The Mystery of Yamashita's Map

Chapter One

Professor Okada sat at one of the long desks that faced towards the window. The sun was just dipping below the line of the harbour and it threw startling patterns of light on the wall. He raised a prism-like geodesic crystal to the window and watched as the light refracted and sent spectral shafts of different colours around the room. No matter how many times he did this it still delighted him as much as it had when he was a little boy. He was fifty, balding, and had been a Reader in Geology at Hong Kong University for almost twenty years, but it was the simple things still that kept him going. Classes were almost over for the summer and he was looking forward to the fishing trip he had planned. Fishing was never really his thing; he liked to sit and watch the water. Often he would forget to bait the line specifically to avoid the accidental catching of a fish that he found so ugly and unwholesome. He looked forward to spending some time at his cabin by the river, where he could collect samples from the local rock formations and sit and watch the water for most of the day, seeing in its brightness something that was lacking for most of the year spent in the big city.

He carefully placed the sample back into its case and brushed off the dust that had gathered on its top. Then he replaced the whole thing back in the drawer and hopped from the tall lab stool he had been sitting on. Really, one of these days he should start that diet he was always meaning to go on. Really, one of these days he should start looking after himself a little. The door to the lab swung open suddenly and a bright young Japanese girl danced in.

‘Lisa,’ the professor exclaimed.

‘Hello, uncle,’ she replied. ‘I’ve come to take you home. You will be here all evening if I don’t drag you away.’

The professor smiled and touched his nose with his index finger. ‘You know me too well. But I must just finish up a few things.’

‘Uncle…’

‘Just a few things.’

As he pottered about with slides and charts that meant nothing to Lisa she idly looked around the room.

‘What are these rocks?’

‘They are samples. Some I collected myself, others were donated, others have been here for years. As long as I can remember, anyway — longer than twenty.’

‘Some only look like rock.’

The professor laughed.

‘Some only are rock. Geology is ninety per cent rock, nine per cent volcano and one per cent gold.’

‘You have gold here?’

‘Yes, a piece somewhere, but it’s unprocessed. It would leave you highly unimpressed.’

‘That’s life, I suppose.’

‘Well,’ the professor said. ‘That’s geology anyway.’

Lisa picked up a stick of chalk and started signing her name across the blackboard. The professor winced as the chalk scraped and whistled its way across the surface.

‘I may be some time yet,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you go to the machine down the corridor and get us both some coffee?’ He handed Lisa some change and set about arranging charts and books, depositing some into his briefcase, dropping most on the floor.

At the coffee machine Lisa hesitated for a while, making the momentous choice of tea or chocolate. From the corridor on the fifth floor you could see right into the heart of Hong Kong. She liked to watch the bustle and the business of the streets at this time, when it was at its busiest. Down in the street, however, today, something caught her eye. In amongst the thousands of people milling to and fro was a young woman, dressed in bright red, running.

Lisa moved over, nearer to the window and leaned her forehead on it. Squinting, she could clearly make out the face of the girl — she looked Japanese and was clearly running for all she was worth. Lisa adjusted her glance along the street and saw she was indeed being chased by four men dressed in smart but plain clothes. The first of the four men wore sunglasses and had a shock of dark black hair. His hand was permanently placed inside his jacket as if concealing something — perhaps, Lisa thought to herself, a gun. She shook herself. How ridiculous, she thought, the girl was running away from the police, or she was running to catch a taxi, or else she was running from a jealous boyfriend. These things happen all the time in a big city like this. She had, after all, been told many times that she could be obsessive and compulsive and that someday her imagination was going to get the better of her. She took the cups from the machine and made her way back to the classroom where the professor was clearing up. Something, however, made her stop; something made her put the cups down on the ground and make her way back over to the window. Something made her press her nose up against the glass again and look downward to the street below where she saw the girl in red enter the University by the front door, leaving the men chasing her at the entrance unsure of whether they could chance going in. Lisa once again shook herself. There was, she reasoned, nothing to be concerned about: it was a student late for an appointment, a date at the library or cafeteria, or with an important deadline to meet. She bent down and picked up the cups again then made her way to the classroom of her uncle and kicked open the door.

