Collector of Secrets (32 page)

One of the girls across the table, a petite brunette, was holding a laptop. Her chubby lowbrow boyfriend made a point of keeping his arm around her as if he was staking his property. She’d found an unsecured wireless network in the area and was regurgitating U.K. celebratory gossip.

Max tried focusing on his breakfast, but the chatty redhead next to him insisted on holding travelers’ conversation. He quickly learned that her name was Maxine and that she was from Bristol, as was everyone at the table. Most of them couldn’t find work, so they thought a trip seemed like a good way to piss away the time. She commented on how funny it was that his name was Max, and hers was Maxine. It was such a small world. They’d been in Japan only a few days, but had found it terribly expensive and were trying to find a cheap way to get to Thailand.

Max concentrated on his cereal. It crossed his mind that staying in bed a little while longer would have been a good idea.

Maxine continued on about how they were also planning to head to the Philippines to stay with her cousin Sarah, who was working in Manila for a British bank. It was odd that she wanted to go to Manila for a year, but then Sarah always was a little different.

Finally, Maxine took a much-needed breath, allowing Max a brief moment of silence. The conversation made him wonder whatever happened to his friend Janice from Manila. Her whole family had moved back there after she graduated high school.

Suddenly Max stopped chewing as an old yet familiar image formed in his head. He leaned across the noisy table and spoke to the cute brunette. “Could I use your laptop for a minute?”

The girl smiled and handed over the computer. “No problem.” Her boyfriend’s upper lip curled slightly before he smoothed his oily hair and looked away.

Maxine leaned over Max’s shoulder while he Googled for information. There were millions of hits for “Ku Klux Klan,” but he quickly found one that showed what he was looking for.

MIOAK stands for the
M
ystic
I
nsignia
O
f
A
K
lansman. Today it is most commonly known as the Blood Drop Cross. It is displayed as the patch seen on the robes of Klansmen. It is also a part of the Imperial Seal of the Klan.

T
he Klan symbol wasn’t at all like the one he’d seen hanging from the flagpole the day before. A second Google search used the criteria of “Philippine Flag.” It didn’t take long to find a picture similar to the one he remembered hanging in Janice’s former Los Angeles living room. According to the information on the screen, the Philippine flag had changed several times between 1842 and 1898.

An 1894 Katipunan flag had the three
K
s, but also a sun that projected sixteen rays. It was the flag used during the Battle of San Juan del Monte, the first major battle of the Philippine Revolution.

M
ax felt an electrical charge course through his veins and he almost shouted, “It
was
Ben!” Attempting to stand quickly, his knees jolted the table’s underside. A chorus of upset voices erupted as several glasses slopped liquid on the table’s surface. “Damn!” He snatched the laptop from harm’s way and handed it back to the giggling brunette.

“Sorry about the mess.” He backed away quickly. “And good luck with your trip and the magic mushrooms and all that.”

Charging from the room, the last thing he heard was the boyfriend’s nasally voice. “What a bloody wanker!”

T
he living bamboo fence traced a line in either direction from where Max was standing. The taxi had dropped him on the closest road, and he’d run the rest of the way, only stopping to catch his breath. His ankle wasn’t throbbing much, he noticed.

What if Ben doesn’t speak English? The girl—Chiho—might be gone.
Max smacked his hand against the gate repeatedly.
I may still be out of luck.
He worried as he paced back and forth. It had looked like a huge compound, and since they weren’t expecting guests, they might not answer. The dogs, however, heard the noise right away and barked wildly. They were the perfect doorbell.

An eternity seemed to pass before the inset window opened. A tanned, round face peered out, displaying no visible emotion. The man had trimmed gray hair and wide, flat nostrils.

“I, uh . . . hi, I’m Max Travers. It’s important that I find a man named Ben Takeda.” He felt like an idiot, but didn’t care. He could hardly contain himself. His heart was beating insanely fast.

The man’s stoic expression remained unmoving, as if cast in bronze.

“I have to return a diary that I think belongs to Ben . . . Mr. Takeda. Let me show you.” Max dropped to one knee and set the daypack on the ground. He undid the zipper and removed the satchel. Reaching inside, he noticed his hands shaking with excitement as he withdrew the yellow volume and raised his head in anticipation. But the window was closed.

The face had vanished.

Max was stunned.
This can’t be happening.
Failure and despair swept down like a cold wind whistling from the treetops. It was all for nothing. The twisting path had led to a forested dead end.

Where do I go from here? How do I make this stop?

He cursed and threw down the diary before punching blindly at the solid gate.

“Owww!” Max slumped backward into the rut of the dirt path. His eyes watered and his bleeding hand ached as his head hung down between bent knees. It shouldn’t be this way. He’d bought into Mr. M’s bullshit speech about ideas and wisdom needing to survive
—
but ideas don’t feel pain. The book was a curse, not a treasure. He shouldn’t have to suffer for it. People shouldn’t be dying. He had simply wanted his passport. Was it too much to ask?

Why did I ever leave the States? I should never have come here. What was I thinking?

