Collector of Secrets

by Richard Goodfellow

  Re-entering the lobby, the commander strode to the concierge’s desk. “I asked you to let me know when Oto Kodama or his men leave or arrive. What was that all about?”

  “Very sorry, sir—I was busy with other guests.” The young man behind the desk reddened. “But that priest—he was meeting with Kodama-san.”

  The commander leaned his fists onto the desktop. His newspaper clattered to the floor. “Why?”

  “He was delivering a message from an American, something about a book that was taken.”

  The commander slapped both palms on the desktop before charging out the front door. But even as he ran down the hotel driveway, he knew it was futile. The moment had slipped from his grasp.

  TOMOKO PULLED her T-shirt down to cover the patch of exposed skin at her lower back. She could feel the lusty eyes lingering on her body through the slot in the door. The guard could have easily checked on the room in a few seconds, but he was working the job as if it were a peep show. She was lying on a futon mattress in the center of the room, with her back facing the doorway. Flies buzzed around a tray of barely touched food at her feet. The hinged slot squeaked when it closed, followed by the sound of footsteps fading down the empty hallway. He would be back in another fifteen minutes.

  She sat up and looked toward Hiro. He was resting against the wall, his head hanging between his knees. The air was muggy and close. Tomoko rose to her knees, but she paused as Hiro lifted his head and held a finger to his lips. She tried listening, but could hear only the distant sounds of traffic and seagulls. More than once in the past thirty hours, since waking from the drug-induced coma, he’d sensed unexpected sweeps by the guard.

  Their cell appeared to be an old office. Peeling white paint, yellowed with time, covered the walls, while half the checkered floor tiles were torn away. Solid wooden panels covered the windows that ran the room’s length.

  Hiro gave an all-clear, and together they sprang back into action. Moving in unison to the left-most window, Tomoko grasped the bottom edge of the wood panel while Hiro stepped onto a chair.

  Only two more rusty screws separated them from the outside world. Tomoko watched as he inserted a shard of scrap metal into the slotted head, then struggled to make a single turn. He puckered his face and twisted again, but his hand shot away and slammed into the wall. “Aaaaah!” He bit his lip to stifle a scream.

  Tomoko pressed a palm against his back. “Are you all right?”

  He nodded and managed a muffled reply, but his face was anguished.

  “Rest for a while? We can always try again later.”

  Hiro flared his nostrils. “There is no later. Get ready to hold the board when the first screw comes out.”

  Reinserting the metal, he twisted until he was red-faced. Unexpectedly, it budged slightly, then moved a bit more. The two exchanged a brief smile before another try. The rusty thread gave a final squeak, and the screw dropped to the floor. Tomoko swayed from the weight pressing down on her.

  Hiro moved to the last screw. “You all right?”

  “Uh-huh,” she grunted.

  The last screw proved easier, and as it clattered to the floor, he hopped from the chair. Sunlight poured through the dirty window when they lifted away the four-foot-square panel.

  Hiro wrenched the window’s clasp open, allowing the top of the pane to pull inside while the lower edge swung outward. Tomoko felt like crying as her lungs filled with the sweet ocean breeze rushing into the room. She turned and embraced him. He stiffened and held his arms near his sides.

  “I’m sorry. I was just happy that—” She stepped back and blushed.

  He shook his head while staring awkwardly at the floor. “No, no, I should have . . . it’s just that we don’t have much time. Be careful as you climb out onto the ledge. It’s not very wide.”

  She hated heights but it was the only way to freedom. “All right.” Taking a deep breath, she wished for courage.

  Once outside, they glanced around, trying to stay low while gathering their bearings. In front, in the distance, was a high-flying freeway bridge, but it was too far away to signal for help—the drivers would never see them. Three stories directly below, a moored fishing boat bobbed in place on the open blue waters of a U-shaped wharf.

  Dropping to his stomach, Hiro peered over the edge. His head snapped back up almost immediately. “There’s a man and a huge dog down there walking a patrol.”

  “What do we do?”