Inside the professor was slumped over the desk. Lisa felt her heart leap; she slammed the cups down on the desk beside her and rushed over to where her uncle’s body lay, seemingly lifeless, across the table. Slowly she leaned over. She could hear the sound of her blood rushing through her ears and feel the beat of her heart on her ribcage. Her hand touched his shoulder but he did not stir. She walked over to stand beside him but his head was turned away from her. ‘Uncle?’ she whispered. ‘Uncle?’ She rose and walked round to the other side of the desk where she saw his face, eyes wide open staring at the desk with intense concentration. As he saw her, his face lit up slightly in a smile. ‘Diamonds!’ he said. ‘What?’

‘A diamond, around here somewhere — if you see it, grab it.’

Lisa began to look on the table. ‘Is it small?’ she asked.

‘Not too small, but it’s clear, few facets, very unreflective… was very cheap, hardly worth bothering about.’

Lisa patted the desk with her hands. ‘Sample?’ she asked.

Her uncle looked up. ‘A sample of what?’

‘Was the diamond a sample… for the lab?’

The professor smiled. ‘My cufflink,’ he said, and showed her the space where once a small, evidently cheap diamond had sat. Suddenly there was a crash and a rush of air as the door to the classroom flew open. Both Lisa and the professor turned around with a start and Lisa recognised the girl who ran in as the same one she had seen in the street below only moments earlier. The girl looked half dead. She was about twenty and had long black hair tied in a ponytail behind her head. She wore a distinctive red coat, the type they used to wear in the country years ago but which was very seldom seen these days. Her brown eyes flashed wildly as she crossed the room. ‘Okada San?’ she said, barely able to speak through either fear or exhaustion. The professor replied that he was.

‘I have something for you,’ the girl said, and brought out a small book, bound in brown leather. She looked at it lovingly before thrusting it in the professor’s arms. There was a brief moment of silence that was broken only by the sound of further footsteps in the corridor outside. The girl looked terrified and ran over to the window. Finding nothing there she opened the door and ran out, crashing it behind her.

She knew that Tanaka and his gang had come from Japan and that they were after her. They would probably catch her and she knew they must not get the book. She had been lonely in Hong Kong. There were very few Japanese, but she had read articles in the newspaper written by a Professor Okada, he seemed intelligent, he seemed kind, he seemed honourable.

The professor and Lisa looked at each other barely able to speak. Lisa pointed at the book. ‘What is it?’

Her uncle opened the cover and read a little. ‘It’s about Buddhist temples in China. How odd. I have never heard of the author. A European by all accounts, but it’s in Japanese. A fair mix of races, wouldn’t you say?’ ‘Is there anything written in it?’

‘Yes, hundreds of things.’ ‘No, anything written for you.’

The professor leafed through. ‘No, no pencil or pen marks, just the printed word.’

‘Perhaps she had heard of the renovation projects you have carried out, uncle. Perhaps she wants you to carry out some work.’

‘She could have asked. I would probably have said yes,’ he said with a smile. ‘Perhaps it’s late at the library and she didn’t want to pay the fine,’ the professor said and laughed to himself. ‘Anyway, whatever it is, I need to find that diamond before I go home or I will never be able to speak to your father again.’

Lisa bent and started patting the floor with her hand but only succeeding in finding dirt.

Later that evening back at his small apartment, professor Okada ran a bath. As he eased himself into the hot water he opened the book. There was something about it that puzzled him — nothing he could put his finger on, just something that did not seem right. Not with the writing but with the book itself. It did not feel right; it was stiff and would not close properly. Gently he lay back and let the water flow over him. He raised the book to his eye — line but could see nothing. He assumed it must be the book’s age — sometimes when the leather had got damp and then dried quickly it shrank, either splitting or making it hard to close. Sometimes, the binder would use too much glue or too little and this would manifest itself in inconsistencies later in life. He shook the book but nothing came out. It was definitely there though — something about it was not quite correct. Suddenly he noticed something. It was the spine, the spine was stiff. He had had a book like it once — the paper that made up the thick binding had come loose and he had to get it rebound because it wouldn’t close. He turned the book sideways and held it up to the light. Was there something there? Some dislodged piece of paper?

