Collector of Secrets (9 page)

G
ripping the cup of hot tea with both hands, Tomoko felt the tingle of blood finally reaching her fingertips. She blew on the steaming liquid. “So what did you find?”

“Well, there’s plenty of information about Mr. Murayama. He was a public servant in the diplomatic corps, so there’s a bunch of boring stuff. Postings to embassies and things like that. I’ll give you the folder later.”

“Thanks.” Tomoko sipped her tea while Miki picked at a croissant.

“However . . . there were a couple of interesting things that stuck out.”

“Like what?”

“Well, there was information about his daughter, Yoko Murayama, but only back to 1985.”

“What do you mean?”

“I found some post-1985 newspaper articles about a Tokyo art showing, but nothing before 1985. It’s like she just didn’t exist before then.”

Tomoko wrinkled her forehead and frowned. “But how is that possible?”

“I don’t know.” Miki adjusted one of her feather earrings. “I’ll keep looking, but I’m telling you, if there was something to find, I would have found it by now. Plus, everything is digitized these days. There should be records,” she said, shrugging, “but there simply aren’t.”

“Was there anything else?”

Miki appeared slightly uneasy as she looked around the empty, rundown café. The owner, perched next to a ceramic good-luck kitty, was hidden behind a newspaper. “There was one other thing.” She motioned for them to move closer together and her voice became a whisper. “According to diplomatic records, Mr. Murayama never had any children.”

DUTY-BOUND, HIRO sat on the hard-padded bench that ran the inside length of the Toyota Dyna van’s windowless cargo area. The gray vehicle was parked in a string of bumper-to-bumper cars lining the street opposite Mr. Murayama’s office. Late-afternoon traffic was sporadic, but apartment dwellers out for a Saturday stroll flowed by in an unending chain.

He adjusted the padded headphones that sealed his ears, pressing down his permed, curly black hair. Beside him, Jun was shifting ceaselessly. Squeezed elbow to elbow with his partner, Hiro was growing increasingly annoyed at the younger man’s inability to remain still. The nearby police box concerned him. Jun’s massive size and constant movements shook the van and threatened to expose their listening post. The last thing they needed was for a concerned citizen to alert the police to the strange rocking vehicle down the block.

Hiro pulled the left earpiece away from his head and whispered through thin lips. “Little brother, could you please stop moving?” The traditional
Sempai-Kohai
relationship of mentorship, reciprocated with respect and obedience, had never gelled between the two men. Forced together only through circumstance, they labored on common tasks, but would never truly mix.

Jun’s grunt barely acknowledged the request; his eyes remained glued to the pages of the phonebook-sized
Manga
he was holding.
What
garbage
, thought Hiro. The comic was disgustingly low-life, but he knew the young thug eagerly awaited new issues of
Berserk
. The violent fantasies centered on the life of an orphaned warrior named Guts, who led The Band of Hawks mercenary group. Every tale spun a bizarre story of heroism and glory, a life for which Jun clearly longed.

Hiro glanced at the detailed bloodshed depicted on the
Manga
cover. He felt a look of disdain creep across his slender, hawkish face. He would never relate to Jun’s propensity for violence, but then their childhood experiences were so different. Jun had been orphaned in the late 1980s—raised on the streets, while Hiro had grown up with four older sisters. His mother would tell him how she had prayed to the
kami
spirits to send her a son. She knew his father wouldn’t rest until he had a boy to carry on the
Yakuza
traditions.

Feedback from a transmitter in the office squealed as Hiro snapped forward to adjust the controls on the sound console running the length of the van’s opposite wall.

The first hour-long shift had gone to Jun. It was now hour number eight, and there wasn’t much going on inside Mr. Murayama’s office. Two radio microphones had been planted by a night cleaning crew. Hiro could hear the sound of sliding drawers accompanied by the shuffling of feet. The old man was likely moving things around, but little else appeared to be happening.

Hiro slid the pile of Coke cans and empty Styrofoam ramen bowls to Jun’s end of the counter where they belonged. The cleared space exposed several translated novels. He reviewed the stack, trying to decide which one to read once it was Jun’s turn to listen again. A classic, like Shakespeare’s
Romeo and Juliet
, wasn’t the kind of story that could be read while crammed into the back of a van with a two-hundred pound gorilla. He fingered the outside of his dog-eared edition of the classic American tale,
On the Road
. It was a possibility, but his interest in it had waned for the moment. So the choice was between
Cry Freedom
and Che Guevara’s
Motorcycle Diaries
.

Abruptly, the office telephone rang, and Hiro listened closely as Mr. Murayama answered.

“Moshi-moshi?”

“Hello, Murayama
-san
. It’s Rikyu, from the Mizuho bank. I’m very sorry for my slow response to your message. I was at the park with my family.”

“No need to explain. I wish to move some things to my safety deposit box. It’s quite urgent, and I would like you to send a truck on Monday morning.”

The line crackled with static as Rikyu sucked in air between his closed teeth. “Is that so?” The snakelike noise continued. “I’d like to but the trucks require advance notice of one business day, which means Tuesday at the earliest. If it’s urgent, I could drive over myself on Monday.”