  Hiro moved as he spoke. “Let’s get to the end—see if we can find a way down.”

  Tomoko struggled to keep up while they shuffled quickly along the slender gravel outcropping. The combination of height and speed was giving her severe vertigo, and she fought to keep her eyes up and forward. Reaching the building’s edge, they discovered a featureless concrete wall dropping to the parking lot. The fall would mean broken legs for sure. Hiro cursed. “We’ll have to try the other end. Turn around. Hurry!”

  Less than halfway back, her heart sprang into her throat. A head popped out of the window they’d opened. The guard shouted and pulled himself onto the ledge. A second window swung out not ten feet from where they stood, trapping them in the middle.

  There’s only one route left. She knew what had to be done.

  Clasping Hiro’s hand, she stepped away, out over the indigo water, turning in time to watch his eyes change from fear to panic to sheer terror as they fell from the building’s roof.

  “Nooooooooo . . .”

  The water foamed and bubbled when they plunged beneath the surface.

  Rising almost instantly to the top, instinct drove Tomoko’s powerful strokes as she swam toward the wharf’s open end. Her wet clothes felt like lead. A dozen strokes into it, she noticed she was swimming solo. Her head spun around and she saw why. Hiro was thrashing in the water, his arms flailing as he sank and resurfaced.

  She wanted to escape so badly, but she also couldn’t let him die, not after he had freed her parents, not after the rescue from Oto. Racing back, she dove beneath the cool water and came up behind him. Just in time, she hooked an arm around his neck as his body went limp. His face rose to the surface, accompanied by a gasp and the noisy sucking of air. “It’s all right. You’re all right. I’ve got you,” she yelled while struggling to keep them both above the waterline.

  Three guards were standing above on the mooring’s edge. The crazed dog was barking feverishly.

  Hiro fought to break the grip she held around his neck. He coughed and thrashed, yelling, “Leave me! Swim away!” A guard tossed out a coarse line of rope and he grabbed it, sputtering, as she kept her hold on him.

  Just above them, Oto Kodama’s tanned face and threatening scowl came into view. “Have a nice swim?” He laughed cruelly.

  Tomoko screamed in anger and tried in vain to splash water up the wall.

  Oto was unflinching. “Get cleaned up. We’re going out tonight.”

  As he turned to stroll back inside, the Yakuza leader couldn’t help chuckling to himself. “Suicide Cliffs—perfectly named for what’s about to happen to the two of you.”

  MAX STAYED low as he slipped past Jeff’s pool in order to peer through the window. The place looked empty, but as he’d learned lately, appearances could be deceptive. He crept into the living room, leaving the door open, and paused to listen before moving cautiously toward the kitchen. A knife would be necessary in order to pry up the floorboard and retrieve the hidden diaries.

  As he edged past the office, the fax machine beeped softly. Max recalled the web chat he’d had with Kenji. He slid into the room and loaded blank paper into the machine’s tray. It whirred to life, generated three pages, and then fell silent. He quickly stuffed the pages into his pocket while taking a letter opener from the desktop.

  Returning to the sofa, he gripped it from behind and pulled. On the wooden floor, the legs easily slid backward a few feet. Max’s eyes were searching for the correct floorboard as he walked around the sofa’s arm, noticing the bricklike object
lying exposed on the floor. He gasped as an ominous red light on the brick’s face began to blink, slowly at first but then increasing in pace.

  What the . . .

  He lunged forward, kicking frantically at the device, sending it out the open patio door and into the pool, just as a deep-bass rumble shook the very foundation of the house.

  The ferocious blast shattered the picture windows, driving them inward. Max dove behind the sofa, narrowly avoiding the shards of glass that flooded the room like swarming locusts. Anxious seconds passed as he lay fetal on the floor. He could hear the blood pulsing through his veins.

  Who put that there?

  Cautiously rising up, he shook debris from his hair as he surveyed the carnage. Pool water and glass covered everything. The room was a mess.

