Collector of Secrets (19 page)

“Don’t be afraid. Tell me what you need.”

“I want you to do some research for me on Prince Takeda.”

Just a minute.” Miki paused while the nearby toilet finished flushing and the other woman in the bathroom washed her hands. The high heels passing Miki’s stall stopped as if to demonstrate they were aware that rules were being broken. Finally, the other woman left the room. “There was someone else in the bathroom. Probably that old cow who sits next to me. Anyway, did you say Prince Takeda, the first cousin of Emperor Shōwa?”

“Sure, if you say so. I know he’s a prince, but that’s about it.”

Miki felt confused. “But you can find information about him in any library or on the Internet.”

“They won’t have what I’m looking for. I want to know where he’s living.”

Sitting back on the toilet, Miki giggled. “Well, if you’re planning a visit, make sure to take me along. I’ve never met a real prince.”

“I’m serious. Can you find out where he lives?”

“It’ll take me some time, but you know I can find anything.”

“Thanks, Miki-
chan
. I’d really appreciate it if you could do it quickly.”

“All right, but you have to call me later and tell me everything that’s happening.”

“I will. I promise.”

The slim phone was slipped back in its thigh-mounted carrying case. Exiting the bathroom, Miki dropped her gaze to the floor, wiped the smile from her face, and relaxed the tension in her shoulders. As much as her mind was racing with excitement, she knew she needed to blend back into the group, at least until the end of the workday.

HIRO LIFTED his head briefly from the pillow before snorting with disgust and dropping it back down. The pounding from the hallway was relentless. He’d slept only a few hours, and already it seemed the game was starting again.

Clad in striped boxer shorts, he shuffled to the apartment door. Opening it, he found Jun leaning against the outside wall. The younger
Yakuza
was dressed entirely in black and sporting a vicious grin.

Hiro squinted into the bright hallway lights. “What are you smiling about?”

“Get dressed,
Sempai
—I received a call from Father.”

“You? Why would Oto be calling you?” He rubbed his eyes as Jun’s massive form squeezed past him into the cramped apartment.

“You’ll have to ask him yourself, but I’d say that right now you’re not his favorite person.”

Hiro was growing irritated with the smug attitude. “All right, so what did he say?”

“A phone call was made this morning to Tomoko Asano’s house. It came from the Fairlady
onsen
on the Izu Peninsula. The Polo girl and her American boyfriend are hiding there. Father wants us to go and finish the job.” Jun’s smirk grew even wider. “And another thing—he told me that this time, I’m in charge.”

A FISHERMAN and his wife worked diligently alongside the Pacific Ocean shoreline of Sagami Bay. The tiny woman stood mending the net while her husband sang aloud as he loaded supplies onto their once white twenty-foot vessel. His croaking voice blended in harmony with the seagulls’ cries. Dressed in a fraying burgundy shirt with dark overalls and claw-toed rubber boots, the fisherman adjusted the knotted towel he wore like a headband. His wife’s face remained hidden beneath the large, bill-like rim of her cap, which lent her the appearance of an exotic bird.

Max was sitting a dozen paces down the shore on a water-smoothed rock, the
onsen
nestled in the trees on the hill behind him. Elbows on knees, he rested his chin on his hands. The daypack sat below in the sand. Brilliant sunlight shone in his face.

The previous night’s sleep had been short and restless. Visions of the past few days had surfaced with the first light that crept in the window. He desperately needed fresh air and some time to think. Now, sitting next to the water, Max tried to keep his mind off the past and focus on what to do next. But there were too many questions. His mind jumped from one to another, then circled back again. Supposing he could solve the immediate problem with the
Yakuza
, he had to consider that he was no longer employed. Finding another job without a passport or work visa would be next to impossible. And since the police had likely identified him by now, there was no telling how badly it could end. Worse yet, Mr. Murayama might well think he was the cause of the fiasco, and would never forgive his seeming treachery. It all seemed overwhelming, and he wished he could just sail off in the fishing boat and leave the mess behind.

A familiar voice roused him. “I thought you’d be down here.”

Tomoko was standing nearby. Her hair was pulled neatly back into a ponytail. In her hands were two cups of coffee. Max took the drinks and balanced them on the rock. Reaching up, he pulled her down toward him and kissed her. “Thanks for rescuing me. You are my knight in shining armor.”

The comment produced a snicker as her head came to rest on his shoulder. “You’re welcome.”

They sat staring at the water, Max trying and failing to ignore the feeling that this was simply a fleeting moment―the eye of a growing storm. Tomoko reached for a coffee as he motioned toward the fisherman and his wife. “You think they’re happy?”

“I don’t know. Should I ask them?”

“No, no—I was just wondering if having a simpler life makes people happier. Does that sound crazy?” He knew there was no clear answer.

She took a sip from her steaming cup. “Not crazy. It’s probably true for some people.” The morning light was bright, and she gripped his hand before squinting to look into his face. “I’m surprised you broke into Mr. Murayama’s office. It’s not something I expected from you.”

“Hey, it’s my passport after all.” He knew he sounded defensive. “Why? Do you think I was wrong to do it?”

“No, but you’re not so . . . not so . . . 
nanda-ke
? Not usually so forceful.”

“Yeah, well, I was sick of being a hostage to the Dragon Lady.”

Tomoko paused before asking the question he was most hoping to avoid. “So what now?”

He exhaled sharply. “I’ve been thinking about that a lot, and none of the options look great.”

