Collector of Secrets (38 page)

I
t would be another half hour before the travel agencies opened, and Max desperately needed a distraction. Unzipping the daypack, he retrieved the second diary. The exterior was bound in a simple dark blue cloth, very different from the leather splendor of the first volume.

While examining the book’s spine, a folded paper slipped out and drifted to the tiled floor next to him. It was yellowed with age, and the inside surface displayed three separate grids with a line of numbers running along the bottom and another down the right side of each grid. The look was similar to the mathematical game of
Sudoku
that had people hunched over in coffee shops and on trains, but it wasn’t exactly the same. It was impossible to tell if the paper even belonged with the diary, or if it had simply been Ben’s bookmark. Max flipped it over. Numbers and letters were also written on the four outside edges:

N 26° 11′ 13″ – E 127° 40′ 36 ″ – N 26° 11′ 9 ″ – E 127° 40′ 30 ″

A shiver shook his shoulders and spiraled down his backbone. They looked like coordinates, but to what? Could this be what he had been sent to find?

He knew he’d have to get to the Internet to find out what the numbers meant—Google Earth could help—but it would have to wait until later, maybe after the travel agency. Max stared at the paper before folding and reinserting it between the pages. He flipped to the beginning of the diary and read.

Two and a half years have passed since the emperor surrendered. On August 15, 1945, the Imperial voice crossed the airwaves in order to stop the terrible bombs that slaughtered our innocent countrymen in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The wounds are still exposed and infected. The horror is too dreadful to think on.

I have seen firsthand the destruction inflicted on Tokyo. The once beautiful streets and gardens now lay in ruins. The city’s heart is burned out. Noble veterans in shaggy uniforms line the streets, armed only with begging bowls. Gangs of children with dirty faces run between the shacks bordering the muddy streets.

Existence has become difficult. Shortages of food and scarcity of electricity have left most citizens cold and hungry, while sitting in the dark. Even now, survival for many is not guaranteed. Thankfully, my wife and children have been spared much of the hardship that has befallen my cousins.

I am no longer royal. The title for me is gone, but the flesh and the former deeds remain the same. My nights are still haunted by the voices of the past. I have no means to lay them to rest. There is no way I can think of to right the wrongs.

General MacArthur’s tentacles, with the blessing of America’s President Truman, have spread and infected every corner of this country. The octopus has captured the fish and is slowing consuming it.

Military trials are done, and the new constitution has been approved. Large corporate groups have been made to divide.

A Socialist coalition government was elected last year. The new prime minister is Christian—in a country where Shinto and Buddhism are the common beliefs.

But I still have old friends in high places, and they have been whispering to me, telling me things that should not be revealed. Golden Lily has been found. The earth is giving up her secrets. The emperor’s grand plan is being used against us. Ideals are being bought and sold. Lies and corruption are everywhere. Bribes are making the new politicians and bureaucrats rich. Elections are being controlled. Even as I write this, a secret campaign to purchase generations of compliance is being forged.

U
sing the travel agent’s telephone, Max left a message after the sound of the beep. “Toshi, it’s Max. I need help. It’s a long story. I found the diary’s caretaker, but the
Yakuza
followed me. I don’t know how, but they did it. I’m stuck in Osaka, and I need to get to Okinawa fast. All the flights are sold out. I was hoping you might know somebody at the airlines who could help me get a ticket. Anyway, I’ll try to call again later.”

The travel agent took back the phone and re-cradled it. Her perfume was overpowering, which was probably good, since he badly needed a shower. He was purposefully dragging out the meeting, hoping for a little luck. “So, you’re sure there’s nothing? No flights today or tomorrow? Maybe something came free in the last few minutes.”

The agent sighed. “Very sorry, Mr. Ma-ku-su. Everything full.”

It was the fourth agency he’d been to, and the answers were all the same. His sense of panic grew larger. The warm office air pressed in around him; he needed to get outside. Squeezing through the crowd of people gathered in the tiny space, he finally made it to the door and onto the sidewalk. Pacing back and forth, he took deep, controlled breaths. It seemed pointless to try a fifth.

If only I knew Tomoko was safe, then I could lie low and go to Okinawa in a few days.

A thumping sound made his raw nerves jump. Turning round, he saw a shaggy-haired boy slapping a palm against the inside of the window, waving for him to return.

Pushing his way back inside, Max could hear the agent’s voice. “Come, Mr. Ma-ku-su.”

His hopes soared. The crowd parted, and he stumbled through the sea of arms and legs before catching himself on the desk’s edge. “You found something?”

The agent held out the receiver, a quizzical expression on her face. “Telephone for you.”

The situation felt strange, and he hesitated before speaking. “Hello?”

A woman’s soft voice sounded in his ear; her diction perfect. “Mr. Travers, I’m Toshi’s secretary. He asked me to return your call.”

“Is Tomoko safe!” Max blurted. “Is she there at the house with you? Is she okay?”

“I don’t know sir. I’m at the office,” the woman explained with cold efficiency. “However, I was asked to pass along a message. Toshi has a plan to help you, but he stressed that you must be aware of the potential risk.”

“I’m desperate!”

“Then write down this address—it’s the airport you need to go to.”

THE TORA-FUGU Fish Company delivery truck swerved erratically through the freeway traffic. Brakes screeched and horns blared as it squeezed into the fast lane between a red sports car and a minivan. The
Yakuza
driver was struggling to keep up with Oto Kodama’s Mercedes sedan, which was rocketing westward.