  Max clenched his fists and shouted in frustration, “Shi-i-i-it!” The momentary release felt good, but he knew he needed to get out before anyone came to investigate. Moving quickly, he located the correct floorboard and pried it open. To his relief, the diaries were unharmed. Tucking them under his arm, he ran for the street.

  The copilot accelerated the Maserati Quattroporte into the fast lane on a course back to Toshi’s rented downtown condo. Max’s ears were still ringing from the poolside blast as he fingered the fax pages. He didn’t want to read them, but he knew he had to, if only to satisfy morbid curiosity.

  Please let me be wrong. Don’t let what I’m thinking be true.

  Mr. Murayama had been more than a friend; he’d been a mentor and guide. The man had lived an incredibly full life. He’d dined at the White House and traveled the world. Spending afternoons with him had felt like a time warp, like a master’s lesson in history, archaeology, and anthropology combined. Nobody had ever taken such a keen interest in sharing the picture of a bigger world. And now, all that was gone. Mr. M was gone.

  The handwritten words on the pages were Mr. Murayama’s, as proven by the signature and the personal seal. The pen strokes changed slightly every few paragraphs—evidently the text had not been drafted in one sitting.

  Max blinked rapidly, fighting to keep his eyes clear.

  Remember as you read this, there is a difference between a man’s honor and loyalty to one’s country. I did my duty because of the latter and despite the former. I was a fool.

  In the spring of 1963, I received a diplomatic package from Tokyo headquarters. In it were instructions that have haunted my mind ever since.

  First, let me go back. During the early time of the Second World War, I became friends with another soldier, Lieutenant Tetsuo Endo. He was older, and he became my Kohai, training and helping me. More then once he saved my life.Nine months after the war with America began, Endo-san received a “top-secret” position. Meanwhile, I maintained employment as a junior clerk in Manila. I watched the powerful trading companies working with the military. They were shipping gold, diamonds, and artwork back home. Only senior officers knew the details of what was happening, and so I quietly did my work and asked no questions.

  Endo-san and I met again in 1950. We both joined the government. He became a lawyer, and I a diplomatic trainee. He was married with two daughters, the younger of whom was named Yoko. The first time I met her was at a picnic in 1951 when the cherry blossoms were blooming. She was just a little girl.

  A few years later, I was posted to the embassy in Washington. It was a great honor for me.

  Then, in the summer of 1960, Endo-san called me and asked for my help. His daughter Yoko had graduated high school and wished to work in the United States. I arranged for a visa and found her a job with a friend’s company, first in New York, then in Dallas, Texas.

  Not long after, Tetsuo Endo grew ill from cancer, and when he died in 1961, his assistant, Kazue Saito, came to see me in Washington. He delivered a gift from my old friend. It was a diary, but not his own. I was shocked to see that the words were written by Prince Takeda. It described a war project code-named Golden Lily. This was Endo-san’s secret: one time while drinking, he revealed to me he had been Prince Takeda’s personal guard.

  The enemy troops controlled many of the shipping lanes, and it had been growing difficult to move items back to Japan. The Golden Lily project was created to hide and protect the emperor’s war treasure. After reading the prince’s diary, the memory of what I had seen firsthand in Manila began to make more sense.

  The prince’s diary described how the Americans discovered the treasure soon after the end of the war, but the U.S. government and the military leaders, led by Douglas McArthur, kept it a secret—they wanted to use it for themselves.

  In years past, I heard whispers and stories, at parties and from senior colleagues, but until the diary, there was no proof to support the theories.

  In 1961, John F. Kennedy became United States’ president. He seemed to be a man of courage, with a dream of change that could carry his country. He was trying to make the world better; he was a man worthy of admiration and respect. Then the diplomatic package came from Tokyo in 1963, and the world did change, but not for the better.

  The instructions were simple: deliver an envelope to Yoko Endo and have her pass it to a man named Lee Harvey Oswald. She was not to open the package or talk with anyone about it. Her only task was to make the delivery, for Mr. Oswald was expecting it.