The telephone rang. The professor sighed. Of course it’s a cliché, he thought to himself, but it also happens to be true that just when one is in the bath the telephone begins to ring. He put the book on the side of the bath, got up and threw a towel around himself. Placing his feet in his traditional slippers he exited the bathroom and shuffled out to the hallway. He picked up the phone. ‘Hello?’

‘Uncle? It’s Lisa.’

‘I was in the bath, I couldn’t…’

‘Uncle, you have to put the TV on.’

‘Lisa, you know I hate that thing, I can’t hear it very well and…’

‘Please, uncle, put it on and turn to channel two.’

The professor sighed and placed the receiver on the hook. He crossed the room to where his small black and white portable stood, dusty, in the corner. He blew some of the dust off the screen and turned it on. He waited for a moment for it to warm up and show the picture. As the image on the screen slowly began to emerge the professor recognised the face of the girl he had seen that day. They were displaying her photograph. Somehow, though, the professor thought her face looked different. She was smiling; there was none of the panic he had seen earlier in the day. It had none of the terror, none of the fear.

The professor turned up the sound.

‘Passers-by say the girl ran into the temple to escape four men who had been seen earlier that day following her. The girl is said to be twenty-six years old and thought to come from one of the small islands around Hong Kong or possibly the New Territories. The police say her body was found near the altar of the temple. She had clearly committed suicide. No one has come forward to help them with their enquiries.’

The professor turned the TV off. The young woman he had seen that day, who had rushed into the classroom, was dead. He sat down, barely able to believe it. No wonder she had seemed in so much trouble, he thought to himself, no wonder she looked frightened for her life. She was. Slowly the professor returned to the bath and again lowered himself in. He thought again about why she had chosen him that day before entering the temple and why she had chosen to take her own life. What does it take, he thought, to make a fully grown girl with everything life has to offer kill herself in such a public way — and what had he to do with it?

He thought of Lisa and of how he would feel if anything were to happen to her. He wondered about the girl’s family. What kind of father allows his daughter to run about a big city like a crazy person, giving elderly professors presents of books and then disappearing? What kind of people had she been raised by? Who would let their daughter do such a thing?

Miles away on the small island of Ap Lei Chau they were lowering the body of Matsuo Amichi into the ground just hours after his death. Inside one of the small houses, the photograph of his granddaughter, the one that had been used on the news that evening, lay on the table covered with a white cloth. The villagers said prayers for Amichi, who had never had a day’s peace since moving there, who always looked so sad and so uncomfortable, who always slept so badly. They prayed for his soul and wished that he might find more happiness in the next world. They had all heard him at night, after he had been drinking, shouting at the devils he saw before him, screaming at them to leave him. They had all seen him tear at his eyes and his skin, terrified of what the morning might bring. Some said he was in the army once, the Japanese Army but, of course, he never talked of such things; just lived drunkenly but quietly with his granddaughter, who had inherited his sad eyes and his dark hair.

All the villagers bowed their heads over the grave and wished the curse that had afflicted the dead man while he was alive could be halted now. They wished too that news of his granddaughter would arrive from Hong Kong and that she would return safely to be by her grandfather’s grave, as a granddaughter should. They prayed for him even though by his own admission he was dammed to spend eternity in limbo, neither progressing nor retreating. Some of the women threw flowers on his coffin, others just patted it on the way past, and hoped that whatever had made him so unhappy would never visit them.

The professor let the water wash over him. He threw the book over to the other side of the room. Later, he thought to himself, he would give it a proper examination. At the moment he was content to just let his thoughts wander. He woke with a start. The telephone was ringing again. The professor looked round. He realised he had been asleep for an hour or more. Quickly he pulled himself out of the bath, dressed and made his way again to the telephone. Whoever it was, they were persistent. He picked up the phone. ‘Lisa?’ There was nothing. ‘Lisa? Yes, I saw the programme on TV. Very interesting. Do you think it was her?’ Still no answer. ‘Who is this?’ he asked. ‘Speak or I will put the phone down.’