S
ealed inside, Tomoko watched as Hiro kicked his foot against the metal side of the truck’s cargo hold. He was shouting in vain, trying to be heard over the engine’s gunning noise. “Stop driving like an idiot!” He staggered sideways as the driver made another unpredictable lane change.

Stacked boxes formed descending layers along the cargo area’s front wall. They vibrated and jumped with each swerving motion. The odor of seafood permeated the confined space.

Tomoko crouched against the opposite wall, trying to stifle her involuntary moans each time the vehicle lurched violently. Her white-knuckled hands clutched the free end of a secured rope—it was the only thing keeping her from tumbling across the rancid floorboards. The bump on her head was pulsing, fueled by her racing heart, and it was just a matter of time before she vomited.

“Keep hanging onto the rope,” Hiro yelled. “We should be out of city traffic soon.”

Tomoko raised her sarcastic voice against the rumble. “Thanks for the advice.”

Along the front wall, a wide box groaned as it slipped from its place and tipped precariously on edge. Tomoko caught the movement from the corner of her eye, turning in time to see the heavy cargo plummeting straight for her.

Hiro attempted an interception as the truck executed another unpredictable swerve. His feet caught up, sending him stumbling to his knees. His injured right hand collided with the floor and he shrieked in pain, instinctively clutching the wound to his chest, causing his face to hammer hard against the wooden floor.

Attached to the rope, Tomoko swung her slender frame away, barely missing the box as it crashed down and tumbled past, finally coming to rest against the rear door.

Swinging back into place, she exhaled a sigh of relief while her moaning captor lay fetal on the floor, motionless. He should have been the object of her hatred for what he’d done. Yet surprisingly, she found herself moved by his pain. He seemed different from the other
Yakuza
, thoughtfully intelligent, and even aware of his own parasitic place in society. The hoodlums who formed the base of the group’s pyramid structure didn’t place great stock in kindness or literacy. It was no wonder the others disliked him.

Soon, the vehicle’s motion smoothed out. Presumably, the traffic had lightened. As Hiro predicted, they must have finally reached the main highway between Tokyo and Osaka.

Moving onto all fours, Tomoko crawled across the shuddering floor. She touched his shoulder, and felt him tense. “Come on. Sit up. Let me look at your hand.”

“I’ll get up on my own.” The wiry
Yakuza
kept his right arm clutched to his chest as he twisted himself into a sitting position.

Tomoko gasped at the sight of the open gash on his left cheek. The fall on the rough floor had torn away a ragged inch-long strip of flesh. A bloody trail ran along his face.

“What’s wrong?”

She did her best to hold back another wave of nausea. “Nothing . . . you’ve just got a cut. Let’s move over to the boxes.” Tomoko held herself against him as they cautiously crouch-stepped their way toward the front of the hold.

Hiro settled onto the floor. Resting his back against a box.

“Do you have any medical supplies I can use?” she asked.

He opened his mouth, then suddenly stopped, staring into her eyes as though he was seeking an answer. Finally he spoke. “I have a knife and bandages in my back pocket.”

He shifted his weight, allowing her to lean in close and wrap herself around him, one arm grasping while the other worked as an anchor. Anyone unexpectedly opening the truck door would have sworn they’d caught the two in a lovers’ embrace. Tomoko suddenly became aware of the fact that she hadn’t bathed in three days.

Her fingers slipped between the layers of denim. “Got them.” She leaned back quickly. “I need something to wipe away the blood.” Opening the box next to her, she pulled out a swath of heavy brown packing paper. It would have to do. “If I do this right, the scar will be small.”

His eyes remained downcast as he spoke. “Thank you, but it won’t matter, anyway.”

“What are you talking about? Of course it matters.”

“I’m not . . .”

Tomoko tore open the plastic pouch holding the bandage. She could tell that he wanted to say something. “What? Tell me what you were going to say. It’s not like I’ll pass it on to anyone.” She made a sweeping motion to illustrate the empty compartment.

There was a pause before Hiro spoke. “I’m not going to live for long, so don’t spend time worrying about a scar.”

She wrinkled her brow, confused. “I thought I was the one worrying about survival.”

“Your chances are better than mine.”

Gingerly, she applied the bandage. The truck’s shuddering made it a difficult task. “How do you know that?”

“I overheard Oto’s guards talking to the sentry. The plan is for me to take the fall for the problems we’ve had in retrieving the diary.” Hiro scowled. “Once it’s found, I’ll be killed. Then the police can blame me for everything, and Oto can walk away.”

“‘Problems’? That’s how you describe murder?” Tomoko felt her chest grow tight as her eyes welled with tears. “Mrs. Kanazawa was my friend! Her death isn’t just a ‘problem’ that needs to be solved.” She forced herself to concentrate on smoothing the bandage’s edge. “It’s all insane. This whole thing is crazy.”

“I’m very sorry. My
Sempai
Jun is not—”

Tomoko’s voice filled with righteous anger. “I mean, how can you kill and . . . and steal . . . then go home and read books like
Cry Freedom
? Stories of people with courage who take risks—who try to do something with their lives.”

“I never killed your friend!” Hiro’s eyes flared. “I’ve never murdered anyone. The fact that I’m
Yakuza
and what I have to do . . . those things were dictated to me. I have no choice. My path was laid out since before I was born into a
Yakuza
family.”