Collector of Secrets (5 page)

The fine gold metalwork was stunning, and the inlaid design was vibrant with colors and intricate detail. Max took the antique in both hands. The mysterious language etched into the gold back appeared similar to many of the other watches on the table. He looked up to address his unanswered question and was surprised to see the old man wiping tears from his eyes. “Are you all right?”

Mr. Murayama nodded but seemed choked with emotion. He struggled to retrieve the handkerchief from his pocket. “I have something to tell you.” Pausing, he blew his nose. “I received these during the war. They are Filipino or Korean, some Chinese.”

A distinct feeling of unease settled over Max and he squirmed in his seat, praying that the moment would fade quickly.

Mr. Murayama’s shaky voice continued. “I thought it was important to have them.” His drooping eyes appeared to transport him backward in time. “Many years ago, I served in Manila . . . the Philippines, during World War Two. Many terrible things happened―it was war.” He paused again, lost in thought.

The mantelpiece clock ticked steadily on the nearby desk, seeming to grow louder with each passing second. “When people wanted things done, they gave me gifts—I could get papers signed by the Admiral’s Office. I don’t know where the gifts came from. But I’m sure they weren’t purchased. Do you understand what I mean?”

Shifting restlessly and nodding his head, Max dared to speak. “So, why are you telling me?”

“I won’t be around forever, and these watches should go back to the families they were stolen from. Everything I have spent my life gathering will be passed to museums when I die, but this one task must be done sooner than that, by someone I trust. I need some peace of mind before I go.” An uncomfortable silence descended on them, blanketing the room.

Mr. Murayama’s pleading eyes flicked upward, drilling into Max. “I want you to return them.”

IN THE darkness, retired diplomat Kazue Saito ran across the open stone courtyard of the Yasukuni Shrine. A sliver of moonlight cut the sky. Passing beneath the Torii Gate, he could make out the broad open doors of the Great Gate just ahead. The late hour meant that the lone guard was asleep at his post. Saito and his attacker were the only two awake in the shrine’s compound.

Glancing backward as he fled, Saito tore the white medical mask from his face and wiped the trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth. Behind him, illuminated, he could see the white exterior curtain of the Hall of Worship skirting the arching rooftop jutting into the black sky. Below its wooden eaves, facing the open hall, stood his attacker —revealed only as Jun— in silhouette with head bowed as if in silent prayer.

Drawing closer to the Great Gate, Saito chanced another glimpse backward. What a terrible mistake, he thought as his burning lungs urged him to rest.
I should never have tried to sell the diary to the mafia.
To his horror, he saw that the attacker was now striding in pursuit. At sixty-eight, he was no match for the speed of the shadowy figure approaching.

The man was right behind him now. He was broad-shouldered with a shaved head, and his deep voice carried easily in the thin night air. “You promised information. Where is it?”

“I told you . . .” the former diplomat wheezed, “I need the money first. Please!”

“Your price is too high, Mr. Saito, but you will give me what I want.” Drawing closer still, the burly attacker pulled a
Surujin
chain from inside his leather jacket. On one end was a round metal orb the size of a baseball. Swinging the chain in a circular motion, he launched it toward Saito. The weighted end wrapped swiftly around the older man’s neck, then back around the chain itself. Jun yanked backward abruptly. Saito’s feet shot outward, and he shrieked in pain before striking the hard ground.

Saito felt a massive hand grasp his trench coat by the collar. He was dragged to the edge of the wide stone causeway before being propped into a sitting position beneath the golden chrysanthemum set high on the Great Gate. Crouching, the younger man leaned in close so that his foul breath was only inches away. “I want the information you agreed to give to my Father.”

Saito stared at the jagged scar running down the right side of the man’s face from the outer edge of his eye to his lip. “Oto said he would meet me. He said he’d give me money . . . I need the money.” Saito coughed violently and rubbed at his throat.

“Things have changed.” A rigid finger poked Saito hard in the forehead. “Tell me what I want to know, and you might live. That’s the new deal.”

“Please, can we speak with your master?”

The young
Yakuza
scowled and then sprang to his feet. Grabbing Saito’s trench coat, he again dragged the kicking diplomat over the rough stone until they were well behind the Sacred Water Basin.

Jun paced back and forth, making grunting noises. He bounced the weighted end of the
Surujin
chain in one palm while fingering the heavy silver links with his other hand. The bladed end of the chain swung free.

Saito realized with a sickening sense of dread that there would be no reasoning with the
Yakuza
. He fumbled to open his coat and pulled a business card from his breast pocket. Rolling onto his back, he held it in the air with a trembling hand. “Murayama . . . is the man who holds what you’re looking for.”

Jun turned and snatched the prize from the outstretched arm, then caught the chain’s bladed end and plunged the attached knife into the center of the diplomat’s chest. Saito’s eyes shot open, and a look of confused horror crossed his face as he lay dying on the ancient stones.

Appearing almost gleeful, Jun’s mouth mimicked the roaring dragons at the end of the causeway. “You would have been better to tell me inside the sacred shrine. I would never have killed you in there.” Pocketing the card, he turned and disappeared into the night.

