Collector of Secrets (18 page)

“
Domo arigato
, Kanazawa-
san
,” he mimicked in Japanese, but the older woman turned away with no reply.

T
hey removed their shoes before stepping onto the hardwood floor in the antiseptically clean lobby. Max could see a garden through the opposing wall’s plate-glass doors. The hotel appeared to be built in the shape of a horseshoe. Beyond the central garden, through a pair of open wooden gates, was a steaming pool of water; a bamboo wall separated the pool into two distinct halves. Lights from beneath the surface of the glowing water illuminated the overhanging trees. Wooden walls fenced in the right and left sides of the property, with the far unfenced edge offering the unobstructed clifftop view of the ocean that made the Izu famous.

Mrs. Kanazawa handed over two keys and directed them down a corridor on the right side of the lobby. As they approached their rooms, Max whispered, “I understood enough of that conversation to know that you haven’t told your parents about us, like you said you would.”

“You don’t understand. I need more time. They’re good people, just not very open-minded.” Her voice became strained. “Please, can we talk about it later?”

Mrs. Kanazawa was observing them while attempting to appear busy at the front desk, and Max watched Tomoko fumble with her room key as she glanced back toward the lobby. He knew she was nervous and realized he should be grateful, especially after the events of the day and how well she’d handled it all. “Sure.” Aware of the distant scrutiny, he resisted the sudden temptation to hold her in his arms. “And thanks for everything today.”

He was already in his room and out of sight when Tomoko’s voice drifted through the closing door. “You’re welcome.”

M
ax lay on the bed. He withdrew the yellow diary from the daypack and stared at its outline before placing it on his chest. It rose and fell with his breathing.

For a brief time, before exhaustion claimed victory, he lay anxiously, eyes open in the dark, unable to shake the feeling that both his and Tomoko’s lives, their fate, had somehow become fused with that of Prince Takeda himself.

THE JAPANESE politician set down the National Police Agency report on the “Shrine Murder.” He’d read it over at least half a dozen times. The information made him nervous. Something needed to be done. But he knew that his actions, if discovered, would never be forgiven nor understood. This thought played in his brain as his shaky fingers fought with the buttons on his dark gray suit. These telephone calls, rare as they were, filled him with anxiety.

The aging politician was forbidden from using his home phone to dial the Washington, D.C., number, so he left his apartment early. Exiting the exclusive brick-and-glass tower, he shuffled into the dappled morning sunlight. His uniformed driver stood attentively next to the navy-blue BMW and held his withered arm as he climbed inside the plush interior.

In the thirty years of receiving payments into his Swiss bank account, he’d dialed area code 202 only four times. It wasn’t up to him to decide whether a situation warranted action; he was simply required to call the number if he saw or heard anything that might justify concern.

What was it about April 24 that seemed to make this call necessary? It was eighteen years ago to the day when he had last dialed the D.C. number. The height of the “Recruit” bribery scandal was bringing the Japanese government to its knees. Phones were ringing, protestors were shouting, accusations were flying, and Ihei Aoki was talking too much. If only the foolish man had stayed silent, perhaps he would still be alive. Being secretary to Prime Minister Takeshita had entitled Aoki-
san
to detailed knowledge of the government’s inner workings. It was truly regrettable that he had became so vocal, telling friends that “Recruit” was a minor matter compared to another scandal he was about to make public. Two days after the last telephone call to Washington, Ihei Aoki had become just another suicide statistic. Suspicions of foul play swirled for months, but a Senate investigation proved nothing.

The BMW crept up a freeway on-ramp and merged into traffic. The Shuto Expressway’s morning rush hour traffic seemed to grow more congested by the day. Seated in the back, the politician rubbed two fingers back and forth across his Sacred Arrow tie clip. His eyes stared vacantly out the tinted windows at the passing towers.

He was aware that opponents would call him a traitor if they knew of his U.S. connection, but he would argue that the ends justified the means, and that keeping the Liberal Democratic Party in power was the best thing for Japan. Look at the mess that had to be cleaned up after they’d briefly lost power in 1993. It was the LDP, after all, that had shepherded the rebuilding of the country since 1955. Things would fall into chaos without them. Heaven forbid that the Socialists or Communists ever gained power. In fact, that had been the U.S. military’s main concern when it started applying secret money to the problem in the 1950s. Interesting to think that even back then, the American leaders were unaware of what their own government was really doing.

Exiting the crowded expressway, the car finally reached the manicured trees and sweeping driveway of the forty-story Akasaka Prince Hotel. As the BMW slowed at the hotel entrance, a red-jacketed valet ran out.

Crossing the lobby’s white marble floor, the politician passed through the elevator vestibule. He checked his watch, calculating it would be seven o’clock Monday evening in Washington. A lone man was occupying one of the phones to the left, so he chose the bank of phones on the right instead. In an age of mobile communications, these telephones were seldom used, and he assured himself he could not be overheard. No amount of caution was too great in such a hazardous venture. He picked up the receiver and noticed his hands shaking far more than usual.

