Collector of Secrets (27 page)

“Only to get back the passport you were holding.”

“Regardless of his intention, he took more than that. Perhaps he’s lying to you about the
Yakuza
in order to cover up the trouble he’s in with the police.”

“I might have believed you until yesterday.” Fear and pain rushed forward. “When they murdered my mother’s best friend.”

“I can assure you that I had nothing to do with any murder.” Yoko appeared momentarily flustered, but quickly regained her poise. “Let’s be reasonable? I’m sure we can solve this misunderstanding. Why don’t you have Max come to my house? He can keep his passport and bring back the things he took. I’m sure we can work this all out quietly. I can let the police know that everything has been returned and ask them to drop any charges.”

Tomoko sniffed and wiped at her eyes with her sleeve. “What are you talking about? He never got his passport back.” She tried to pull the conversation back on track, as she’d imagined it. “You call off the killers—the
Yakuza
—and we’ll trade the daypack for Max’s passport.”

“I have no time for your foolishness.” Yoko waved a dismissive hand. “I don’t have his passport, and this . . . this . . . story has nothing to do with me. While my father is sick, I’m handling his affairs. If you don’t want my help, then please leave. But stay away from my school and my students’ families.”

The conversation was going nowhere, and so Tomoko reached back to unlock the door. “Oh, and one more thing: that story about Mr. Murayama being your father—save it for someone else. We both know it’s not true.”

Yoko placed a hand to her gaping mouth.

The reaction spoke volumes. Stepping from the changing room, Tomoko sped down the stairs and outside. While charging across the plaza, she spotted Kenji moving hastily to intercept and she tried to veer away, but he was too quick. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a U.S. passport and shoved it into her hands. She was astonished, and meant for the reply to be louder, but only a startled murmur came from her mouth. “Thanks.”

Kenji turned away without a word.

T
hrough the myopic third-story glass exterior, Yoko watched the scene unfold in the plaza below. “It seems I have a traitor in my midst.”

MAX SLID into the chair next to the hospital bed and leaned forward, his voice earnest but hushed. “Mr. Murayama, I didn’t intend to rob you. Honestly, I just went to get my passport, because Yoko wouldn’t give it back.” He eyed the hospital door warily, half expecting the police to burst through at any moment. “And there were men— real thieves—in your office . . . I didn’t know what to do. A diary and some other things were in a daypack. I panicked, and took it with me when I ran.”

Mr. Murayama winced as he coughed. “I know, my boy. I know.”

The reply was unexpected, and Max displayed his bewilderment. “But—”

“It’s not your nature to steal.”

Max inhaled sharply. Finally, something seemed to be going right. “Thank you.” He dropped his gaze to the floor. “That means a lot to me.”

“I sent a message—asking the police not to place charges. It may take some time, but soon enough they will lose interest.” He sighed. “Besides, stealing prince Takeda’s diary implies ownership, but I don’t own it.”

The old man sipped water through a straw while Max unzipped the daypack. “They also took your cell phone.”

“Why would they take that?”

“Maybe ’cause there’s a text message on it,” Max said with soft malice, “sent by Kazue Saito around the time he was murdered.” He stopped to let the potent words sink in. “It reads ‘eight-nine-three,’ followed by ‘
O
dot
K
dot.’ Tomoko said that it meant—”

Mr. Murayama waved two fingers in the air. “Oto Kodama! No need to explain. At least now I know who came looking for the diary.”

“So maybe you could tell me how to stop all this. Two people have died already.”

“Two?” The tempo of the heart monitor bounced upward. “Who was the second?”

“Tomoko and I went to hide on the Izu yesterday. The
Yakuza
followed us and they killed her mother’s friend, the owner of the
onsen
where we stayed. There was a car chase. We barely escaped. And now the police are looking for us both. My picture is all over town. Why do you think I snuck in here―and changed my hair?”

“I was wondering.” The old man’s mouth curled slightly at one corner but quickly grew somber again. “This is far worse than I expected.”

“So you can see why I need help—anything, please.”

“I was sure that the
kami
spirits brought you to me, in order to help return those watches. But now I know that your destiny is much greater than that.” Mr. Murayama seemed to gain strength even as he spoke. “The diary has chosen you as its new guardian.”

Max felt the prickly heat of distress sweep across his face. “That’s nuts! First off, I don’t believe in any magical
spirits, and second, even if that’s true, I don’t want the responsibility.”

“You have no choice. After decades of time, the chorus of so many who have suffered and died cannot be silenced. It’s your destiny.”

Max was unsure whether Mr. M. was suffering medicinal hallucinations. “Then I’ll just drop the book with you and disappear.”

“And leave your girlfriend to suffer the consequences? You won’t. You care for her too much.”

The chair squeaked as Max leaned forward. “So help me figure out what to do.” He spoke each word separately. “Give . . . me . . . something.”

“All right.” Taking another sip of water, Mr. Murayama began. “After Kazue Saito’s murder, I knew someone would come, but I didn’t expect
Yakuza
.”

“Who were you expecting? ” Max shrugged. “And why’d you lie about knowing Kazue Saito?”

