Collector of Secrets (48 page)

“Yes.”

Taking two steps backward, Lloyd put on an easy smile and spun around, reaching out as if to shake hands. Then suddenly, unpredictably, he formed a fist that drove hard into the side of Max’s neck. Lloyd felt the satisfying muscle spasms and watched the eyes flutter and roll back into the skull. He stepped forward to slow Max’s fall while using his own momentum to slip them both behind the loose plastic curtain. Ushering the body to the ground, he checked for a pulse.

The thud of sock-covered feet pounded down the carpeted hallway. Lloyd watched a blur of muted colors move past. Within seconds, Jeff’s voice, uttering profanities, disappeared into the next building.

M
ax could feel someone slapping his right cheek. Through a fog, he could hear construction equipment humming nearby. An impatient voice was urging him to wake up. Stabbing pain pierced his brain as he opened his eyes and the room came slowly into view. He found himself propped against a stack of burlap sacks on a dirt floor, groaning as he tried in vain to sit up. He tried again, but managed only to twist his upper body slightly. Panic set in. “I can’t move!”

“Motor function loss accompanies a blow to the sterno-cleido-mastoid muscle. Movement should return in time . . . assuming you live.”

Dressed in khaki pants and a blue dress shirt, his assailant was staring out the only window of the tiny work shack they occupied. A column of dusty morning light angled into the window. Max closed his eyes again, hoping to reduce the painful throbbing in his head. “Why’d you do that?”

Lloyd’s voice was deep and monotone, almost machinelike. “You have a diary that I want. Give it to me or die. Those are your only options.”

“If I give it to you, you’ll kill me anyway,” Max responded while Lloyd drew close and crouched down next to him. Just inches away, he could clearly see the man’s face, and he recalled Kenji’s comment about the nurse spotting a foreigner with green eyes. “You were the one in Mr. Murayama’s room. You did kill him!”

Lloyd’s gaze remained cold and rigid.

Max coughed. “You’re not the only one searching for the diary, you know.”

“But I’m the only one who’ll get it.”

“Who are you? CIA?”

Lloyd grabbed Max’s face and compressed the skin in a vicelike grip. “Where—is—the—diary?”

“I have it.”

“Clearly, but the question was, where?”

“I need your help.”

Lloyd stifled a mocking laugh. “We’re done.” He slipped a gun from its holster and held the barrel to the side of Max’s head.

“No, no, no
 . . . Please!
I really need your help. Then I’ll give it to you.” Max fought to control his stuttered breathing. “I never wanted it.”

“So what
do
you want, Mr. Travers?” The mockish tone parodied a deranged therapist.

He can’t kill me or he would have done it already.
Max could feel the smooth metal against his temple. “The
Yakuza
have my girlfriend. I need you to help me get her back.”

Lloyd’s chin rocked slowly back and forth. “I’m not in the charity business. First I’ll kill you, then your buddy in the hippie T-shirt—then I’ll get on a plane and go home. Job done.”

“Neither of us have the diary with us.”

The gun jammed harder against his head.
Don’t freak out, Max.

“Then who has it?”

“Another friend, but he knows about this meeting.” Max felt a strong tingling in his feet and hands. Sensation was slowly returning. “You can go back to the States, but whoever you work for won’t be very happy about not getting the diary.” He prayed he was right.

“You’re lying.”

I have what he needs.
A steely calm descended over Max, and he could scarcely believe the words coming from his own mouth. “Shoot me, and I guess you’ll find out.”

The crunch of gravel and sound of voices could be heard outside the shack. Lloyd moved quickly to stand next to the window. Squeezing into the shadow cast by the wall, he peered outside as the noise moved past without stopping.

Max struggled to move as Lloyd turned back, aiming the gun’s glowing red laser on his chest. The game was over—finished. He waited for the bullet.

“If the
Yakuza
are looking for the diary and you’re giving it to me, what will you give them?”

“A map.” Max caught a glimmer of confusion on Lloyd’s face before continuing. “They don’t want the diary—they want the treasure map they think is inside.”

“Is there one?”

“No.”

“So like I said, what are you giving them?”

“A fake.”

Lloyd’s smirk held a hint of admiration. “Trailer-park boy makes good. Maybe you’re working in the wrong profession, Mr. Travers.” He thought a moment before sliding the gun back inside its holster and cracking open the shed door. “Arrange a meeting with the
Yakuza
on the cliffs—east side of the Memorial Peace Park—at the end of the dirt road—seven tonight. You meet me at 6:15 at the Naha bus terminal. If this fails, and she dies, you still give me the diary.”

“But that’s not enough time. The map won’t be ready.”

“Draw faster. Your lives depend on it.” Lloyd jerked the door closed as he exited, rousing a dust cloud that twinkled in the window’s light.

Minutes ticked by before Max could pull Jeff’s cell phone from his pocket. He dialed Toshi and relayed the instructions. His throbbing head slumped back. Exhausted, sweating, he studied the exposed wooden planks above his head.

I’ve climbed into the cage with the tiger.