Dialing the number, he listened. The ring tone sounded strange and long. A man answered after the fourth chime. “Hello?”

The politician hesitated. The voice on the other end seemed different. Was it a slightly French accent? But it had been so long since the last call, and his mind wasn’t what it used to be.

The voice on the other end repeated the greeting. “Hello?”

“Moshi-moshi
. Elgin-
san onagaishimasu.”

The Washington voice switched immediately into fluent Japanese. “How may I help you?”

“I have information for Mr. Bob Elgin.”

“I’m his brother, Lloyd Elgin. You can talk to me.”

The politician relaxed. The key phrase and its response were confirmed. He had dialed the correct number. “Lately, I have heard tell of a diary and a map for sale. The items were said to be direct evidence of things that should remain confidential. I didn’t file a report because it was unsubstantiated. Then, more recently, it was also rumored that a secret buyer had come forward. Since then, two unusual things have taken place. Someone murdered a former diplomat named Kazue Saito several days ago at the Yasukuni Shrine. Then yesterday the office of another retired diplomat named Takahito Murayama was robbed. The thieves ransacked his extensive files. He is an avid collector, and over the years he’s accumulated a number of official and unofficial documents. The police do not know what was taken. You will find that these men knew each other, and they both knew of the ‘Black Eagle’ and the M-Fund—among others. Separately, these events may mean nothing, but together they could warn of a coming problem.”

“Is there anything else that could explain what’s happening?”

The politician glanced up to confirm. The man at the other phone was gone. “I don’t know what’s happening. Perhaps nothing. But I can tell you that after almost forty years in politics, I know when something doesn’t feel right. Call it intuition or call it experience, Mr. Elgin, I don’t care. Should you choose to investigate, I have left copies of the police reports for the two incidents. They’re in the designated safety deposit box. My part is complete, and now it is up to you.”

“Agreed.” The line went dead without a goodbye.

L
loyd Elgin closed his next-generation satellite phone. The Code required him to research any calls within six hours, determine if action was necessary, and file an encrypted electronic report; nothing was to be written on paper. Checking his watch, he considered his options. A concert with Emanuel Ax and Edgar Meyer was a rare opportunity he didn’t want to miss. There would still be just enough time to deal with this after the performance.

Adjusting his bow tie, he rejoined his wife and a group of friends standing beneath the majestic pillars of the Kennedy Center. The men were all uniformed in tuxedos, while the women radiated elegance in evening gowns and luxurious furs. He assured them there would be no more delays, then motioned for the group to continue inside. His blonde trophy wife took his arm and fell into step next to him.

“Is everything all right, darling?”

“Yes. But I have work to do later, so you’ll have to go for drinks without me.”

She tugged his arm more tightly into the speckled brown fur of her jacket. “You work so much. I’m just glad you could come tonight.” Stopping in the foyer, she ran a manicured hand across his dark, smooth hair and stared at his strong angular jaw, full lips, and kelly-green eyes. “This means a lot to me, Vincent, and I want you to know how much I love you for it.”

THE MORNING call from her childhood friend came early, but Mrs. Asano expressed her relief upon hearing that Tomoko was staying at the Fairlady
onsen
. She commented that it was strange since Polo advertising shoots were generally scheduled well in advance.

Mrs. Kanazawa assured her friend that it was probably just an oversight, and she would call again once Tomoko left. She made no mention of the American—Max—for now.

Upon ending the call, Mrs. Kanazawa heard a single click followed by a buzzing noise, then a second distinct click. Telephone reception on the Izu Peninsula was sometimes unreliable—the big-city customers always received the best service.

A
t the same time, another call was being made from a private room at the hotel, the third attempt at the same phone number.

Miki couldn’t concentrate. The cell phone strapped to her inner thigh continued to vibrate. The caller was extremely persistent, whoever it was. Brushing a stray blonde hair into place, she rose from her desk and bowed to her scowling boss, who sat opposite her in the huddle of six metal desks. Excusing herself, she hurried down the hallway to the ladies’ room. Entering the closest stall, she retrieved the phone and hesitated—the number wasn’t familiar. She answered with a whisper, “
Moshi-Moshi.
”

“Miki—it’s Tomoko calling. What took you so long?”

“We aren’t supposed to take personal calls at work.”

“Sorry, but I need you to help me again, and this time it’s extremely urgent.”

Miki’s voice rose with excitement. “Really? What’s happening?” A loud cough from another stall made her cringe, and she pressed the phone closer to her ear.

“I can’t explain everything right now. I’m still trying to figure it out myself, but Max is in danger, and there may be
Yakuza
involved.”

“How exciting.” She could barely contain her voice in a whisper.

“Maybe in the movies, but not for real. I’m scared, Miki-
chan
.”