Collector of Secrets (43 page)

“This whole island is sixty miles long and a couple of miles wide. Everything’s close.”

Jeff pointed at the screen. “It’s in Tomishiro City, next to the airport you landed at last night.”

“So what are we waiting for?”

“Nothing, I guess.” Jeff retrieved a web search engine and typed in the words “Yamashita’s Gold.” Over three-hundred-thousand hits appeared on the screen.

Max squinted. “What’s that?”

“General Yamashita was the dude who led the Japanese forces defending the Philippines. After World War Two, he was hanged as a war criminal.”

“What does this have to do with anything?”

“We can talk about it later. Just have a quick read. I’ll hide the diaries and grab a shower. Then we’ll roll.”

M
ax hesitated, listening to the distant splash of running water before pressing the CALL button to start the Internet conversation. Within moments, Kenji’s spiked hair came into view on the computer monitor. His familiar chubby cheeks grew animated with recognition. “Where are you?”

“Kenji—I’m really sorry for taking your office key. I shouldn’t have done it.”

“It’s all right. I understand why you did. But since then, everything has gone bad for Yoko. The investors read your letter. They rejected buying the school’s shares.” The head on the screen flicked around in short, jerking motions. “I’m finished with this job anyway. She was going to fire me, so I quit.”

Max felt a pang of remorse, although he didn’t regret writing the letter. “What will you do?”

“Maybe work at my family’s restaurant.” Kenji continued. “Hey, did Tomoko give you the passport?”

“What?” The office chair squeaked as Max edged forward on the seat. “When did you see her?”

“Wednesday afternoon. I gave it to her after she argued with Yoko.”

“She saw Yoko? That means . . .” Max slumped backward and rubbed his temple.
That was our last
night together. She could have given it to me, but she didn’t.
The thought of her body pressing next to his while she secretly held his passport made him shudder. Waves of remorse collided against a prickly feeling of betrayal.

“What’s going on?”

“I’m not sure exactly. I can’t explain it all.”

Kenji seemed willing enough to accept the answer as he lowered his head and took a great gulp of air. “I have to tell you something else . . . Mr. Murayama is dead.”

“What?”
Max shot to his feet, knocking the chair back, sending it clattering onto its side. “No!”

“He died on Friday.”

The small room pressed in as Max thrashed about, quaking in disbelief.

“The police told Yoko it was a heart attack—just old age.” Kenji hesitated for a moment. “But they also said a foreigner—a man with bright green eyes—was seen in the hospital.”

Colossal loss flooded the room, forcing Max first to the wall and then to the ground, his forehead in his hands. Salty tears rushed to the tip of his nose on their way to the floor. Was it another murder?
Could it have been Lloyd Elgin?
He lost himself to the moment, listening to the sound of his own grief.

“Are you all still there?”

I have to end this insanity
.

“I can’t see you, but I hope you can hear me.” Kenji’s sympathetic voice whispered from the speakers. “In the past, Mr. Murayama had many teachers. But he told me you were his favorite, Max . . . you were his friend.” There was a pause. “He said you were brought to him for a special purpose.”

“Oh? Yeah, I am the chosen guardian, after all.” Max lifted his head and laughed aloud before wiping his face with his palms. “Leave it to him to come up with something crazy like that.”

“I don’t know why he thought so, but he was sure it was true.”

Max pulled himself from the floor and righted the fallen chair. It seemed pointless to argue with a ghost. He swallowed the lump in his throat. It would be necessary to lie in order to get the call over with. “It was just a shock. I’m fine. Everything is fine.” Max blinked repeatedly before leaning closer to the pinhole camera. “Is anyone else there?”

“No. It’s just me.”

“Good. I need one more favor.” He stared at the machine resting next to a snorkel mask on the desk’s corner. “Write down this fax number. You’ll need it.”

“Hold on—let me get a pen.” Kenji’s sympathetic face flickered as the transmission struggled to keep up with the motion. “Go ahead.”

Max read out the digits. “Now, I need you to go to Mr. M’s office and locate a small copper-framed picture of President Kennedy.”

AN ON-DUTY nurse checked the clipboard hanging outside the Osaka hospital room. Her supervisor’s morning call had been unexpected, and the scowl on her face indicated her displeasure. An unplanned holiday staff shortage meant that a serious number of patients were not receiving proper attention.

The man in room 398 was a John Doe. He’d been brought in the day before in an unconscious state, with no identification. Twigs and leaves had been removed from his wounds, apparently from a yew bush. Emergency treatment had patched him up with more than twenty stitches and several units of blood. Whatever he’d been up to, he appeared to have been injured while doing it outdoors.