There was silence. The professor slammed the receiver down and went into his bedroom. The phone rang again. He sighed. Do they never get tired of playing these games, he thought. He picked up the phone in the bedroom.

‘I think this is pretty unfunny. I might be waiting for a call, or…’

A voice on the other end sounded, slowly and menacingly. ‘The book, professor.’

The professor was startled for a moment. He caught his breath even though his mind was reeling. ‘Who is this? What are you talking about? What book?’

‘Professor, I know you have the book. The girl did not kill herself today, she had help.’

‘Look,’ the professor stammered nervously. ‘I have no idea who this is but I warn you I am recording this conversation.’

‘Really, professor? It doesn’t look that way from here.’

The professor turned round quickly. He crossed to his bedroom window and looked out. Across the street was a telephone box but there was no one in it. The apartment opposite was empty and there were no lights on. There was nowhere else where he could be seen from; there was nowhere anyone could be. Just then he noticed a glint from the top of the building opposite. In the dim light of the Hong Kong evening he could just make out a figure on the roof opposite, a figure holding a phone. He quickly pulled the blind and once again put the phone up to his ear. Again he heard the voice.

‘You know, professor, you really should close your blinds more often.’

The professor slammed the phone on the hook and darted round his apartment, pulling tight all the blinds and curtains he could find. He turned off the lights and gingerly peeked out of the window. He could see nothing now — the figure was gone. Quickly his eyes darted down into the street. Nothing. All he could see were the usual people milling around, going out, coming back. Tanaka was expert in mind games. The professor felt the sweat moistening his back and then it happened again — the phone.

His heart leaped again. The ring sounded so harsh against the silence of the empty room, it seemed to bounce off the walls and be twice as loud as it should have been. He crossed the room and, like a child, picked up the receiver.

‘Uncle?’

It was Lisa. The professor felt the hairs on the back of his neck relax and his whole body lost some of the tenseness.

‘Lisa, I’m glad it’s you.’

‘Why? Who did you think it was?’

‘Never mind. Look, how are you?’

‘I’m fine. Did you see the news?’

‘You haven’t had any phone calls?’

‘Only from Fraser.’

‘Anyone else?’

‘No. Uncle, what’s wrong?’

The professor suddenly thought, what if the phone was tapped, what if they were listening right now and he had given them Lisa’s name? What if they didn’t know about her until now? What if they were on their way over to her apartment as they spoke? He felt his muscles tighten again as he looked around.

‘Look, Lisa, something has happened. I think we should meet.’

‘Uncle? What’s happened?’

He could hear the change in her voice.

‘Nothing,’ he tried to reassure her, unsuccessfully. ‘Just something small, something very small, but I want to talk to you about it.’

‘OK, do you want to come over here or shall I come to you…?’

‘No,’ he interrupted. ‘It’s such a nice night, why don’t we meet at that place you wanted to go to, the one your friend owns.’

‘But you said you hated the look of it.’

The professor did hate the look of it. It was red and shiny and the seats were plastic. The waitresses there had nametags that declared they were happy to serve you and their uniforms were too clean and too pressed. The professor liked his waitresses to look a little harried, a little unkempt; it made you think that the restaurant was busy and that the food was brought to the tables quickly. The same as you didn’t want your furniture to look as if it had just been made, you didn’t want your waitress to look as though she had just been washed.

Times, however, were desperate and it was a fool who would suggest he meet his niece at either hers or his.

‘Yes, a great mind, however, can always be changed. Remember that.’

‘Well, I guess you’re right.’

‘What I want you to do is call a cab, don’t walk. Take a cab to the place and if I am not there waiting outside go straight in and get a table.’

‘OK, uncle, but I really think you should tell me what’s up.’

‘There’s no need and there really isn’t the time.’

He put the phone down and went to the cupboard where he found his coat. He put it on, and his hat, and walked to the door. He turned and stopped. Quickly he went into the bathroom where he had left the book on the floor. He picked it up and placed it inside his pocket. With one last look over his shoulder he shut the door and ventured out into the hallway.