“The items are very valuable. Do your best to send a truck, otherwise come yourself with a security guard at 8 a.m.”

“Absolutely, Mr. Murayama, and thank you for your business.”

Hiro pulled off the headset and tossed it on the console. “That’s it. We’re done here.” He interlaced his fingers and reversed his hands over his head, leaning forward to stretch his lithe, but muscular, five-foot-six frame in the cramped space.

Jun remained engrossed in the pages of a raging life-and-death cartoon battle.

Impatiently, Hiro kicked him sharply in the shin. The blow caused the big man to spring up, striking his head on the low metal ceiling. He unleashed a blistering yelp and dropped the
Manga
on the floor. The sound was much louder than necessary, in Hiro’s opinion. For a comic book warrior, he could be such a baby at times.

Jun glowered as he rubbed his bald head, his eyes flooding with loathing
.

Ignoring the reaction, Hiro slid open the van’s front curtain. “I said, let’s go!”

I
n the twilight of evening, the van’s front tire rammed the curb while attempting to park near a FamilyMart convenience store.

“Watch your driving!” Hiro snarled, slamming the passenger’s door before heading to a nearby pay phone. He unfolded a scrap of paper in his nicotine-stained fingers and inserted a stolen calling card. Cradling the receiver against his ear, he dug around in his jacket pocket and pulled out a package of Marlboros.

On the third ring, Oto’s gruff voice answered. “Is there a problem?”

“No, Master, but Jun should take driving lessons . . . and to learn to sit still for five minutes.”

“He’s your apprentice. It’s your responsibility to teach him.” Oto paused. “And remember, even you have been known to make mistakes sometimes.”

Hiro ignored the dig and took a drag on the freshly lit cigarette. He blew a smoke ring into the Plexiglas NTT phone casing. “The old man called Mizuho Bank to come retrieve some items for his safety deposit box. He didn’t indicate what he’s moving, but the appointment is for Monday morning.”

“Are you prepared to carry out the break-in, then?”

“Yes. We’ll go to the office tomorrow night. It should be quieter then. But I don’t know exactly where the leather satchel is. From the plans I saw, there are dozens of filing cabinets.”

“So open them all! You’ve got the equipment.” Oto’s deep voice rattled with impatience.

“Yes, Master.”

“Do you expect difficulty from the building owner?”

“No. He’s a drunk.” Hiro took another drag of his cigarette.

“Well, that’s good for you, then.”

“But I want to do the job without Jun,” Hiro blurted. “He’s too unpredictable.”

“Out of the question!” Oto barked. “And don’t even think about leaving with my satchel.”

The verbal blow was direct, and Hiro’s posture snapped rigid. It didn’t seem fair that he should continue to pay for an attempted escape, especially one that happened so long ago, but he swallowed his thoughts, forcing dutiful words from his clenching throat. “I understand, Master.”

“And make sure that your
Kohai
doesn’t kill anyone else. At least not right now, anyway.” A harsh click on the line ended the call.

Slamming the green receiver into place, Hiro snatched the phone card from its slot
.

I better not forget this. There are a lot of thieves out here
.

MAX STOOD in the dim evening light below the pink-and-white candy-striped awning of the Almond Café. The busy corner on Roppongi Street was the most popular meeting spot for nightclub revelers to gather, and on a Saturday night, the rendezvous point was swarming with life.

The once-quiet Six Trees district had sprung to life in the late nineteenth century when Japanese soldiers were housed in the area. Young men with a combination of testosterone and money spawned the growth of cabarets and nightlife. Post-World War Two American troops fueled the party tradition, and the district now teemed with Western shops, restaurants, and nightclubs. Roppongi Street’s eight lanes were lined with traffic, while overhead the roar of vehicles on the multistory Shuto Expressway intensified the congested feeling of the overpopulated area.

The distraction of the swirling circus helped Max drown out his growing feelings of unease. How much longer could he keep chasing after Yoko for his passport, and now that he had resigned, would she ever give it back? Soon enough, he was going to have to consider more drastic measures.

Max’s pulse quickened as two hands covered his eyes from behind. “Finally! The
Geisha
I ordered. It’s about time.” Reaching back, he grabbed the wrists pressed against his ears and spun around to see Tomoko’s lovely face. She laughed while they wrapped their arms around each other, melting together. It was at just such moments, when he was warmed by her glow, that Japan felt the most like home.

He whispered, so only she could hear. “Is this like ordering a pizza? More than twenty minutes late and the next
Geisha
’s
free?”

Tomoko pulled back, smiling. “Speaking of pizza, I’m so hungry. They didn’t give us anything on the plane. Come on.” She grabbed his hand, dragging him around the corner and down the street. Directly ahead, the glowing figure of Tokyo’s “Eiffel Tower” soared into the night sky. The ambient noise changed as they fought their way through clusters of barking salesmen balanced on the sidewalk, pressing on past the folding tables covered in a smorgasbord of cheap clothing and silver jewelry.