Saito pressed both hands to the wound. The end was near. He could feel his lifeblood flowing out, yet his greatest concern was the name on the card.

What have I done to my old friend? There’s no time to warn him. No time to explain.

Despite the searing pain tearing at his body, a glimmer of an idea took hold in his mind. He retrieved his cell phone from a coat pocket. The case was visibly cracked.

Please let it work.

His bloodied fingers struggled to open it, and as he pressed the O
N
button, a familiar cold blue glow illuminated the dark ground around him.

Maybe there is a way . . .

“MAXWELL EARNEST Travers, you’re officially mad.” Zoe tugged nicotine-stained fingers through her spiky platinum hair and laughed hysterically. In her usual blunt British style, she got right to the point. “You’ve kept on working for that nutter Yoko, and now her father wants you to carry World War Two junk into the Korean and Chinese embassies?”

“I couldn’t find another school that would sponsor me for work.” He took a gulp of beer.

The living room of the Tokyo Poor House had seen better days. The tatami floor’s straw was fraying thin, while against the edges of the room lay stacks of decrepit pillows. Dark panel board covered the walls, and the cool late-night air crept in around the open window frame where the sliding plastic panels no longer fit. A battered television sat on a shaky table between the two open entranceways joining the room to the hallway and the tiny kitchen. Peeking out from beneath the table was a rusty breadbox-sized heater. Its red glowing coils hummed in a vain struggle to warm the room.

The two roommates were seated facing each other on the floor, their feet nearly touching in the center of the cramped space. Max was only half absorbed in coiling his rope, getting ready for a trip to Yugawara in two weeks’ time. His fascination with rock climbing hadn’t yet rubbed off on Tomoko who preferred instead to spread a blanket on the ground and watch the activity from a safe distance, tucked behind the pages of a novel.

Max knew he needed to find the right time to discuss his return plane ticket with Tomoko, but he set aside the thought along with his rope. “You’re making the situation sound worse than it is.”

“Am I, really? Wasn’t it you who told me that Yoko was changing her English school into a corporation so she could sell shares to the naïve parents of her students? She’s stealing their money, but not really, since each of the daft women are willingly handing over a million dollars. And the other day she sent you to fetch a three-thousand dollar outfit she bought in Ginza?”

Max’s reply was cut short.

“No, no, I’m not finished.” Zoe’s eyes brightened. “Let me quote you from the other night—‘The Dragon Lady is nuts. She’s robbing good people of their money, and they don’t see it. I’ve got to do something’—and now you get this bizarre request from her father. You should just get another job.”

“Okay. Yeah. I may have said some of those things.”

Zoe hopped up and walked four paces into the kitchen to check on the midnight meal. “You said all those things, you wanker.”

Protesting was pointless since she was right; instead, he leaned back against the corner pillows and watched her rakishly thin arms chop vegetables. At times her mind was sharp, like now, and he felt as if he really knew her, but then she would unexpectedly disappear for days, only to reappear, high and disoriented. Zoe Pitman had moved into the TPH six months earlier, but nobody had seen her for the initial weeks while she dried out from a Thailand heroin addiction. She had stayed in her ground-floor room, screaming and bouncing off the walls. When she finally appeared for the first time, her hollowed cheeks, worldly manner, and the deep dark circles under her eyes all served to hide the fact that she was only twenty-nine years old.

Max refocused his attention on Zoe’s inquiring face. She was standing in the kitchen doorway. “Are you bloody listening to anything I’m saying?”

“Sorry, no . . . but I’m all ears now.”

“I said, you should gather all those lovely parents and explain what the hell’s going on.”

“And then what? Have Yoko chasing me? She’s crazy enough to do it, you know. There’s something strange about her past. Nobody knows anything about it, including her assistant, Kenji.”

“So just quit and walk away.” Zoe turned back to the stove.

“Yeah, that’s pretty much what I’m thinking.” He paused before raising a lingering concern. “But what about money? Can I get another school to sponsor me a work visa?” The critical question had been silently gnawing at him for weeks.

“Possibly. Once you get through all the bureaucratic bullshit. But it’s a huge hassle, and you’ll likely have to leave the country while it’s being processed.” Moments later, she emerged with two steaming bowls, setting one on the floor before handing him a pair of chopsticks. “Better get to that before the roaches do.”

Max slurped loudly while Zoe ate quietly.

“You’re such a boy.”

He grinned like a contented ten-year-old, a thin line of juice trailing down his chin. “Hey, it’s customary here—the noisier the better.”

They quickly consumed the meal and flopped back against the pillowed walls. Max organized his draws and carabineers by clipping them together. “So assuming I tell my students’ parents what Yoko’s up to with their money . . . what should I do about Mr. M’s request? I know you think he’s using me as a fall guy, but most of his friends are dead and I think he trusts and respects me. Maybe I should—”

Zoe’s voice snapped. “Are you simply going to natter on and answer your own question?”