Collector of Secrets (28 page)

“But I’m not done. We haven’t finished talking.”

“Hurry.”

Max jumped to his feet and in one swift movement stuffed the diary into the daypack while charging into the bathroom. Pivoting on his heel, he turned back. “One more thing. Yoko—is she really your daughter?” The nurse’s voice was growing louder. She was just outside the door.

“Ask President Kennedy.”

“What?”

Mr. Murayama coughed. “Ask President Kennedy.”

“But that doesn’t make any sense.”

“Hide, Max. Hide!”

DRESSED ONLY in loose cotton pants, Vincent Lemoine spun and kicked at the air. The thirty-fifth-floor hotel curtains were pulled wide open, all the better to take in the view of the dazzling city lights.

The Century Hotel’s executive rooms were spacious and uncluttered, just right for a workout. He twisted again and unleashed a flurry of jabs. Ducking left, he rolled across the floor before flexing his entire body and springing back to his feet. A roundhouse kick cut the air. His torso glistened with sweat.

The self-designed routine appeared similar to the Brazilian art of Capoeira. But in fact it was much deadlier, blending Krav Maga, the Israeli military hand-to-hand combat system, with key elements of Muay Thai martial arts. Decades of training had taken him from a mere student to a master. He was both lethal and effective.

The day’s visit to Max Traver’s House had yielded little. The documents retrieved were spread out on the desk next to a recently opened bottle of cognac. There was a sparsely written journal, several pay stubs, and only a few photos that merited any examination. He had already noted and memorized the relevant details before sending an encrypted verbal report to Senator McCloy.

Vincent prized his almost perfect recall. Friends often commented on his uncanny ability to retain the smallest of details. Names, dates, faces, and addresses—it was a CIA skill that had saved his life on more than one occasion. Not to say that brute force wasn’t necessary on occasion; but while force and firepower came in handy, information was the most powerful weapon of all. Without it, an agent became just another sharpshooter.

The kid’s a nobody from a dead-end family. He won’t even be missed; just another traveler who never made it home.

Long ago, he had made a conscious decision to never waste time thinking about all the people he’d killed. Whether it was Hong Kong, Seoul, Beijing, or a dozen other places, it didn’t really matter. Secrets needed to be kept, security needed to be safeguarded, and those who were a threat needed to be eliminated.

There was a knock at the door. Vincent paused to admire his ripped abs in a mirror before walking to the entranceway. “Who is it?”

A male voice with a Southern drawl carried through the door. “A package for Mr. Bob Elgin.”

“I’m his brother, Lloyd Elgin. Just leave it there.” Several seconds ticked by before he peered out into the hallway. There was no point being too hasty. A camouflage duffel bag rested on the carpet. Glancing down the corridor, Vincent could see the courier’s back as he strode away. The man was dressed in a cheap suit, but walked with a crisp authority―probably a U.S. Marine from the nearby Yokosuka military base, just making a little extra money. No questions asked.

He retrieved the bag and emptied its contents onto the bed. Everything he’d asked for was provided, right down to the two modified ASP handguns, their unique features and rounded edges made them the best covert guns available.

Vincent slung the hotel towel over his neck and felt the weight of the weapons in each hand. The moment was good, and he allowed himself to revel in it. A strong body, an exotic city, fantastic toys, and the thrill of the hunt.

He couldn’t help but smile. It didn’t get any better than this.

TOSHI’S FOYER was silent as a grave, Max mused as he sat in the open hallway, clutching her note, gazing bereft at the duvet that had covered Tomoko’s curving silhouette. But she was gone. In fact, the entire damn house was empty. He’d scoured the place twice after waking alone, refusing to believe, shouting noisily and banging on any door that didn’t yield. He’d been abandoned at exactly the moment he believed he was finally set to do the right thing. It was quarter to six in the morning and the place was an empty tomb.

Talking things over as they drifted toward sleep, she had again raised the idea of going home, before finally conceding.
The
Yakuza
won’t give up, and I can’t go to the police
—
at least not yet. Finding this caretaker may be the last shot. It’s my fault everything went wrong.
First, they would go to Nara and only then would they contact her parents. That was the agreed on plan. But she had lied.

Max hammered an incensed elbow backward into the wall.
How could she?

The corner of the note resting in his hand was folded into an origami bird; something Tomoko only did when stressed or bored. The handwritten words claimed she would find him in Nara, and asked for him to wait, but was it true? Or had she simply changed her mind about their relationship?

And where the hell was Toshi?

