Collector of Secrets (20 page)

She rose up and swiped the back of her jeans with her hands. “I’m hungry,” she muttered. “Let’s eat. If we walk a few minutes, there’s a train station. We can catch it into town.”

Max stood up and placed the satchel and diary back in the daypack before swinging it over his shoulder. “I could use some comfort food—eggs, toast, potatoes.”

“Is your ankle all right to walk?”

“Yeah, sure, no problemo. It’s almost good as new.” The first steps were edged with sharp pain, but he distracted her by grasping her hand. “Hey, did I tell you that Kenji remembered a picture of Yoko and Mr. Murayama together?”

She laughed. “Nice try—proves nothing. I saw a picture of them on the office wall, but it could have been taken yesterday.”

Max gestured with his free hand. “No, I mean a picture of them when Yoko was a little girl. Kenji said it shows Mr. Murayama pushing her on a swing.”

“Really? And he’s sure it was Yoko?” The skin on Tomoko’s forehead wrinkled slightly. “But Miki was positive Mr. Murayama didn’t have any children.”

Max shrugged. “Well, there’s always a first time for being wrong.”

SENATOR MCCLOY needed to be warned about what was transpiring, but the Washington-based satellite phone couldn’t be used for the late-night call. It was a basic protocol of the Code that communication chains should never be continuous. Extensive military training and field operations had drilled the routines into Vincent Lemoine’s head until they were second nature.

He dialed instead from a Georgetown pay phone and waited. It could be an FBI, CIA, or NSA number he was ringing; he would never know for sure. Several seconds passed while automated systems determined that the communication link was clean. Finally, a synthesized voice instructed him to leave a message.

“This is Lloyd Elgin. I received a call from an old friend who invited me to Japan. He’s concerned about some recent business deals that have taken place. After careful consideration, I’ve agreed to the invitation and will be catching United 9678 to Tokyo at 10:45 a.m. tomorrow. Prepare my usual goods and have them delivered to the Shinjuku Century Hotel. You can expect another message from me within the next thirty-six hours.”

TWELVE MEN in heavy, polished boots charged up the stone stairway before making a stealthy, single-file dash under the little shrine’s
Torii
gate. Racing across the blacktopped courtyard, the highly trained troops remained slightly hunched. They made a sharp left before moving along the shoulder-height cinderblock wall running alongside the Tokyo Poor House. Approaching the T-junction at the path’s end, the unit commander held up a gloved hand and the group slowed to a stop. From beneath his combat helmet, the commander peered both ways down the wider laneway. It was empty.

He reached back and slipped a silver-handled collapsible device from his belt case. A single swift movement extended the metal baton to its full twenty-inch length, then he stepped around the corner and drove the sole of his boot into the front door. Wooden shards exploded as the rotting timber holding the lock in place splintered. Like a dam unleashed, the uniformed officers poured into the molding interior of the old house. Shrieks of confusion and anger filled the morning air. The creaking structure shuddered and swayed under the weight of the police and the agitation of the astonished occupants.

W
ith his hands clasped behind his back, Masami Ishi paced beside the nearby police vehicles. In his left hand he gripped a day-old search warrant, obtained after visiting Yoko’s office. It had taken some serious arm-twisting before the reluctant judge had finally issued the document with one caveat—there would be twenty-four hours of surveillance before any action was taken.

Twenty aggravating hours had ticked by, revealing nothing, until finally Masami Ishi’s patience had worn thin. They were just a bunch of
Gaijin
, after all, and would never be able to navigate the complex judicial system. His biggest concern was how to hold the American out of sight for two weeks―if he could find him―without placing any charges.

A walkie-talkie squawked as the commander sent back his report. Masami Ishi heard the noise and approached the driver’s side of a white police van. He motioned for the window to be rolled down. “What’s going on?”

The young officer struggled to turn down the volume on the crackling handset. “The commander says they have four foreigners, but none match the American’s description. He also says two of the foreigners’ visas have expired, and one Israeli needs medical attention. He resisted arrest and is bleeding from a head wound.”

“Damn it.” He’d felt sure the American would be hiding in the house, cowering in his bedroom. Masami Ishi took the two-way radio. He stepped away from the vehicle, just far enough to be out of earshot of the driver. Pressing the rubber button, he spoke. “Commander—are you there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Take the Israeli to the hospital. Then bring them all in for questioning.”

“Affirmative,” came the quick response.

“I also want you to leave two men behind. Make the house look occupied. If the American comes, then grab him, but do not harm him.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And I have one special request. If your men do catch him, I want you to call me first—on my personal cell phone—before making any report to headquarters.” Masami released the radio’s button. The pause in communications was noticeably longer before the reply came back.

“I understand, sir.”

TOMOKO SWUNG the plastic 7-Eleven bag containing underwear and deodorant from one hand while the other grasped Max’s as they walked back along the beach. “What else is in that backpack?” she asked.

