Collector of Secrets (6 page)

“No, no. I want your opinion. I do. Talk.”

Seeming satisfied with his response, she proceeded. “Fine, but you won’t like it.” She took a drink. “If you walk into some embassy carrying bits of old World War Two paraphernalia, I have a feeling the police will come round for a visit to find out where you got it. So go ahead and tell the nice people that Yoko is stealing their money. She seems a bit nutty, but I doubt she’s dangerous. As for the old man . . . I don’t know, tell him to have a yard sale or something.”

Max formed his thoughts. “I get what you’re saying, but after my English lesson today I did some research and learned some incredible stuff about Japanese history. Some of it I’d already heard from Mr. M, but his recollection was a bit watered down, at least according to what I read.” Max packed the gear into his climbing bag and pulled a knee toward his chest with his arm. “Did you know that this country’s military conquest of Asia started as early as the 1890s when they invaded Korea?”

Zoe shook her head.

“China, Taiwan, Singapore, and the Philippines—all brutalized until 1945. Millions of people were stripped of everything—turned into slave labor. Hundreds of thousands of women were forced into prostitution. And they called them ‘comfort women’ to make it sound better.” He swallowed away the sympathetic lump forming in his throat. “The Rape of Nanking was vicious. Tens of thousands slaughtered.” His back slumped against the pillows. “There was so much more, but I couldn’t read it. Way too depressing.”

Max was surprised by Zoe’s contemptuous snort. “Is this all new information to you? That’s shocking, considering you’re usually a bit of a know-it-all.” She propped herself up on her elbows. “Don’t they teach anything in American schools? It’s called imperialism. Every major country’s done it. And it was the same back then as it is now—if there aren’t Americans getting killed, it doesn’t make the news, does it? It’s just a footnote after the sports page. The world’s a shitty place, so get used to it.”

“I know, I know. It’s just that I thought I was beginning to understand this strange country. It finally started feeling like a place I could belong, for the long term.” Max stared at the water-stained ceiling, half wishing he hadn’t begun the conversation. “Now I’m not so sure anymore.”

“Oh, don’t be a big girl’s blouse.” She kicked his foot. “Get me another beer.”

He grinned and rolled to his feet. “Anyone tell you you’re a slave driver?”

“I guess I should give you credit for being one of the few Yanks making an effort to see the big, scary world.” She pulled herself up into a higher sitting position. “But I can’t figure what this history lesson has to do with the old man.”

Max’s bare feet padded back across the tatami floor. Handing over a fresh Kirin, he sat down beside her. “Never mind, you’ll just give me shit like always.”

She elbowed him lightly in the ribs.

Max stared at the condensation forming on his bottle, for a moment unsure whether he should go on. But friends like her were rare. “I just thought that by returning those watches, it might make things better.” He looked at her world-weary face. “Help bring closure for people and undo some of the crap that’s been done. I mean, couldn’t things stand to be just a little better?” He knew it sounded naïve as soon as the words left his mouth, so he shrugged with mock disdain. “See, I told you it was dumb.”

Zoe smirked. “You sound like the bloody Dalai Lama.” Then her eyes darkened and her face turned serious. “Some people try to change the past, Max, but in my experience, you can’t undo the bad stuff. As hard as you try, you can’t wash it completely clean.” She ran a cracked fingernail down the needle marks on her arm. “It just is what it fucking is.”

LATE MORNING sunshine filtered through the partially opened blinds covering the office’s street-side windows. Takahito Murayama could feel the warm streams of light angling across his lap as he sat on the black leather sofa. Holding a steaming coffee cup—the only one of the day—he inhaled the aromatic scent, anticipating the first sip. The other hand retrieved a freshly pressed edition of the
Yomiuri Shimbun
newspaper.

The first page held little new information. The Japanese Congressional Diet was still debating whether to amend article nine of the 1946 Constitution, renouncing the right to wage war. The Constitution, drafted with American help, forbade Japan to create land, sea, or air forces. The newspaper described the supposedly peaceful crowds of people gathered outside the Diet’s legislative building to demonstrate both for and against the change. Photographs showed hundreds of competing protestors with yellow and orange banners. A legion of paneled trucks with enormous loudspeakers could be seen in the background. Rows of well-armed riot police stood between the protesting hoards and the columned gray stone of the government’s Diet building.

On page two, a headline blared:
FORMER DIPLOMAT MURDERED
.

The old hands shook as he stared at the two black-and-white photos beneath the headline. The top one clearly showed a body lying face down on stone-covered ground. A single dress shoe lay next to the shrine’s water basin, while dirt streaks were evident on the back of the man’s trench coat. The diplomat’s arms lay over his head, which faced away from the camera. The bottom photograph was an official government headshot, showing a solemn and much younger Kazue Saito dressed in a pinstriped suit. The left side of his face was angled toward the camera, but the mole above his lip was clearly evident in the photo.

At the Yasukuni Shrine in the Asakusa district of Tokyo, former Diplomat Kazue Saito, of Toyama prefecture, was found murdered. A caretaker discovered the dead man at about 1 a.m. near the entrance to the grounds. Mr. Saito entered the diplomatic corps in 1960 at the age of 20 and assumed postings in Washington, D.C., England, Canada, and Spain. He was divorced in 2001 and retired in 2004 at the age of 64. Robbery does not appear to have been the motive for murder, as police claim to have a wallet with cash that was found at the scene. A shop owner near the shrine reported seeing a young man running from the dark pathway around 11:45 p.m. The shop owner’s description was vague, but he did recall the young man riding away on a “very loud” motorcycle. A smashed mobile phone was lying next to the body, but no weapon was found. Police are awaiting autopsy results in order to establish the time and cause of death. The shrine’s guard was not available for an interview.

