Collector of Secrets (33 page)

“Please go.” Mr. Murayama said. “I’ve told you everything. There’s nothing more to say.”

Vincent straightened up and reached into the side pocket of his suit jacket. From within, he extracted a clear plastic syringe and removed the cap. He’d fully expected to use the serum, but it was always worth exploring an easier avenue.

“This little puzzle is one that I intend to solve. So you can help me either willingly or unwillingly. The choice is up to you.”

A thin line of serum sprayed across the pillow’s face.

Raising his hands, Mr. Murayama wiped the fluid from his cheeks. “You’re insane!”

T
he room was dark and warm. Mr. Murayama’s eyes fluttered, then shut again. He was drifting on the edge of sleep, but Vincent was shaking his shoulder and pulling him back. “Wake up! Wake up! It’s Max. Help me. Please help me.”

The old man’s thick tongue struggled against dry lips, and his words slurred. He was fighting to speak clearly. “But . . . but you were supposed to find Ben.”

“I lost the information.”

“Where are you, Max? I can’t . . . see you.”

“I’m so scared. Please, Mr. Murayama, help me remember what to do. I’m in so much pain.”

“Ben in Nara. You must . . . Ben Takeda in Nara . . . give him the diary.”

“But where in Nara?”

“I did . . .” The old body spasmed and shook.

Vincent glanced at the rhythmic squiggles on the heart monitor as they grew increasingly chaotic. Administering truth drugs, even the latest generation, was not an exact science. There was plenty of room for error. “Help me! Where does Ben live?”

“You . . . in the country . . . Nara . . . Ahhhh!”

Mr. Murayama’s withered frame convulsed violently. The line on the monitor bounced, then slowed to a trickle before the alarm began screeching.

It was time to move. The information was enough to go on.

Stepping out of the room, Vincent almost collided with a youthful nurse running down the hall. Her panicked demeanor changed to a look of confusion as she raced past him into the room. The shrieking noise rose and died away as the door opened and shut.

Vincent casually made his way to the nearby stairwell. He was already thinking about the Bullet Train reservation he needed to make.

Exiting the hospital, he looked up at the crucifix above the Nursing College next door. As he dialed the Japan Rail train office, he made the sign of the cross with his right arm. “In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Lord have Mercy. Amen.”

THE QUEEN of Korea did not go quietly. The cordial face that she initially presented in 1895 to the conquering Japanese quickly turned to irreverence and finally contempt. Her refusal to support the scheme to conquer her people ended in fiery flames. Servants watched in horror as she was set ablaze, making a desperate, screaming run through the peaceful grounds of Seoul’s Gyeongbok Palace. Having had their way with her, the Japanese Black Ocean agents smirked and giggled like schoolboys with a frog as she thrashed and stumbled. She tried, with arms outstretched, to reach the nearby lake. A kerosene inferno consumed the billowing layers of her silk dress. The fragrance of the normally flowered setting lay blanketed beneath the sweet, awful stench of searing flesh. Finally her arms ceased to beat the air, and she fell forward. Her smoldering skull rang out as it struck the rocks on the pathway, while the last of the flames licked away what little exposed flesh remained.

“M
y mother told my sister and me that story,” Ben clutched the diary and spoke in a calm voice as they walked in the late morning sun. “The murder of Empress Myeongseong was the beginning of fifty years of death and theft. Mother told us never to forget that if the empress fought to the end, we should do the same.”

“How could that happen?” Try as he might, Max couldn’t stop the unsettling wave sweeping over him. The words seemed so out of place in this pastoral setting. A lush and intricate garden had been carved into the surrounding forest. Winding pathways edged the curves of the central pond. Sculpted bushes grew alone or huddled together. The main house, made of dark brown wood, stood to the northwest, its helmet of bullet-gray ceramic tiles glowing through the surrounding green leaves. Scatterings of cherry and maple trees brushed the scene with pink and smoky red. “Where’s your sister now?”

“She disappeared. When I was a child, soldiers came and took her. They killed my mother when she tried to stop them. I never saw my sister again, but I hope she died quickly.” Ben hesitated. “A quick death would have been better than what those men had planned for her.”

Max exhaled horror, struggling to accept the statement.

“It is strange to wish death . . .” Ben whispered, “for someone so loved.”

They strolled past a thatched hut next to the path, allowing the aching moment to dwindle and pass. Max still wasn’t sure it was all real. Any second, he expected to wake in a tangle of sheets at the Nara hostel. “So at the end of the war—you were brought here?”

“Yes. 1945. We came in a submarine. I was eight years old and terrified.”

“And you were adopted by the prince.”

“I was raised with a good education and a stern British-trained nanny. This place has been my home for the past sixty-two years.” Ben looked up with an odd smile. “My adoption wasn’t written in the prince’s diary. How do you know that?”

“Tomoko, my . . . my girlfriend. She did some research.”
How can I forgive her for leaving like that?
He would have been relieved to express his angst and frustration, but the story was too personal to share with a stranger, at least so soon. Max looked away, masking his mixed emotions as he deftly changed the subject. “So didn’t you ever want to go back to the Philippines? To your real home?”

“A place is only a place, Max—it’s the people you are with who make it home. Prince Takeda became like a father, and then when I grew older, I met my wife, Sayuri.”