His claim of amnesia was clearly a lie. The tattooed patterns covering his muscular frame told the story of who he was and why he didn’t want to reveal his identity.

Scanning his chart, the nurse was intrigued to see that he was type O. Of all the blood types, it was her favorite, since it meant he would likely be outgoing, driven, and passionate. He would have a warrior’s spirit. The day seemed to be looking up just a little.

She entered the quiet room. Her white rubber soles squeaked as she strode toward the window. “It’s time to get up.” She snapped the curtains open, and light filled the orderly room. “We need to give you a bath and get you moving around.” Her forehead wrinkled when she noticed the unusual contour of the blankets on the bed.

Hauling back the sheets, she let out a gasp. The bed was covered with a hastily arranged stack of pillows. Pushing the disguise aside, she could see the flower-like patterns of dried blood and plasma on the sheets.

The “warrior” had vanished.

THE COMMANDER pressed his way down the chaotic sidewalk of Naha City, Okinawa’s capital. Kokusai Street was surging with people enjoying the sunshine. Crowds of tourists streamed from a department store, past the teeming Starbucks and through a never-ending flow of taxis and buses. He thought it an interesting coincidence that, as he passed an Army/Navy Surplus store, a squadron of U.S. fighter jets roared by in the hazy sky. Their thunderous sound drowned out Bob Marley, who blared from the speakers of a nearby T-shirt shop. Startled tourists craned their necks for a look, while locals displayed their blasé attitude to the everyday racket overhead.

As he approached the street’s western end, his eyes swept across the busy road, scanning the crowd. Masami Ishi had finally relented to his request for assistance but had allowed him to bring only his best officers, thereby minimizing the risk of attracting local police attention.

The four hand-picked men were not hard to spot; they were huddled together beneath the Island Brothers marquee. Their floral-print Hawaiian shirts made them stick out of the crowd like a blinking neon sign. The commander rubbed his forehead as he shook his head in mild disbelief. Crossing the traffic-jammed street, he approached his team.

The men all bowed in unison, but he motioned for them to stop.

“I told you to dress like you were on vacation not going to a luau. Let’s get off the street before more people see you in those ridiculous shirts.” Tapping the folder he was carrying, he continued. “Plus, we have some material to review.”

O
n the empty second floor of a nearby coffee shop, the commander recited his encounter with the American at the Yao Airport. At the same time, he distributed an information package to each of the men. The cover photo of Max had been altered to darken the hair.

“He’s changed his appearance and he seems to have some powerful friends.”

The group’s most senior member spoke. “So how does Oto Kodama fit into all this? We were told that he was spotted arriving here within the last few hours.”

“It’s still unclear. The
Yakuza
were chasing Travers-
san
and his girlfriend on the Izu, but Oto’s men may have been working with them during the home invasion near Nara.” The commander brushed his mustache. “All I know is, it’s our job to catch him before more innocent people are killed.”

“But if we can’t ask the local police for help, how are we supposed to find him?” The senior man threw a questioning glance at the others. “There are over a million people on this island, and thousands of them are American military. It won’t be so easy to pick him from a crowd.”

“You’re right, it won’t be easy, but my plan is to have a patrol here on Kokusai Street as well as the markets at the East End, a continual sweep from morning to night. He may feel that the other foreigners will lend him some anonymity.”

The men nodded in unison.

“A second man will cover the main stations on the monorail system, while a third will take the downtown bus terminal. Those are the two fastest and easiest ways around this island. He’ll likely use one of them at some point. And finally, two of us will cover the
Yakuza
.”

The commander took a drink of his coffee and continued. “We will locate and tail Oto Kodama. If he’s looking for the American, then he has a much larger network of men to do it than we do. But if they are working together, then they’ll likely meet at some point. Either way we should be able to locate Max Travers.”

The men grunted and nodded before one of them spoke. “Excellent, sir.”

“Let’s congratulate ourselves only after we’ve completed the job.” He pointed to the team’s three youngest members. “You look after this street, you take the monorail, and you the bus terminal.”

Clasping the most senior man by the shoulder, he spoke again. “And
we
will go hunting
Yakuza
.” The man acknowledged the honor with a seated bow.

“But first,” the commander said, leaning back in his chair, “we need to do something about those crazy shirts.”

SPEEDING SOUTHWARD, the red KLR motorcycle tore down the highway toward Naha City. Max wasn’t used to riding, and every time the bike unexpectedly sped up or changed lanes, he felt his muscles involuntarily flinch and tighten his grip on Jeff’s rib cage. Leaning forward, he tried to speak, but the wind tore his words apart.