Setting the paper down and turning to the end table, Mr. Murayama stared anxiously at the framed photograph of Kazue Saito and himself.

They’ll surely come looking for me next.

Closing his eyes, he listened to the knocking of his heartbeat and thought back to the first time the two had met. It was Washington, D.C., the summer of 1961, and the heat and humidity had brought the city to a standstill. Kazue had entered the Japanese Embassy with a white cotton dress shirt plastered to his body. He refused the invitation to sit and asked instead to take a walk. It was an odd request, but Mr. Murayama remembered agreeing out of concern for the younger man, who clutched his briefcase while pacing anxiously.

One week earlier, Mr. Murayama’s old friend and World War Two comrade, Lieutenant Tetsuo Endo, had passed away from lung cancer. Because of official ceremonies in Washington, it had been impossible for Mr. Murayama to return to Japan to attend the funeral in person. A late-night call to his Georgetown residence had informed him that Tetsuo’s protégé would be visiting Washington shortly.

As the two men walked under the oak trees in Rock Creek Park, Kazue appeared to be sweating from more than just the stifling heat. Before long, he broke down and described how Tetsuo Endo had called him to his bedside on the night of his death and given instructions to personally deliver a package and a message—a regular diplomatic courier could not be trusted.

Mr. Murayama recalled, as if it were yesterday, the sunlight filtering through the trees while children splashed in the nearby creek. They sat on a bench while Kazue spun an incredible tale that could only be a lie, or a final deathbed joke. But the younger man finally convinced him that the words were indeed true.

He remembered removing the diary from the satchel and taking note of the yellow leather cover, the fine texture of the paper, the masterfully crafted handwriting, and finally the prince’s authenticating seal. The two men talked for hours until the shadows grew long. Agreeing it would not be wise to speak about this to anyone else, they formed a pact of secrecy—never to be shared until the time was right.

A hesitant breath filled Mr. Murayama’s lungs, bringing him back to the inconceivable horror of the present.
Had they killed Kazue for what he knew?
He could not help but feel a sense of both loss and panic. The murder left him the only guardian of the dangerous past, sole gatekeeper to information so powerful that, after that first meeting in the park, the two men had spoken of it only in code.

Finally rising, he shuffled toward the windows and pulled the strings to raise the blinds, allowing the morning light to spill in. He stared out, priding himself on the fact that it wasn’t death itself he feared, but only what would happen to the diary. It had to be protected at all costs.

They seek to destroy knowledge. Will they find me next?

From behind, the linoleum floor creaked sharply and he turned toward the sound. He could see a shape—the outline of a man—in the office doorway.
Have they come so soon?
The sudden contrast of shade and bright light caused his vision to blur and waver. He stepped away from the window and found himself losing balance. Stumbling several steps before falling to his knees, he collapsed in heavy fog.

A trail of warm coffee ran from the table’s edge onto his face, and he felt a hand on his cheek. A voice was calling his name, and then he was being lifted to the nearby chair.

“Mr. Murayama! Say something.”

Forcing weak eyes open, he peered up to see Max’s concerned face hovering overhead.

“Stay still. I’ll get Yoko.” Max jumped up.

“No . . . no . . .” Mr. Murayama croaked a reply. “Don’t! Please just give me a minute to rest.”

Max paused in a half turn, unsure of himself.

“I was not expecting you. It’s not our normal day.” The old man drew himself up in the soft chair. “Please, a cloth.”

M
ax moved swiftly through the nearby office door, briefly forgetting the purpose for his visit. He made a sharp left in the hall. Entering the street-side kitchen, he grasped a towel and located the nondescript round picture hanging on the wall. He turned it forty-five degrees to the right and a latch gave a distinctive pop, revealing a hidden doorway in the wood paneling. He ducked down and slipped through the opening, reappearing in Murayama’s office to crouch beside the leather chair before handing over the towel.

Mr. Murayama spoke, astonished, as he wiped his face with shaking hands. “Two surprises,” he said hoarsely. “First you come without warning, and then you walk through my secret door. How did you know?”

Max hesitated, now wishing he hadn’t panicked and used the short-cut to return. “On a break, a few weeks ago, I came down here. You were in the kitchen but then you just disappeared. I waited in the hall, and could hear you moving in your office. So I figured there must be a hidden passage.”

“That entrance was made for a secretary to bring tea.” Mr. Murayama paused, his expression gaining strength. “From your story, you must also have come back later for a closer look.”

Max knew it was pointless denying the truth, and he grinned. “Busted.”

“Never mind, never mind. It’s good to be curious. But keep it our secret, my boy.” The old man let out a sigh and dabbed at the coffee that had run into the folds of his cardigan. “So why did you come today?”

I really should tell him that I’m quitting the school, but this is gonna be hard enough.
“I considered your request to return the watches.” Max remained crouched next to the chair, but found himself unable to maintain eye contact, afraid to view the inevitable disappointment. As much as he had repeatedly justified the decision in his head, delivering the message was proving more difficult then anticipated. “It’s an admirable thing, for sure. But, I just can’t do it―it’s too risky.”

The cloth in Mr. Murayama’s hands twisted into a tight spiral as a moment passed in silence. “I see,” he finally choked out. “Well, thank you for letting me know.”