Collector of Secrets (50 page)

In 1961, John F. Kennedy became United States’ president. He seemed to be a man of courage, with a dream of change that could carry his country. He was trying to make the world better; he was a man worthy of admiration and respect. Then the diplomatic package came from Tokyo in 1963, and the world did change, but not for the better.

The instructions were simple: deliver an envelope to Yoko Endo and have her pass it to a man named Lee Harvey Oswald. She was not to open the package or talk with anyone about it. Her only task was to make the delivery, for Mr. Oswald was expecting it.

At our meeting in Dallas, Yoko was upset to hear I had learned of her secret friendship with Mr. Oswald (although she never questioned how I knew she’d met him at a Christmas party the year before). She begged me not to tell anyone, so that her mother and Mr. Oswald’s wife would not find out. She feared her family would force her back to Japan and she would have to give up her American life. I promised to be quiet if she delivered the package with no questions. She quickly agreed.

On November 22, 1963, I heard the terrible news. President Kennedy was dead, shot in Dallas by Mr. Lee Harvey Oswald. That single moment is burned like a bright light in my memory. I will never forget. I closed my office door and lay on the floor, realizing with sadness that many hands had held that rifle, including my own.

When I delivered the package to Yoko, I knew in my heart it was evil, but I kept my eyes down and tried not to see. My action was the same as when I watched the ships departing from Manila Harbor, loaded with stolen cargo. Duty to my country was always the most important thing.

Years later, I discovered what I believe to be the true reason for JFK’s death: he had learned of Golden Lily and the huge fortune that was funding bribery, corruption, private armies, and secret Cold War operations. He was planning to end it by telling the public. But the world’s true rulers, the richest families and the U.S. military leaders, would not allow it to happen. They took his life instead.

But for me, that is not the story’s end.

Yoko lied to the Warren Commission investigators before returning to Japan. You see, her father, Tetsuo Endo, had left behind vast debts from bad investments, and his family suffered. They tried to survive and pay back the loans. Mrs. Endo died in 1971, leaving Yoko with the burden of the debt. Loans to
Yakuza
do not go away with death, but pass to the next generation.

When I returned to Japan in 1984, Yoko came to greet me with blackmail. She was desperate with fear, convinced that the police were preparing to arrest her for conning money from several wealthy suitors and yet still unable to keep up payments to the
Yakuza
who were threatening a fate worse than prison. She requested that I give her my last name, pay off her debt, and buy her an English school. This would guarantee her silence about the JFK time.

She had little to lose, and I had no desire to retire to a jail cell, so I agreed.

Every day since then, when I look at her, I don’t see a scheming, heartless woman. Instead, I see the youthful tear-filled eyes that stared at me when I pushed the envelope into her frightened hands.

President John F. Kennedy was an honorable man, and I deeply regret my part in his death. I wish only for this true story to someday be told.

Takahito Murayama

Max barely stepped through the condo’s door before Toshi, beaming with pride, handed over the phony treasure map. The tan parchment was the size and texture of a handkerchief.

“You guys did it already?” He felt a sudden and overwhelming wave of gratitude.

Jeff was grinning from the plush comfort of a sofa chair. “We used chemicals to age the paper faster.”

“It looks real, at least to a novice like me, but will it fool them?”

Swinging his feet off the arm of the overstuffed chair, Jeff pointed to the fake. “Look here, bro—Toshi’s artist incorporated old-style war symbols into the markings. We also tried to make it look more authentic by water-staining this one corner . . . and most importantly, it has to be viewed with a mirror to match an actual area in the Philippines—on the island of Luzon. Apparently the reflection trick was used during the war, for secrecy.”

Toshi sat thoughtfully, resting his chin on his hands. “But is the water stain dark enough?”

The question launched a spirited debate, allowing Max time to walk to the window. He considered telling Jeff about the explosion back at the house, but there was nothing that could be done now. The more important thing was keeping everyone alive.
But if John F. Kennedy lost the fight against Golden Lily, how will we survive?
Max stared at the cars and buses crawling up and down the street, thirteen stories below. The sun was beginning its hazy slide toward the horizon.
It’s not enough just to fool the Yakuza and Lloyd Elgin.
Someone has to tell the world about all this.

“Earth to Max.” Jeff’s voice grew louder. “Bro!”

Max looked up. “Guys, I think the map is great. You did an awesome job, really.” He attempted a smile, but he knew it looked insincere. “So what about the backup? Is everything ready?”

Toshi nodded. “Yes, Plan B is in place—everything hosted on independent global servers, just like we talked about.”

Max thought back to the hospital, to Mr. M’s bedside words—
I left instructions so that after my death, copies would be sent to the media and a small group of well-known intellectuals. The information would be impossible to contain.
He exhaled sharply. “I just hope it’s enough.” He interlaced his fingers, stretching his arms high over his head. Try as he might to resist, the tension was definitely getting the better of him.

Jeff piped in. “The guy’s probably old-school, bro. He’ll never see it coming.”

