Collector of Secrets (16 page)

He pressed his palms together as if to pray. “You’re right. I do want something else. It’s not sex, but that other thing that most of us can never get enough of.”

She nodded with understanding. “You want a cut, don’t you? You want to steal my money!”

“Those are very strong words coming from someone in your position. I’m simply looking for a charitable donation to my upcoming ‘retirement fund.’ Perhaps two wrongs can make a right.”

Yoko stroked her bobbed hair and straightened her shoulders while struggling to regain her composure. Pressing her chair back, she crossed her legs and smoothed her skirt. Regardless of what he said, he was still a man, after all. “What size of charitable donation are you looking for, Masami-
kun
?”

“Fifty percent of everything you get from the sale of shares.”

Her shoulders stiffened, but she refused to allow her face to flinch. “That seems a steep price.”

“You can settle for it, or you can get nothing . . . except some jail time.”

Yoko counter-offered. “Crimes require proof. I’ll give you twenty-five percent—and your wife never has to find out that I’m aware of your unusual birthmarks.”

A smile spread across Masami Ishi’s overbite. “Thirty-five percent, and we let my birthmarks offset your criminal past.”

Her sense of the room began to stabilize. It wasn’t a perfect arrangement, but seemed necessary if she was to survive another day. “Fine, but I have one additional request.” She raised a single index finger.“The police report of the burglary will point to a teacher at this school—Max Travers. However, until the sale of shares is finalized, nobody can know about Max’s involvement. The investors would lose confidence, and everything I’ve worked for would instantly fall apart.”

“So what do you want me to do?”

“I want you to double the number of police needed to catch him, then I want you to hold him quietly until after I finish selling the shares. It should be complete in the next couple of weeks.”

“Are you insane? Hold an American without announcing his capture or formally charging him?” Masami Ishi’s voice rose in pitch. “That’s kidnapping. As superintendent of the CIB, there are limits to what I can do. My actions are closely watched by the National Public Safety Commission.”

She leaned forward in her seat. “I remember you being very resourceful Masami-
kun
. You wouldn’t have risen to the position you’re in without having some influence. I’m sure that for the sake of your ‘retirement fund,’ you can find a way.”

“I’ll do what I can, but I can’t make any guarantees.” His cheeks reddened, and he rose to his feet. “Either way, when this deal goes through, I want my thirty-five percent.” He turned and left the room without looking back.

Yoko breathed a sigh of relief as she listened to the stairwell door slam shut.

From the hall, Kenji peered into her office. “
Sensei
, is everything okay?”

“Yes. It was just a salesman, but I sent him away.” She waved a tired hand. “And one more thing before you go. You need to cover Max’s classes. The story is that he’s on a trip with his aunt who is visiting from America.”

“But
Sensei
—I’m no good at lying.”

“Please don’t argue with me. I’m not going to put up with it.”

“Yes,
Sensei
.” He dropped his head.

“Good. Now, I need some quiet. Don’t let anyone else come in.”

As the door closed out the unforgiving past, Yoko reached for the bottle of Tylenol in her desk drawer. She needed relief—something fast. Something that would stop the throbbing pain threatening to split her skull wide open.

“IT’S ALL GONE WRONG!” Max’s voice stammered as Tomoko played his message again. Etiquette dictated that she shouldn’t use her cell phone on the train, but she couldn’t help herself. He sounded distressed, although it might be just a ploy just to get her to talk. Tomoko closed her phone, noting the blinking low-power warning, and stood up as the subway car braked. She briefly contemplated sticking to her plan to let him suffer a while longer. But he sounded genuinely upset. The message said to meet at 6 p.m. near the statue of Hachiko the Dog. It had been a hectic afternoon at the office, and she checked her watch—6:55.

Climbing the stairs to the cavernous western gallery of the Shibuya train station, she wove through the throng of high-tech Bit Valley workers and tanned
Kogal
girls loaded with shopping bags. Having spent a summer in San Diego, she had described the unusual female subculture to Max by comparing them to California’s Valley Girls. It really wasn’t much of a stretch, since there were so many similarities: rampant materialism, lots of attitude, and a style all their own.

Several
Kogals
stopped directly in front of Tomoko as she hurried toward the exit. Pressing her way through the group resulted in one teenager dropping a shopping bag, its contents scattering across the floor. A mistaken attempt to stop and help only subjected her to a chorus of swearing and catcalls. Throwing up her hands, Tomoko sneered at them before turning and continuing on her way outside. “Stupid girls,” she spoke to herself. “Where have all the smart ones gone?”

A
s the blonde
Kogals
gathered their strewn merchandise, one of them, dressed in a flowery miniskirt and matching platform boots, chased after the last of the runaway parcels. Before she could reach it, a muscular man bent down and picked it up. He stretched out a tree-trunk arm to return the package and she caught a glimpse of the intricate tattoos beneath the rolled-up sleeve of his dress shirt. Biting her frosted lower lip, the giggling young woman batted her heavily blackened eyelashes. The thick-necked
Yakuza
winked at her and continued on his way out the exit, following a shorter, pinched-face man.

R
ising overhead, massive video screens blinked and glowed atop the central Shibuya intersection. The entire area was flooded with people and, as much as he tried, Max couldn’t watch every direction at once. He glanced quickly into the daypack. The diary was still there, along with his own expiring plane ticket. Together, they felt like a lead weight pulling on his shoulder as he paced under a darkening sky.