“A novel, some daggers, a few bracelets,” he said. “And a cell phone.”

She shot him a playful grin. “Don’t forget you owe me a new phone.”

“Maybe I should just give you this one. Course I don’t know if it belonged to the guys who robbed the office. And it had an odd text message on it.”

“What do you mean? What did the message say?”

“Eight-nine-three-O-K.” Max’s arm tugged backward as Tomoko stopped dead in her tracks. He turned and repeated himself in response to her shocked look. “The message showed the numbers eight, nine, three, and the letters
O
and
K
. Why? Does that mean something?”

“Let me see the phone.” Her voice was urgent.

“Give me a sec.” He unzipped the daypack and dug around the bottom before pulling out the phone and tossing it to her outstretched hands. “It has a built-in GPS, so you shouldn’t . . .”

She flipped it open and powered it up.

“. . . turn it on. Or you could simply go right ahead.”

Tomoko’s head remained bowed over the small screen. “I just want to see the owner’s name.”

Max rested his weight on his good ankle while he waited.

“It belongs to Mr. Murayama.” Several more beeps followed before she powered it off. “And the message is different from what you said. There are dots after the letters.”

“So? So what if it’s
O
dot
K
dot or the word
OK
? Doesn’t it mean the same thing?”

“No, Max, it doesn’t mean the same thing.” She shook her head vehemently. “There’s a Japanese card game called
oicho-kabu
, and in that game the worst possible hand you can get is an eight, a nine, and a three. The cards together are called “
Ya-Ku-Za
.”

He looked at her, surprised that she expected him to be aware of such an obscure cultural reference. “Are you serious?”

Tomoko nodded. “And
O
dot
K
dot doesn’t mean
okay
. They’re initials for one of the most famous
Yakuza
in the country. His name is Oto Kodama.”

Max felt stunned. “How do you know all this?”

“Everyone born here knows the meaning of Eight-Nine-Three, and Oto Kodama is famous because his father was famous. The
Yakuza
gangs are over three hundred years old, but Yoshio Kodama is called the ‘Godfather of Vision,’ because fifty years ago he brought many enemy gangs together into one large group. He’s as well known in Japan as . . . 
nanda-ke?
. . . you know, the famous American mafia man.”

“Al Capone?”

Tomoko nodded. “Yes, Al Capone.”

“So the message was meant to tell Mr. Murayama something about this
Yakuza
guy, Oto Kodama? But why? Who sent it?”

“It was sent at 11:41 p.m., on April nineteenth, by someone named Kazue Saito.”

Max fell silent. He felt lightheaded and moved to sit down on a nearby rock. It was too much information to digest all at once. Tomoko stared at his perplexed face as she sat beside him. “What is it?”

“Kazue Saito . . .” Max thought back to the shrine murder article in the newspaper and the question he had raised. “Mr. Murayama told me he didn’t know the guy.”

“Who is Kazue Saito?” she implored.

“You didn’t see it? In the paper? The diplomat who was killed last Thursday night.”

Tomoko dropped the plastic bag at her feet as she put her hand to her mouth. “I saw the headline, but never read the story.”

“The article said he died around midnight. That means Mr. Murayama lied to me. And it also means this text message was telling Mr. Murayama who his killer was.” Max stared into Tomoko’s fear-filled eyes. “So you still think the
Yakuza
aren’t involved?”

Her hands began to shake. “Fine—whatever. You were right.”

He thought back to his earlier assumptions. “You know, I could have had it all wrong. Maybe the
Yakuza
aren’t looking for Prince Takeda’s diary after all. Maybe they found out Kazue Saito sent a text message, and they’re trying to get back the phone. Get rid of the evidence.”

As Tomoko shivered, Max slid an arm around her shoulder and closed the loop with the other. “Hey—hey, don’t worry. It’ll be all right. We’ll figure something out.” She said nothing, and he tried to reassure her by lightening the moment. “Grab our high-end luggage out of the sand.” He pointed at the plastic bag. “Let’s go say goodbye to Mrs. Kanazawa. She’s probably wondering where you are, anyway. We’ve been gone for hours.”

M
ax limped slightly as he climbed the stone stairs rising up the lush, tree-covered hillside, his mind drifting, lost in a spiral of consequence and recourse. Arriving at the top, he realized they were on the property adjoining the Fairlady
onsen
. “Damn!”

Tomoko looked up from her feet. “What?”

“Wrong stairs. We should have gone around the corner on the beach. They all look the same from the bottom.” Tomoko turned to go back, but Max motioned for her to follow him. “My ankle’s not feeling so great. Let’s find another way.” He squeezed through a gap in some nearby bushes. “Come on. We can walk to the front this way.”

“Are you sure?” Tomoko pressed gingerly into the space between the fence and the bushes. As they approached the front of the property, the shrubs closed in tight. Forward movement was impossible.

Max motioned for them to stop. “Looks like we’re climbing over.”