Outside the air was crisp and clear. The smell from the docks made its way through the streets and seemed to permeate everything with a thick salty odour. The professor decided to get a cab at the stand just around the corner from his apartment building. With his hand in his pocket clutching the book he strode up to the first car. He looked in the window. The driver was asleep with a cigarette dangling between his lips. The professor knocked on the window and made the man inside wake with a start.

‘Benji’s?’ the professor asked.

The cab driver rubbed his eyes, thought for a moment then flicked his head backwards toward the back seat. ‘Get in.’

All the way there the professor looked behind him. It was a journey of about ten minutes but it seemed to last hours. About halfway through the driver looked into his rear view mirror.

‘You running?’

The professor replied, looking forward, ‘Running?’

‘Yeah, you keep looking out that window, you got to be running from someone.’

‘No, I’m not running.’

‘You sure look like you’re running. I have seen runners and they always look out the back window. You know a runner, they always want to look out the window.’

The professor replied again, ‘I’m not running. I am making sure I am not being followed.’

‘They in a blue Nissan?’

The professor started. ‘I have no idea.’

The driver nodded to himself wisely. ‘Yeah, they’re in a blue Nissan, been following ever since we left. They police?’

The professor felt embarrassed and a little grieved at this. ‘Not at all.’

‘They gangs? Lot of gangs nowadays, betting, drugs, girls, you name it they deal in it.’

‘It’s none of those things… in fact I have no idea who they are.’

‘Ah,’ the driver said scratching his nose with the corner of his driver’s identification card. ‘That’s the worst kind.’

The cab pulled up outside the restaurant and the professor got out. He gave the driver the fare, and the driver leaned out towards him.

‘If you’re ever in trouble,’ he said, ‘Call my cousin, Joey Hutchins.’

He handed over a dirty tattered calling card that looked as if it had been printed in an airport. ‘He’s little crazy these days, but still good, still reliable… if you are desperate.’

The professor took the card. He was desperate.

He could see Lisa was already inside.

In the restaurant the professor thought it was too loud and too light. Everywhere he looked, pink and blue waitresses with nametags moved with an energy that was almost superhuman, their eyes twinkling like robots, their legs barely moving as they skipped between tables. The music that played was a mixture of loud banging and heavy guitar; needless to say the professor hated it. He had never particularly understood music at the best of times, even less when it was forced in your ears in a kind of aural enema that left you feeling as though someone had sponged your thoughts. At least here, however, it was light and the music made it hard for anyone to overhear.

He looked behind him at the street as he closed the door but could see no blue Nissan. Perhaps the cabby had been wrong, he thought to himself, they have been known to be… on occasion.

Lisa was seated at a table and waved to the professor across the floor. Seated with her was a tall, nervous looking Englishman, Fraser. He had met Lisa at university when they were both studying and had gone on to work in one of the bigger Hong Kong banks. He stood up as the professor neared the table, and shook his hand. ‘Hello professor, nice to meet you again.’ They had only met on a number of occasions. Lisa, next to him, looked worried.

‘Uncle, I hope you don’t mind me bringing Fraser, only I didn’t know what to think. I was worried when you said you wanted to meet up. What is this all about? You look terrified.’

The professor sat down heavily and ordered a glass of water. ‘My apartment…’ he stumbled. ‘Someone was watching me through the window — they phoned and threatened me.’

‘Why on earth would they do that?’ Lisa asked.

‘The book. They wanted the book.’

‘The book the girl gave you?’

‘Yes.’

The professor looked at Fraser. He didn’t know if he could be trusted. Friends, it seemed, were hard to come by at the moment so he pushed on.

‘They phoned, and said that the girl today had been killed. Lisa, she didn’t kill herself, someone else did.’

Lisa looked shocked. Fraser dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a napkin.

‘Whatever do they want with the book?’ Lisa asked.

‘I have no idea,’ the professor said. ‘But whatever it is, they will do anything to get it, even kill.’

They were interrupted by the waitress. ‘Can I take your order?’ she asked with a friendliness that the professor found off-putting.

