait? Impulse and experience yelled for retreat, escape. But in the clarity of the brief, still moment, staring up at the crates rising overhead, he realized running was no longer an option. This is my responsibility now. It was up to him to face the enemy directly. Max slowly filled his lungs through his nose, clenched his jaw, and charged silently around the corner with fists raised high.
He bravely faced the terracotta soldiers standing rigid inside a Plexiglas case. It took but a moment for the realization to register in his brain as a feeling of grateful relief washed over him. Stumbling backward, he dropped to the floor, collapsing against a crate, and laughed aloud.
What would I have done if they were real?
He jumped up and shook off the moment, finishing his sweep of the main corridor. The last row, aisle 10, looked the same as the first: crates and storage units with unreadable descriptions printed on the sides. He glanced at his pocket watch and quickened his pace as he turned and headed back toward the entrance. By now, maybe Jeff had some answers to the burning questions that remained.
Jeff looked up from the documents he was examining and motioned for Max to join him. “The video directed me to a cabinet with this binder inside. It contains a floor plan.” He pointed to the open page. “The rows are organized by area—Korea, Singapore, Taiwan, China, the Philippines, and so on.”
“You mean all the countries that were invaded?”
“Exactly. After World War Two, Prince Takeda spent over forty years gathering stolen objects, things that had disappeared into private collections. He knew they’d never be seen again unless he did something about it. According to him, the stuff in this room is just a drop in the bucket compared to what was actually looted.”
“So, if this isn’t Yamashita’s Gold,” Max motioned to the cabinets, “then which of these holds the map to find the gold?”
Jeff set the binder down on the video machine. “Bro—he didn’t say anything about a map.”
“But . . . but there must be something,” Max sputtered. He walked to the nearest cabinet and slapped his palm hard against the thin metal top.
“I didn’t say there wasn’t a map, but just that the prince didn’t mention it.”
“It’ll take a hundred years to find it if we have to look through everything.” Max leaned on his elbows and rested his face in his hands. “You know anyone who can help us search this place?”
“For sure. I’ve got some friends who can help.” Jeff nodded. “But my phone has no signal here. I need to go back outside to call.”
They exited the same way they had come, but this time neither friend spoke while they retraced their steps, grunting their way back up the slick ramp. Leading the way, Jeff peered out before climbing from the tomb. “There’s no maroon car. It seems all clear.”
The sun was sitting much lower than when they had entered.
Cautiously, Max crawled out into the fresh air, a frown on his face. In his mind, even the discovery of the bunker couldn’t overcome the overwhelming feeling of failure. “Oto Kodama is expecting a map to a treasure of gold—we’ll never find it in there. Not in time.”
A nearby voice shouted, “Stop!” The military man leaped out from behind the crumbling wall. “Hands up!” He waved a gun directly at them.
Max slowly complied, noticing the man wasn’t wearing a military hat as he’d first thought, but a pilot’s cap instead.
Unexpectedly a second man rounded the far corner and slowly removed his blue cap. As he lifted his face, Max felt his cheeks flush with betrayal. He stared at the familiar face and the distinct stripe of hair running down the man’s chin. “But why?”
“Please turn around and go back inside.” Toshi’s face appeared grim. “Both of you. I insist!”
VINCENT REMOVED the wrenches and soldering equipment from the toolbox and set them on the floor in the back of the van. He downed the last of his soda and mused again on the fact that even the NSA didn’t know everything. It had taken the all-powerful information agency more than half a day to locate detailed information on Max Travers’ only known Okinawa associate—a former roommate named Jeff Moreau.
Vincent slipped on his sunglasses and stepped from the back door of the Toto Plumbing van, zipping up his olive-colored overalls. The beachside rental house was directly across the quiet suburban street. Nobody was home—he’d been watching for more than an hour. The only activity so far had been the appearance of a young woman with vivid purple stripes running down both sides of her long dark hair. She had arrived on a scooter and pounded angrily on the door. Circling the house for several minutes, she’d peered into all the windows. It seemed Mr. Moreau was suffering from a bit of female trouble.
Vincent straightened his ball cap and crossed the road. Less than five seconds at the front of the house and he was inside as smoothly as if he’d had a key for the place.
The kitchen sink sat filled with dirty dishes, and the living room beyond was no better. A half dozen empty beer bottles covered the coffee table. Back issues of Playboy were stacked next to a picture window that looked out onto a kidney-shaped swimming pool. An overgrown dieffenbachia occupied the room’s far corner; the cannabis plant growing at its base was barely noticeable.
Vincent picked up a daypack lying on the living room floor. He unzipped it and dumped the contents onto the sofa. Dirty clothes were mixed with a bag of silver bracelets, a paperback novel, several ornamental daggers, and a cell phone. Turning on the unit, he scrolled through the menu to find the owner’s name: Takahito Murayama. This was indeed Max’s daypack, but it contained nothing useful.
They must have hidden the diary or taken it with them.
Stuffing the contents back inside, he set the bag back in the exact spot he’d found it.
The office alcove across from the kitchen was overflowing with sports equipment. There was no need to turn on the computer. The NSA report had already told him that the most recent activity from Jeff’s PC was a Google Earth search of Indonesia, the Philippines, and Okinawa, and also a Skype session. It would be several more hours before he’d receive a written transcript of the online conversation, but Vincent had played the game long enough to know that the water was warming slowly. He just needed to make sure he was in the right place when it boiled.
A search through the papers on the desktop provided him with the cell phone number he was looking for. He retrieved a prewritten text message on his own phone and added the new number before hitting SEND.
Retrieving the toolbox, he removed a brick-shaped object. Even though he’d already double-checked the device, he checked again to make sure the motion-sensitive detonator was secure before sliding the package beneath the sofa’s frame. When and if Max returned, he wouldn’t survive for long.