Max gripped the sides of his skull, pressing hard with his palms. He desperately tried to crush away the anger and self-loathing swelling inside his chest. “Dumb . . . dumb . . . dumb!”

Unexpectedly, the air was pierced by the sound of squeaky hinges. The high gateway groaned as it swung away and the same gray-haired man stepped out into the laneway. Dressed in denim overalls with a brown work shirt, he appeared to be just a little over five feet tall. He approached and motioned for Max to stand. “There’s no need to be upset. I was simply putting the dogs away.” The man’s soothing voice had a refined, lilting accent. “I see you’ve hurt your hand. We can find a bandage.”

The throbbing in Max’s head eased slightly as he rose up and dusted off his jeans. “Thanks.” He wiped at his flushed cheeks, overcome with a bloom of gratitude and embarrassment.

The tiny man retrieved the daypack and satchel, handing them over, but he held onto the diary. Cradling it between his chest and forearm, his fingertips lightly brushed the raised picture on the leather surface. “It’s still so lovely.” His eyes glowed, transfixed. “I haven’t seen this in a very, very long time.”

Could it be? It didn’t seem possible. Max could hardly believe his ears.

Blinking rapidly, the man seemed to catch himself. “Mr. Travers, my name is Ben. Come inside with me.”

FLUORESCENT PULSES of red light created peaks and valleys on the heart monitor’s face. Outside the windowless hospital room, the police guard sat propped up in a chair, his chin resting above his protruding belly. The sedative from his coffee would wear off in an hour or two. In the meantime, the hospital staff would think he was just catching a little catnap. Nobody walking past would give it a second thought. Luckily, police reputations around the world were notoriously similar.

Vincent had observed the doctor finishing his post-breakfast rounds. It would likely be another thirty minutes before anyone came to check up on the patient again. The hum of equipment was the only noise in the room until Mr. Murayama spoke first.

“I was expecting someone to come. Are you here to hurt me?”

“Yes.” The lethal green eyes stared at the shell of a man lying in the bed. “If you don’t cooperate.”

“Well, you have competition. I think the doctor is trying to kill me first.”

Vincent came forward and stood near the bed. He straightened the sleeves of his charcoal Kilgour suit, the only thing he would ever concede that the British made better then the French. “I’m here to discuss what was taken from your office five days ago.”

“My phone and some antique daggers. Nothing important. It’s all in the police report, which I’m sure you’ve read.”

Vincent exhaled sharply, not buying what was being sold. “All right, let’s begin with why Kazue Saito was murdered.”

Mr. Murayama coughed before speaking. “I don’t know, but since his divorce, he’s been gambling. I helped him with money sometimes, but it appears the
Yakuza
killed him. Probably men he owed loans to. He may have told them that he possessed a map to—” He paused to glance at the closed door. “—to something they wanted.”

“So why come after you?”

“When he couldn’t deliver the map, I believe he lied and gave them my name.”

“And they came to your office, but took nothing important?” Vincent shook his head. “I can guarantee you if I came looking for something valuable, I would leave with more than trinkets.”

“Please, I’m telling the truth.”

“Then why is the prime suspect in the police report an American English teacher?”

“I . . . I don’t know.”

It was obvious that the old man’s diplomatic mask was slipping a little, and Vincent leaned closer. “Ever since the end of World War Two, there have been rumors of someone spending considerable amounts of money to gather proof of Golden Lily, and the fact that it has become the source of the Black Eagle Trust and the M-Fund. As you well know, this evidence is something your government and mine would prefer to keep private.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“This rumored person was said to be hoarding maps, photographs, letters, waybills, contracts, tax records, insurance documents, audio tapes, and the like. There were stories of him quietly hunting and gathering for many years. But in our business, you can never be perfectly quiet. The rumor was that this collector of secrets would come forward at some point to demand a ransom for his silence.” Vincent paused, watching for a reaction, before he continued. “Did you know, because of your diplomatic knowledge and extensive collection of artifacts . . . at one time you were on the list of prime candidates?”

Mr. Murayama sputtered, “I have never done anything—”

Vincent clicked his tongue in condescension. “Don’t look so shocked. No, you’ve proven your loyalty and greed far too many times, and besides, why would someone gather evidence in order to point a finger back at themselves? Several times this elusive collector was nearly caught, but he always managed to slip away. Years ago, the trail went cold and the rumors died away.” Vincent paused to let the moment sink in. He knew that fear took longer to work its way into the thick skin of an experienced diplomat.

“But then recently a strange thing happened.” Vincent adjusted his gloves. “Rumors began circulating of information being offered for sale to the highest bidder. The items for sale were a very old diary and a map. A buyer came forward. Perhaps it was the
Yakuza
you mentioned, or maybe it was the elusive collector at work again. Then within the last week, Kazue Saito was murdered, and your artifacts were ransacked. To the less observant, these may seem like completely separate things.” His voice deepened and grew deadly serious. “But to a mind that has spent a lifetime drawing lines between events and people, these are three dots in the same connected picture.”