After they had ordered, the professor told Lisa and Fraser about the cab ride to the restaurant. They both sat, dumbfounded, through his story, hearing but not hearing, listening but not quite understanding. To them it sounded like the ravings of an old man who had spent too many years inside dusty classrooms. The professor began to see their doubt. He sighed.

‘I can see you are not with me,’ he said.

Lisa smiled. ‘Uncle, of course I am with you. It’s just… well, a little hard to take in. This is a book after all.’

Fraser leaned forward. ‘Have you got the book, Professor?’

He reached into his pocket, removed the book and handed it to Fraser, who gave it a cursory glance. Turning it over in his hands he opened the front cover. ‘Looks like it’s a book about Chinese Buddhist temples.’

Lisa laughed. ‘We are aware of that.’

Fraser shrugged this off. ‘Looks like some kind of calf skin, nicely done. Would have been a beauty a few years back. We see these in the bank, believe it or not. People leave them in deposit boxes, god knows what for. Suppose they think they’re worth something. Only Americans ever bring them.’

‘Are they worth something?’ Lisa asked. ‘That could be why they are after uncle.’

‘Oh no, practically worthless, but it’s old, no doubt about that.’

The professor pointed to the spine. ‘That’s why the spine has gone. Look, it doesn’t close properly.’

Fraser fiddled with it. ‘Well, generally the spine was the best part; it was the part the binder would be most proud of. The calf skin would have been soaked and stretched just right. These particular books very rarely perish in the binding.’

Fraser peered into the spine. ‘There’s something lodged in it, that’s the problem. I wonder if it’s a love letter. You haven’t been receiving any billets-doux, have you, professor?’

The professor blushed. ‘Not for many years, no.’

Fraser grabbed a chopstick from Lisa’s plate and thrust it into the spine. After a few seconds of digging the map fell out onto the table. ‘There,’ Fraser said in a triumphant tone.

‘What is it?’ asked the professor. Fraser unfolded the paper.

‘Looks like a map of some sort,’ Lisa said.

‘Where of?’ asked the professor.

Fraser turned the map over in his hands. ‘Do you know, I have no idea? Could be anywhere. There’s jungle, there’s a river, there’s more jungle…’ He thought. ‘I’d say it was the jungle, wouldn’t you?’

Lisa grabbed it. ‘There’s writing on it. Look — on the back. It must have been written at a different time. It’s not nearly as faded,’ she said and held the map up to her eye. ‘Ami… Amichi?’

Everyone looked puzzled. The professor was just about to offer a solution when his thoughts were interrupted by the waitress bringing their food. Fraser folded the piece of paper back into its tight square and replaced it back into the spine of the book. The professor still looked worried. Lisa watched as he ate, barely able to swallow, looking around him, trying his best not to let his feelings show but failing miserably.

‘Uncle, why don’t we walk you home and we can look at the map there. You look like a fish out of water here.’

The professor smiled. Now that she mentioned it he was feeling a little tired and his head hurt so much from the excitement. He was not used to such action, a man of his age and constitution.

After they had paid for the food, they walked home in the cool evening, chatting, trying to keep their minds off things. Every now and then the professor would stop and look behind him, desperately looking for the blue Nissan, but he could see nothing; either they had given up or he really was a stupid old man with too much imagination. He put his key in the lock and opened the door. Before him his apartment lay in total disarray. Everything was turned upside down. His bookcase was lying on the floor next to a pile of books that had smashed the glass table in the middle of the room. His TV had been thrown to the floor and lay in pieces with the cord still plugged into the wall. In his bedroom his clothes had been strewn over the floor, paint had been thrown over his bed and his mirror had been obliterated. The professor couldn’t believe his eyes. Everywhere about him lay the debris of his life as if a hurricane had smashed every memory, everything that he held sacred. Every personal item had been either broken or defiled. From the other room, he heard Lisa screaming and he rushed in to see her. On the kitchen table was a long lock of black hair and the distinctive red shirt of the girl they had seen that day and beside it a piece of paper with the word BOOK, written in what looked like blood. The professor sank to his knees. His imagination had just seeped into reality.