Vincent-the-plumber finished his service call and made sure to lock the door on his way out.
RADIANT WARMTH from the floor was a welcome relief, but Max’s tailbone still throbbed from sitting on the hard ground for so long. In fact, he ached all over. And from the scowl on his friend’s face, Jeff didn’t appear too comfortable, either.
The copilot with the gun, seat against the wall, appeared to be dozing.
Max took the opportunity to whisper, “You never told me what was in all those cabinets.”
“Evidence.” Jeff’s voice was barely audible.“According to the video, it’s evidence of all the illegal activities documented in the second diary—stuff like letters, contracts, photographs, videotapes, interviews. The prince knew that without it, his revelations could be dismissed as the ramblings of a lunatic. He wanted future generations of Japanese, and the rest of the world, to know what really happened . . . so he spent decades and most of his fortune gathering everything in that room as proof. Some people collect coins, but Prince Takeda was into collecting secrets―secrets that could blow open the horrible past.”
“Richard Nixon wouldn’t have been too happy to hear that.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The second diary said that Nixon returned billions—called the M-Fund—back to Japan in exchange for funneling back corporate donations to help get him elected.”
“Are you serious? Damn! No wonder people are hunting for that book.”
“And believe me, from what I read, it’s just the tip of the illegal iceberg.” Max rubbed his ankle. “So what about all the crates and containers?”
“The prince couldn’t do anything about all the wealth stolen during the war.” Jeff paused, visually checking the guard before continuing. “He seemed remorseful about his role in hiding some of the loot in the Philippines, but he also stated that wealth can be rebuilt, while history can’t. He hired people to help him trace statues, paintings, scrolls, porcelain—basically anything he could find, and he brought everything he could get his hands on back here. The plan was to return it to each country, as a gesture of forgiveness, when the full extent of Golden Lily was revealed to the world.”
“So why didn’t he do it before he died?”
“No idea. All he said was that he didn’t think the time was right to tell the world. That it would be the responsibility of future generations to figure out when that time would be.” Jeff stretched slowly onto his back on the heated floor. “The videotape was dated 1989. Since Emperor Hirohito was still alive at the time, maybe the prince was afraid of the impact on the royal family. He could have wanted to wait until the next emperor was crowned. You know . . . let more time go by.”
“But Prince Takeda lived until 1992.”
“He looked pretty frail on the tape.” Jeff shrugged. “Maybe he was too sick. I don’t know, bro.”
“Still, it’s just not fair that the emperor should get away with so much theft, not to mention starting the war in the first place.” Max switched from rubbing his ankle to massaging his ribs. “He should have been held responsible, don’t you think?”
Jeff propped himself up on his elbows. “Yeah, you’re right, and I’m not defending his actions—but let me ask you this, Maxie—do you know what was in his head at the time Japan entered the war? Was it conquest, or was it fear of his generals and the giant corporate heads? Maybe if he hadn’t agreed to go to war, they would have just killed him and done it anyway. What if the emperor’s decision was based on concern for his family? Even if the safety of his family meant the death of thousands or millions of innocent people, isn’t that what most people try to do—protect their loved ones?”
“Sure,” Max’s voice rose to an irritated hiss, “but I’m not talking about intention. I’m talking about taking responsibility for the results.”
“I understand, and it’s an extreme case, but my point is people make choices they regret later, and often it’s impossible to see the outcome in advance—good or bad—we weigh the pros and cons and take our best shot. Would you have gone to Mr. Murayama’s office if you knew all this would happen?”
“No, of course not.” Max’s voice trailed off as he pondered the insight, recalling the last night at Toshi’s, wondering if Tomoko regretted choosing to leave or harbored any guilt over her decision to hold onto his passport.
“I didn’t think so,” Jeff replied. “So, let’s just find a way to get out of thi
s and get your girl back safe.” He held out a straight arm with a fist on the end, and Max bumped it lightly with his own fisted knuckles. “We can debate the rest later, over beers.”
“Agreed.”
Another thirty minutes ticked slowly past before the round handle on the steel door spun open. The dozing copilot leaped to attention, training the headlamp and the gun on his hostages.
Entering from the antechamber, Toshi motioned for the man to put the gun away. He walked to the center of the room and sat down on the Haiku lettering embedded in the center of the floor. Clearing his throat, he said, “I’m sure that you are angry so please listen before judging.”
Traitor! Max’s chest felt tight. He wanted to lash out at Toshi’s duplicity, but chose instead to wait for the justification, skeptical that any reason could possibly explain the messed-up situation.
“I come from royalty.”
“Of course.” Max’s shook his head, recalling the first meeting on the train when Toshi had handed him the business card. “Your ring is the royal symbol—I should have known.”
Toshi nodded. “My parents rarely spoke of it, but my mother was very proud of her heritage. Since they were murdered, my actions have tried to honor them. It’s why I became a priest—for my mother.” He appeared to be struggling to find the right words before he continued. “Can you imagine my shock when you came to my door with Prince Takeda’s diary? I needed to find out if the things it said were true or not. Then when you were sleeping on the airplane, I looked at the second diary. The things in both books could do great harm to the royal family . . . my blood. I thought that if the stories were lies, or could not be proved, then it was my duty to destroy the diaries.” Toshi glanced back toward the steel door. “But there is so much evidence in there. My parents would want me to serve truth, not bloodlines.”
Max struggled to absorb the words he had just heard. Could they really be true? He remembered his relief at finding a safe haven after the robbery, and the elation of escape as Toshi’s jet carried them into the sky. He arranged for me to see Mr. M one last time. “So why didn’t you just talk to me. Why not tell me?”
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