Despite his battered ego, Max rose and descended the open staircase. In the stillness, each feather-light creak of the floor felt like an explosion of noise.

Searching for her family home would be pointless. He knew they lived in Urayasu, but nothing else. She had never taken him there. How could she have, since her parents were oblivious to his existence? He was just a foreigner after all, a
Gaijin
, an exotic fucking pet.

Adjusting the daypack, he approached the front door looming large before him.
But what if she changes her mind and comes back?
Reaching for the handle, Max bit his lip and clenched his fist, hammering an invisible tabletop.
Should I wait awhile?
It was the point of no return, and his resolve began to slip. He steeled himself against weakness as he turned to survey the two white urns resting beneath the vaulted foyer.

Mr. M’s passion and remorse had weighed heavily on his mind: “The chorus of so many who have died cannot be silenced.” Throughout the night, the lingering words had echoed in his dreams: “The diary has chosen you as its new guardian.” Even if it were not the case, even if the old man was losing it, the power of action, any action, was better than cowering and hoping the threats would simply go away. Too many of his childhood moments had been spent sitting next to his careworn mother, praying for help that never came. A miracle hadn’t happened then, and it wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. Max recalled, as if it were yesterday, the small-town American preachers speaking in a rising crescendo, their pseudo-prophetic words spiraling upward to meet climactically in the air with the stinging slap of two palms: “The Lord helps those who help
themselves
!” Hallelujahs, waving arms, and thunderous applause always followed.

Nobody forced her to leave. She made her own choice.

Max slipped into the crisp morning air. Outside the sanctuary, he pulled on a baseball cap and trotted down the stairs. The trains would start soon, and there was a long way to go. Time was short, and he started to run, slowly at first, but more quickly with each passing building. Block after block, he raced an invisible enemy until his burning lungs screamed as loud as his mind,
“You have been chosen!”

IT WAS almost eight in the morning, and the prefab suburban neighborhood was quiet. The house in the middle of the block showed no signs of life. For over an hour, Tomoko had stared at the rolled shutters of the two-story white aluminum building. From her vantage point down the street, she could easily spot any activity. A tiny patch of grass served as the front lawn, with an adjacent concrete pad for a single car. The community was well planned, orderly, and perfectly uniform; a compact version of the American dream.

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. In fact, it wasn’t unusual for her mother to spend days indoors. The regular routine had been twice-weekly grocery shopping, a flower-arranging class, and Wednesday’s “Lady’s Lunch.” Even as a child, she had found the suburban homemaker’s life unimaginably dull. She vowed that she would never be dependent, waiting each day for her man to come home.

Crouched next to a utility shed, staring through the hedge, she ached with the thought of rushing into her mother’s arms. But she held back. The last few days had trained her to be wary. Nothing could be taken for granted. People were being murdered, and she would not put her family in harm’s way.

Tomoko watched a FedEx Kinko’s van drive slowly past. The faceless driver stopped and started several times but didn’t exit the vehicle. He was probably lost in the maze of copycat streets. Reaching the T-intersection at the road’s end, the van turned and disappeared from sight.

She refocused her attention on the yellow slip of paper pressed tightly between her fingertips. It held the prince’s Nara address, but at the moment the edge was bending to and fro, preparing to form the wing of a crane. The folding effort usually proved a distraction, but now it was only serving to remind her of the transgressing note she had left behind and the wake of pain it had no doubt caused.

Max had returned late to Toshi’s the previous evening, saying he’d gone for a long walk after his visit to the hospital. He’d seemed distracted, simply picking at the take-out dinner, claiming he didn’t have an appetite and saying little else.

They had both been weary and afraid, unsure of what to do. Lying in bed, drifting off to sleep, he had coiled his arm over her, finally speaking. “We need to find the caretaker Mr. M told me about.”

“But first I need to make sure my parents are okay,” she’d implored, hoping he would relent. “They don’t use computers, and I can’t call them in case their phone is bugged.”

“You don’t understand, Tomoko. Mr. M wouldn’t explain everything, but that diary is even more dangerous than either of us thought.” He sighed. “We can’t do that. At least not yet.”

She burrowed her face into the pillow. She wanted desperately to scream, realizing that his own phantom-like relationship with his family would never allow him to empathize with her plight.

He was unbending. “First we go to Nara and then we’ll contact your folks. Okay?”

“Yeah, sure.” She thought of Miki as she forced out a culpable breath against the tightly spun cotton. “That makes sense.”

Sleepy lips kissed her ear, “I’m glad you agree.”