Despite Toshi’s dire warnings, Max had departed the house around noon. Aware that the
Yakuza
gangs were likely on the lookout for him, he had avoided the trains and subways. Instead, he spent the afternoon walking an indirect course from Hamamatsucho to Shibuya, which stretched the distance from four miles to eight. He told himself not to be afraid, yet he caught himself repeatedly checking to make sure that he wasn’t being followed. During the brutal office assault he had seen what the mafia thugs were capable of doing.

For a fleeting moment he’d considered going to the police, but he had no intention of rotting in a Japanese prison. The cops had probably already pointed an accusing finger in his direction, explaining to Mr. Murayama that he’d been casing the place all along—planning the robbery—waiting for the best time to strike. The authorities were benevolent enough to well-behaved foreigners, but stories occasionally circulated of
Gaijin
being persecuted for unsubstantiated crimes. He’d once read a magazine article detailing how the authorities and the
Yakuza
often worked together. A call to the police might just end up delivering him straight to the bad guys.

His phone calls to the TPH had gone unanswered, but then it wasn’t unusual for his nocturnal roommates to sleep away most of the day. He’d also thought of phoning home to the States, but it was a different world altogether—how could he possibly explain everything taking place and make it sound even remotely plausible? He had even considered calling his buddy Jeff in Okinawa—they’d been tight once, before Jeff moved away—but there was nothing the guy could do to help him from so far away.

Taking sporadic breaks throughout the afternoon, he’d killed time in the back of coffee shops. He paid only in cash, always mindful to keep an eye out for anyone focusing too much attention in his general direction. He had to keep thinking. There had to be a solution, but after a wearisome afternoon he was forced to admit that the answers still eluded him. He was on his own, adrift.

An overhead screen showed that it was almost seven o’clock. Tomoko was an hour late, if she was coming at all. Against the advice of her friends, she had chosen to give him a chance, and Max realized now that he’d been too self-absorbed to pay attention. He hated the idea that he might have permanently screwed things up, and the pressure of waiting made the brick in his stomach grow heavier by the minute.

Max muttered his upset as he stomped toward the row of pay phones next to the intersection. He slid into the first available booth and inserted a calling card.

Tomoko answered on the third ring. “I was delayed.” Her voice sounded cold, detached.

“Where are you now?”

“The corner by the Tokyu Department Store. I can see the statue.”

Max gripped the phone while he turned to scan the crowd outside. Picking out anyone else would have been difficult in such a busy place, but he quickly spotted her tall, slender figure and confident stride. She was approaching the statue from the far side of the plaza. “I can see you now.”

“Fine.” Her voice remained monotone.

Then he saw them. Max gasped into the receiver at the sight of the
Yakuza
rounding the corner thirty feet behind her. They were the same two from Mr. M’s office. “No . . . No . . . 
No!
” His pulse rose to a throbbing beat.

“What do you mean, no?” Tomoko stopped walking and the two men behind her followed suit. “You asked me to come here.”

“I . . . I . . . didn’t mean you.” He worked to calm his rapid breathing. “Oh my God.”

“Max, what’s going on? Where are you?”

He turned to face the back wall of the booth, crushing the receiver to his face. “You have to trust me. You have to do what I tell you.”

Her voice rose in obvious frustration. “Is this some kind of joke? I—”

“It’s
not
a joke, Tomoko. Two men are following you. Don’t turn around.
Don’t.
But they’re right behind you.” He peered back over his shoulder.

Tomoko’s voice cracked and he could hear her choking back tears. “I don’t know why you’re doing this, but it’s not funny. I’m going to the Starbucks. I’ll wait ten minutes, and if you don’t come, I’m leaving.”

The line went silent. Max sprang from the booth and watched in horror as the idling men mirrored her movements. Her path cut around the bronze statue. Then, twenty yards away, she stopped dead in her tracks, turned ninety-degrees to her right, and looked directly at him from across the plaza.

Max suddenly felt the world shift into slow motion. He yelled and waved his arms frantically, shouting for her to run, but her face was unreadable, confused. Tomoko took only a few steps toward him before the blurry streaks of the two
Yakuza
surged past her. Max watched her mouth drop wide with shock as she stumbled in the wake, but he couldn’t stay still any longer.

He turned away and raced toward the crowded intersection. A human wall blocked the path before him. Terrified words tore from his throat as he plowed forward without slowing. “Get out of the way! Move.
Move!
”

It didn’t take long for the noise of the surging crowd to drown out the sound of his name being screamed in the ever-increasing distance.

M
ax rubbed his aching ankle and stared out a black glass window onto the T-intersection of two narrow laneways. The hostess pressing against him didn’t seem to care that he was out of breath and still partially soaked in sweat. In fact, he knew the only thing that concerned her was the fact that he was nursing a beer. It was her job to get him drunk and make him spend his money—a scarcity in the lukewarm economy—and she was clearly growing frustrated.

Topping up his glass, she pressed it back with a demure smile. “Prease to drink,” she insisted.

Max thanked her and turned his face back to the window. His eyes darted up and down the streets in all three directions. Thinking back, he realized he’d stood at the Shibuya pay phones far too long. It had been a harrowing escape. His only saving grace was that the intersection’s four-way scramble had changed to allow pedestrians the right of way. He’d been able to bury himself in the mass of people swarming the crossroads. At least a dozen innocent bystanders were steamrolled in the process, but there had been no time to stop.