“But wait a minute.” The logic felt circuitous, as if the thread were looping back upon itself. “It was Prince Takeda who killed your real father . . .”

Ben continued walking with an even, rhythmic pace as he spoke. “I know it must be difficult for you to understand, because when you think of the prince, you see a tyrant. He appears a dangerous and evil man. I also thought that way once, but in time, I came to see a man torn between duty and personal conviction. He was required to do things he didn’t want to do. But every chance he could, when duty did not clearly dictate, he chose the better path.”

“But in the diary he confessed to burying hundreds of people alive.”

“True, and my birth father was one of them. But is redemption for the sinner possible? Can a lifetime of terrible actions be erased with just a few good ones? I believe the answer is yes.”

Max recalled the blood scarf trailing below Mrs. Kanazawa’s head. “I don’t know if I agree.”

Ben appeared willing to accept a difference of opinion, and he nodded without speaking.

As they approached the wooden mast, Max pointed up. “That Philippine flag was the thing I remembered. It brought me back here.”

“Don’t tell my wife.” Ben chuckled. “If she knew that story, it would be removed by morning.”

“But why do you keep it, if Japan became your home?”

“My true father was born on August 30, 1896, the same day as the Battle of San Juan del Monte, the Philippine Revolution. He loved this flag.”

Max continued staring up, feeling his guard slipping just a little, questioning his decision only a year before to leave California. “My dad loves only two things, baseball and football, the Chargers and the Dodgers. It drove my mom crazy.” The memory felt like a faded photograph.

Ben stopped walking and turned, his face growing serious. “So have you come looking for treasure? For riches? For reward? Because if you have, then I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

“No. Like I said, I’ve come for help. To make this stop. Mr. Murayama couldn’t help me, but he thought maybe you could. I’m tired of running and being afraid all the time.”

“You have to forgive me. I don’t know who Mr. Murayama is.”

“He’s a friend of mine. A diplomat who once worked with a guy named Tetsuo Ando . . . no, wait, that’s not right. His name was Tetsuo Endo.”

Ben’s face lit up. “Aaaah! Tetsuo Endo. He was Prince Takeda’s personal bodyguard during the war. A greedy and dangerous man. He was the one who came and took the diary away from me. He thought it held directions to one of the 175 burial sites. I’m sure he was disappointed to find it holds no maps.”

“So why did you give it to him?”

“He owed considerable loans. I can still remember his half-crazy eyes as he threatened my wife and baby. Fighting is not for me. I have seen too much death.” Ben shrugged. “I gave it to him, and he simply went away.”

“But Prince Takeda could have protected you.”

“The prince lived his own life with his family in Chiba. By that time, I saw him perhaps once a year. I was deeply sad to see the diary go. It was my only link to the past.” Ben stared directly into Max’s eyes, unblinking, as if he were trying to glimpse the corners of the soul inside. “And now you’ve brought it back.”

“Yes,” Max said with foreboding. “But there are others who want it.”

Seconds ticked by before a reply was forthcoming. “That is a problem.”

“So could the
Yakuza
—could Oto Kodama—still think there’s a map inside it?”

“It seems the most logical answer for why a man of his . . . background would desire it.”

Max looked away at the sculpted trees and reflective ponds. Time felt suspended. Yet outside the protective bamboo walls, he knew that events were racing forward. Something was coming, and he needed to figure a solution fast.

“
Ojii-chan! Ojii-chan
! Grandpa!” Chiho’s high-pitched shout tore ahead of her running feet. She sprang from the grove of tall trees on the north side of the clearing and raced toward them. Ben’s wife also emerged from the forest. She spotted Max and stopped walking for a moment. Even from a distance, he could see her scowling face as she turned and stomped toward the two-story house.

Ben stretched out his arms as Chiho approached, and the two collided in a hug. He whispered into her ear, and she giggled a reply as Ben stood straight again.

“You will stay here tonight.” Ben said suddenly with an air of authority. “It’s the start of the holiday week, and all the hotels will be full. There is more to discuss. We should continue our conversation after I take Chiho home.”

Max thought instantly of Tomoko’s promise to find him, but before he could express gratitude Chiho grasped each of their hands, connecting them into a chain. Then she burst into song, pulling them all forward along the gravel path toward the house.

T
he wooden flooring beneath Max’s feet creaked. Translucent light glowed through the thin
washi
paper stretched over
shoji
screens on the opposite side of the hallway. He was viewing a procession of photographs that ran the length of the house’s main corridor, straightening them as he moved along.

The pictures told the story of Ben’s life in Japan, from his childhood through to his grandchildren.The voices of Ben and his wife could be heard in the kitchen at the far end of the hall. It was too distant to make out the words, even if he could speak the language, but it was clear from the strained tone that the conversation wasn’t going well.

“H
ow do you know he can be trusted?” Sayuri’s salt-and-pepper hair was pulled into a knot, her arms folded defensively across her chest. A row of creases decorated her forehead.

“I don’t know that yet,” said Ben, “but he seems genuine.”

“It could all be an act. I know what you’re thinking, but you must not . . . it’s too important to trust a stranger. He may just be a treasure hunter with a good story or even a foreign spy.”

“He could be, but he may also be someone who truly needs my help.”

“I have a very bad feeling about this.”

“Well, Chiho likes him, and children are excellent at spotting liars. And I think he may be honorable—but that will take longer to determine.”