She pressed on. “I think we should go to the police and explain about the robbery and why you were there. We could also give them the daypack.”

Max knew what she was really saying. Hidden between the words lay the fact that she wanted things to return to the way they were, although he was pretty sure that was no longer possible. “The cops saw me at the office. They’ll charge me with the break-in, for sure and, besides, I’ve also read that the police are all tied in with the
Yakuza
.”

Tomoko clicked her tongue. “You’ve been watching too many movies. Are all American police linked to the mafia?”

Max realized the prejudice in his comment. “Okay, you’re probably right, but I still don’t want to go to prison.”

“You used a key to get in the office, remember? Besides, the two other men were probably regular thieves. We don’t even know if they’re
Yakuza
. Lots of people have tattoos.”

“You’re kidding, right?” His voice grew louder. “You mean that having tattoos all the way down both arms shows they weren’t
Yakuza
?”

“I’m just saying they may not be part of a gang.”

Max pulled away and put both hands around his coffee cup. “Whatever.” He didn’t bother trying to hide his frustration. “So if it was just two lone crooks, tell me how they found you in a single day. It’s not like they followed me to Shibuya. How did two small-time crooks determine my identity, figure out that you were my girlfriend, find your office, and then follow you?”

Her eyes widened, and she looked at Max. “What if it was Yoko? That has to be it!”

“Okay, now that just doesn’t make any sense.” The rising sun slipped behind a cloud. “Why would she have people break into her own father’s office? What would be the point?”

“I’m not sure, but I’ve never trusted her . . . and only Yoko or Kenji know where I work.” Tomoko snapped her fingers. “That has to be it.”

He toyed with the insane idea. “Seems unlikely, but I guess anything is possible, especially with her.” The fisherman eased the boat from the shore. The smiling man gave a shout and a wave as he revved the motor, and Max returned the wave, glad of the diversion. While the vessel shrank from sight, the fisherman’s faceless wife clambered to take a seat next to her husband’s standing figure.

Tomoko slid down and rested her back against the sun-warmed rock. Max reached for the daypack, unzipped it, and retrieved the pale yellow diary from the brown satchel. It felt old and rich with history. “You should see this.” He handed it over for her inspection. “But don’t get it dirty.”

The warning triggered a short burst of laughter. “When did you become the guardian of Japan’s past?” Her hands ran over the raised leather surface. Opening it to a random page, she read the Japanese writing.

T
he brilliant morning light greeted my eyes after another sleepless night. Yesterday, the tunnels of Teresa, south of Manila, were finally closed. Entombed alive were nearly one hundred laborers and foreign combat prisoners. It is the same each time a vault is closed. Huddled together in the damp caves, they wail and cry for mercy, which never comes. The sound of their collective voices echo inside my brain. The sunken faces and hollow eyes haunt my dreams and keep me from sleep.

Earlier, I sent word to Prince Chichibu, begging him to let me spare their lives, but he denied my request. The reply stated simply that we must guard the emperor’s belongings and protect them with absolute devotion.

I know my place and have faithfully carried out my duty, but in my private heart I cannot deny my feelings. The world has lost all reason, and I am descending into madness along with it. What kind of a world are my actions helping to shape? What will my children and my children’s children inherit? Will they ever understand the horror and suffering that their vast fortune is built upon? If they don’t know the truth, how will they learn from our mistakes?

T
he sun reemerged. Dancing waves lapped rhythmically as birds squawked and dove along the beach. Max slid to the sand and closed his eyes. He might have nodded off for a minute, but he wasn’t sure. When he finally looked over at Tomoko, her face was a mix of unreadable emotion. “What’s wrong?”

“This diary—it starts in 1942 and ends in 1947, when the prince and his family were made into . . . they were not royalty anymore.”

“You mean they became commoners?”

“Yes,” she continued, “and it says that during the war, Prince Takeda worked on a secret project called ‘Golden Lily.’ He was forced to hide stolen things for the emperor.” Emotion shook her chin. “It’s hard to believe this really happened.”

His comforting arm slid around her shoulder. “Toshi mentioned that as well—but I don’t get the part about the prince being forced to do it.”

“These are his private thoughts, Max. He was following orders, but he felt very bad. His words are filled with a great sadness.”

“You’re telling me this dude was a humanitarian?” he said, eyes half closed. “I’m not sure I can buy that.”

“I’ve only read a little, but it seemed he was unhappy about many things he had to do.”

“So what’s in there that makes the
Yakuza
—” Max threw on a jesting smile and held up both palms dramatically. “Oh, sorry, I mean the bad guys—want it so badly?”

“Don’t tease me.” Tomoko dug a gentle elbow into his ribs. “I’m not sure yet. The prince writes about digging tunnels and hiding ‘war treasure,’ but there are no details so far. I can’t find any maps, but there are a lot of pages. It’s big.” She tapped the inch-wide spine.

Max stared out at the water. “We won’t solve the problem from here. We should go back to Tokyo, and I’ll go to the U.S. Embassy. I can find a cheap hotel until they give me a new passport. And maybe they can help straighten things out with the police.”

“Or you could stay with my uncle in Hitachi for a while. It’s close enough for me to visit on the weekends.”

“That’ll just delay things. It won’t solve them.” He shook his head, wishing he could propose a genuine solution. Every path seemed to have almost insurmountable obstacles. He looked into her eyes. Her lovely face was so close. She was holding her breath, and he could feel her desire to respond, but the moment slipped away.