“Sometimes a person tells so many lies that it’s difficult to remember the truth. Let me explain.” Mr. Murayama grimaced as he shifted slightly. “A man named Tetsuo Endo was an old friend who possessed the prince’s diary at the time of his death. We served together in the military, many years ago. Afterward, we both went into diplomacy. I worked in Washington. He worked here in Tokyo in the legal department. Kazue Saito was his assistant. When Tetsuo died in 1961, he instructed Kazue to bring me the diary, for safekeeping.”

“Safe from what?”

“Endo-
san
, believed there must be a treasure map hidden among the pages. You see, during the war, he was Prince Takeda’s private bodyguard, and for almost fifteen years, from the time he and the prince left the Philippines, he thought constantly about that map. Which is why, the year before he died, he went to get the diary. Cancer was killing him already, so there was little risk in him trying to recover it. He found the book’s caretaker and took the diary from him by force.”

“So, was there a map inside?”

“No, but he found something else. He found words of truth and wisdom.”

“Words? That’s it?” It was going to take more than words to get out of this mess.

Mr. Murayama squeezed his fingers into a fist. “Ideas contain power, Max.”

“Okay, so after Lieutenant Endo died, Kazue brought the diary to you. But why?”

“To protect it for future generations. The days of the Second World War were—still are—too recent for some. There are people who would not want the public to know what really happened. It would create great political difficulties.” Mr. Murayama shook his wrinkled fist in the air. “But ideals should not be allowed to die. That diary should be used to teach future generations, so they do not repeat the mistakes we made in the past.”

“But Japan’s not aggressive. You only have a self-defense force.”

“A few years ago, I would have agreed with you. But look at your own country—there’s something very wrong. Your government has forgotten about Vietnam too quickly and is repeating the same mistakes around the world. And just last year, my government passed laws forcing schools to teach patriotism again. And the Defense Agency has changed to a proper ministry for the first time since the war. Politicians are also at work altering our constitution to allow a full army again. We are already beginning to forget, Max. It’s only a matter of time now. This diary is more valuable than ever.”

“But the
Yakuza
wouldn’t want it for its truths. They must believe it holds a treasure.”

“Yes, that’s a good point. Kazue must have lied to them when he offered the diary for sale. A valuable prize would increase the price he could demand.”

“So if I now give the
Yakuza
the diary, and they don’t find a map, then they’ll accuse me of stealing it. And I can’t imagine that ending well.” Max cocked his head as he thought back to the words he had heard only moments earlier. “Wait a minute. If you didn’t expect the
Yakuza
to come for the diary, then who did you expect would come?”

Mr. Murayama turned his face away. “I can’t say. It’s for your own good.”

“Great—so what do I do now? How can I make this all go away?”

“You can’t. I believe destiny has given you a calling.” Mr. Murayama took another sip of water. “In our meetings, you’ve confessed to wanting more from your life.”

“Honestly,” Max replied with a shake of his head, “I was thinking more like getting a decent job and a nice house.”

“You can be forgiven for having a young man’s vices—optimism, recklessness, and a little greed. I wish you could see that money and wealth are an illusion. There is never enough, my boy . . . never enough.” His wrinkled face grew focused with intensity. “If you want to be special, to do something truly important, then change history.”

“But—”

Mr. Murayama raised his hand, signaling for silence, as a noisy conversation approached and then passed outside the door. “You need to find the caretaker and return the diary. Perhaps he can also help you with the
Yakuza
—explain to them that no map exists.”

“By caretaker, you mean the guy who handed over the diary . . . almost fifty years ago? He’s probably dead by now. And if not, then why can’t I give it back to you—then you give it to him?”

“This is my journey’s end.” The old eyes grew watery. “I’ve known that I was dying for some time now.”

“Don’t say that.”

“But truth will find a way to be spoken, my boy. It can’t be hidden forever.”

Max leaned back and rubbed his temples, fighting the icy panic washing over him. The conversation wasn’t going the way he’d hoped, and his chest filled with a heavy breath of resignation as he asked the next fateful question. “So, who is this caretaker? Where’d he live?”

“He lives in the countryside near Nara.”

For a moment, the room felt as if it were swaying. It was just a minor tremor and Max realized it was probably only in his head, but it forced him to sit up a little higher in his seat. “Did Kazue ever tell you the caretaker’s name?”

The old man paused before speaking. “His name was Ben.”

Benjie
—
the kid from the Philippines
—
was the caretaker?

“You mean the boy from the diary?” Max could barely believe what he was hearing. “And Tetsuo Endo took the diary away from Benjie? Which is how you eventually ended up with it?”

“Yes. Exactly.”

“So, why didn’t you ever return it?”

“I thought about it many times . . . but I couldn’t bring myself to give it away. I like to find and keep things. Old habits . . .” Tears rolled down both sunken cheeks. “My plan was to protect it until I died—I left instructions in my will so that after my death, copies would be sent to the media and a small group of well-known intellectuals. The information would then be impossible to contain.”

It’s all becoming clear.

Outside in the hallway, the sound of a squeaky wheel came to a stop on the other side of the door. A female voice was speaking to the on-duty officer. From her high-pitched giggle, it sounded as if she was flirting.

“The nurse is coming. I have an appointment for tests. You need to hide.” Mr. Murayama motioned with a flick of his hand. “Go into the toilet. The policeman will take a break when I’m away. Then you can leave.”