“I sure hope that’s true.” Max paused. “And you’ll be on standby with the yellow diary, right?”

“Of course. But once you have Tomoko, you should focus only on getting away. I can do the rest. Being a priest has some benefits.”

“Like risking your own life instead of mine?” Max responded emphatically. “I appreciate your help, but no way.”

Hours before, Toshi had raised the same point with a similar result. This time, however, he appeared to accept the decision with a simple nod. “Fine. There’s enough pressure already. I don’t want to argue.” He pointed to the kitchen. “You should eat.”

“I will. But I need to use the phone first.” Max fumbled in his pocket. “I got the two diaries and also something else.” He retrieved the folded fax pages, handing Mr. Murayama’s confession to Toshi as he headed for the master suite. “Read that. It explains a helluva lot.”

Max half regretted dialing the familiar number. The phone in Yoko’s office rang three times before being picked up. It felt like years since he’d heard her refined dusky voice, although it now seemed unusually subdued.
“Moshi-moshi.”

“Hello.” He waited for the line to disconnect, but surprisingly, it didn’t.

Her reply was tense and formal. “Why are you calling?”

“If you’d only given me my passport when I asked, none of this would have happened.”

“Did you call just to tell me that?”

“No . . . I read Mr. Murayama’s confession. The assassination of a president!”

She sighed. “It wasn’t my fault. I was young and thought it was love. They used me as a courier—a pawn—I didn’t know what I was carrying.”

Max’s voice edged louder. “Nothing is ever your fault, is it? What about the money you’ve been stealing? You weren’t just a pawn in that game.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. This was a legitimate school, and you destroyed everything.”

He was sure by Yoko’s angry tone that she was getting ready to hang up, so he spoke quickly. “I plan to let people know what’s in that letter. As much as you’ve done wrong, you at least deserve to be warned.”

“Do as you see fit.” Her voice grew quieter as the sound of utter defeat seemed to echo through the line. “I had dreams once, you know, just like you, but life doesn’t always cooperate.”

The last thing Max heard before the dial tone was the sound of Luciano purring in his ear.

TWO ROUND, polished lenses focused on the hushed wharf below. Forklifts and cranes sat idle next to stacks of weathered cargo containers; the parking lots were empty. It was a quiet holiday Monday.

The commander’s binoculars had to be angled down to avoid the glare from the setting western sun. Within the field of vision, a guard with an alert dog paced back and forth, while a second man leaned on a stack of concrete blocks.

He was positioned strategically on the overpass walkway, not far from stairs that dropped thirty yards to the secondary road below. Oto Kodama’s Mercedes was parked next to a long warehouse that was bordered by the water on one side. Several hours had passed since the
Yakuza
leader had disappeared inside.

The binoculars swung on the commander’s neck as he retrieved his vibrating cell from a pocket. He glanced at the display with dread, hoping it wasn’t another one of Masami Ishi’s increasingly demanding calls. It was the phone number of his man at the bus terminal.

He shouted to be heard over the thunder of traffic. “What’s happening?”

The man was panting heavily. “Sir . . . I’ve spotted . . . Max Travers.”

The commander jerked upright. “Can you catch him?”

“I’m trying, but I think he saw me. He’s running and—” Clattering, scraping, and the din of a roaring engine replaced the voice.

“Are you there? Hello?”

Below him, the commander saw a white van move from its parking spot to the entrance of the warehouse. He raised the binoculars while keeping the phone to his ear, watching while an escort hustled a slender girl with long black hair into the back of the windowless vehicle. Her hands were tied in front of her. Following quickly was a second escort, who was having trouble with his prisoner. The bound man tripped his captor before striking with his tied hands. The nearby guards pounced and dragged the kicking man to the van, pummeling him with violent blows in the process. Oto strolled from the building. His driver held the door of the Mercedes as he climbed inside, ignoring the scuffle taking place nearby.

The voice on the phone returned. “Travers-
san
got away. Another
Gaijin
in an olive-colored Range Rover picked him up and headed south.”

The commander raced toward the stairs. “Contact the other two and get to your car. I’ll call you back and explain.” He hung up and hit the speed dial just before he descended the metal steps, two at a time.

The police officer parked in the car below answered.
“Moshi-moshi.”

“Start the engine,” the commander barked. “Kodama-
san
is active. He should be coming out the driveway any moment. Don’t let him see you.”

The response was crisp. “Yes, sir.”

“We can’t afford to lose him. Things are moving, and something big is about to happen. I can feel it.”

MORE THAN ten thousand lives were sacrificed in 1945 to Mabuni Hill at the southern tip of Okinawa Island. The ninety-day Typhoon of Steel drove Japan’s troops and civilians to the island’s end, until at last they could go no farther. Fertile green land, along with the jungle-like cliff, had been bombed into a moonscape, pock-marked and barren from weeks of relentless shelling. Fear, desperation, and misinformation spurred soldiers, along with their wives and children, to fling themselves 270 feet to the exposed reefs below the clifftops.