  At our meeting in Dallas, Yoko was upset to hear I had learned of her secret friendship with Mr. Oswald (although she never questioned how I knew she’d met him at a Christmas party the year before). She begged me not to tell anyone, so that her mother and Mr. Oswald’s wife would not find out. She feared her family would force her back to Japan and she would have to give up her American life. I promised to be quiet if she delivered the package with no questions. She quickly agreed.

  On November 22, 1963, I heard the terrible news. President Kennedy was dead, shot in Dallas by Mr. Lee Harvey Oswald. That single moment is burned like a bright light in my memory. I will never forget. I closed my office door and lay on the floor, realizing with sadness that many hands had held that rifle, including my own.

  When I delivered the package to Yoko, I knew in my heart it was evil, but I kept my eyes down and tried not to see. My action was the same as when I watched the ships departing from Manila Harbor, loaded with stolen cargo. Duty to my country was always the most important thing.

  Years later, I discovered what I believe to be the true reason for JFK’s death: he had learned of Golden Lily and the huge fortune that was funding bribery, corruption, private armies, and secret Cold War operations. He was planning to end it by telling the public. But the world’s true rulers, the richest families and the U.S. military leaders, would not allow it to happen. They took his life instead.

  But for me, that is not the story’s end.

  Yoko lied to the Warren Commission investigators before returning to Japan. You see, her father, Tetsuo Endo, had left behind vast debts from bad investments, and his family suffered. They tried to survive and pay back the loans. Mrs. Endo died in 1971, leaving Yoko with the burden of the debt. Loans to Yakuza do not go away with death, but pass to the next generation.

  When I returned to Japan in 1984, Yoko came to greet me with blackmail. She was desperate with fear, convinced that the police were preparing to arrest her for conning money from several wealthy suitors and yet still unable to keep up payments to the Yakuza who were threatening a fate worse than prison. She requested that I give her my last name, pay off her debt, and buy her an English school. This would guarantee her silence about the JFK time.

  She had little to lose, and I had no desire to retire to a jail cell, so I agreed.

  Every day since then, when I look at her, I don’t see a scheming, heartless woman. Instead, I see the youthful tear-filled eyes that stared at me when I pushed the envelope into her frightened hands.

  President John F. Kennedy was an honorable man, and I deeply regret my part in his death. I wish only for this true story to someday be told.

  Takahito Murayama


  Max barely stepped through the condo’s door before Toshi, beaming with pride, handed over the phony treasure map. The tan parchment was the size and texture of a handkerchief.

  “You guys did it already?” He felt a sudden and overwhelming wave of gratitude.

  Jeff was grinning from the plush comfort of a sofa chair. “We used chemicals to age the paper faster.”

  “It looks real, at least to a novice like me, but will it fool them?”

  Swinging his feet off the arm of the overstuffed chair, Jeff pointed to the fake. “Look here, bro—Toshi’s artist incorporated old-style war symbols into the markings. We also tried to make it look more authentic by water-staining this one corner . . . and most importantly, it has to be viewed with a mirror to match an actual area in the Philippines—on the island of Luzon. Apparently the reflection trick was used during the war, for secrecy.”

  Toshi sat thoughtfully, resting his chin on his hands. “But is the water stain dark enough?”

  The question launched a spirited debate, allowing Max time to walk to the window. He considered telling Jeff about the explosion back at the house, but there was nothing that could be done now. The more important thing was keeping everyone alive. But if John F. Kennedy lost the fight against Golden Lily, how will we survive? Max stared at the cars and buses crawling up and down the street, thirteen stories below. The sun was beginning its hazy slide toward the horizon. It’s not enough just to fool the Yakuza and Lloyd Elgin. Someone has to tell the world about all this.

  “Earth to Max.” Jeff’s voice grew louder. “Bro!”

  Max looked up. “Guys, I think the map is great. You did an awesome job, really.” He attempted a smile, but he knew it looked insincere. “So what about the backup? Is everything ready?”

  Toshi nodded. “Yes, Plan B is in place—everything hosted on independent global servers, just like we talked about.”