LOCKING HIS gaze on the carpet, the timid hotel concierge adjusted his mint-green suit jacket. He was rooted to the floor near the twelve-person boardroom table in the Royal Suite. He could see the tapestry of tattoos blanketing Oto Kodama’s back, shoulders, and arms, and he found it difficult not to stare. He nervously cleared his throat and waited.

Oto growled through the face-hole in the collapsible massage table. “What do you want?” The slender young woman kneading his back muscles lifted her tawny arms away, and Oto moved a hand to grasp her upper thigh. She let out a gasp, but remained in place.

The concierge stepped forward and bowed from the waist. “I apologize for the disturbance, but there is a man in the lobby who says he has critical information for you. He refuses to leave—and he’s dressed rather unusually.”

“Who is he?”

“He says he knows an American who took a book of yours, but he wouldn’t identify himself.”

Oto gave a walrus-like moan as he rolled onto his side. “Bring the mystery man up.”

“Yes, sir.” The concierge bowed repeatedly while making a hasty exit.

T
oshi stood with his eyes closed, palms pressed together at chest level, his wide sleeves hanging loose below his arms. Directly behind him was the first set of doors to the hotel’s Royal Suite. He struggled to keep his mind in the moment, but it continued to drift back to his dead parents. What would they think of his putting himself into harm’s way like this? He pictured the two of them sitting together as the terrorists unleashed the odorless Sarin gas into the subway car. The look of shock on their faces as they felt blood seeping from their noses; chests seizing while they clung together in their final dying moments. Toshi rotated his shoulder blades and forced his mind back to the present. His armpits were slick with nervous sweat, but it was important not to let this show. A chain of comma-shaped beads dangled between his fingers, and he flicked through them one at a time while chanting softly.

The two beefy guards standing before him were dressed in matching black suits. He could tell that his priestly robes were making them nervous. This was a good sign; the flowing, pure-white layers of fabric were having the planned effect.

Toshi slipped from his black laminate clogs and walked into the suite. A long dining table was just ahead, in front of a bank of windows overlooking the Pacific Ocean’s blue waters. The guards motioned for him to turn to the right.

Rounding the corner, Toshi could see Oto Kodama seated in a plush chair at the room’s far end. Clad in a striped housecoat, the
Yakuza
leader was running a comb over his oily black hair.

Oto’s eyes flared as he took in the Shinto priest’s image. “Is this a joke?”

Toshi tried to maintain an expression of placid calm while returning the dark-eyed stare. “I’m simply here to deliver a message.”

“Don’t think your costume will intimidate me.” The irritation grew on Oto’s face. “Were you hired to do this?”

“I am simply a humble messenger.”

Oto snapped his fingers. “Then get on with the message.”

Toshi removed a piece of paper from the folds of his left sleeve. “An exchange is proposed for tonight—the girl for the map.” He fought his nerves as the paper shook. He’d memorized the message, anyway, so he lowered his hands.

The deep lines in Oto’s tanned face barely moved when he spoke. “Where?”

“At seven—the end of the unpaved road near the cliffs to the east of the Memorial Peace Park.”

“Have you seen the map?”

Toshi nodded. “I was the one who discovered it inside the lining of the diary’s back cover.”

“You?” Oto raised a single eyebrow.

“I noticed the lining was pulling away, and while trying to fix it, I found the map.”

Oto stared out at the sunlit turquoise water. “Priests are
not
supposed to lie.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that.”

A silent moment passed before the
Yakuza
leader spoke again. “Tell the American it’s a deal.”

Toshi felt a modicum of tension leave his shoulders. “So his girlfriend is well?”

“She’s breathing and in one piece, if that’s what you’re asking.” Oto stood and adjusted the housecoat over his protruding belly. “Now go and deliver your message.”

Toshi turned quickly. He didn’t need to be asked twice. Sliding his feet back into his wooden shoes, he exited into the hallway and made his way to the elevator.

T
he commander was seated on a sofa in the bustling hotel lobby, ruminating on the fact that none of the stakeouts had produced any results so far. Masami Ishi’s angry phone calls were becoming routine.

Attempting to appear engrossed in a newspaper, he skimmed the headlines yet again. From the corner of his eye, he saw the hotel concierge touch his nose and then point discreetly at a Shinto priest exiting through the hotel’s front door. Rising from his seat and tucking the newspaper under his arm, the commander followed the white-robed man out to the curb and watched with curiosity as a hotel valet brought around a maroon-colored Maserati Quattroporte.

The priest tipped the valet before disappearing behind the vehicle’s dark-tinted windows. The engine purred before the car shot down the driveway, then roared again while disappearing into the traffic on the adjacent street.

Re-entering the lobby, the commander strode to the concierge’s desk. “I asked you to let me know when Oto Kodama or his men leave or arrive. What was that all about?”

“Very sorry, sir—I was busy with other guests.” The young man behind the desk reddened. “But that priest—he was meeting with Kodama-
san
.”

The commander leaned his fists onto the desktop. His newspaper clattered to the floor. “Why?”

“He was delivering a message from an American, something about a book that was taken.”

The commander slapped both palms on the desktop before charging out the front door. But even as he ran down the hotel driveway, he knew it was futile. The moment had slipped from his grasp.