Free The Mystery of Yamashita's Map by James McKenzie Page A

relief that the place was swarming with cars. Soon he was so lost in the crowd that even he did not know where he was any more. He looked in his mirror but could not see the distinctive lopsided lights.
     
    ‘We lost them,’ he said, but neither Lisa nor the professor was listening. They still chatted about maps and books and strange soldiers called Amichi whose family suffered from a curse that followed them about like a blue Nissan.
 

  
    Chapter Four
     
     
    Lisa staggered over to where the professor sat, where he always sat. She dumped the armful of books down on the table and slumped on the seat next to him. ‘These are all the army registers since 1930. Every name of every soldier enlisted during the period 1930 to 1945. There must be thousands of names here, uncle.’ ‘Hundreds of thousands, I’d say.’ Well, how are we going to get through them all?’ ‘Well,’ the professor said, ‘We know he was a soldier during the war, so we can discount every entry after, say, 1943. It is unlikely that a raw recruit would reach the rank of captain in so short a space of time. We can also discount anyone who joined before about 1935 – they would be far too old to be our Amichi. So there’s an eight-year space. However, we can also discount anyone joining from the very poor districts. You have seen Amichi’s handwriting. It was the script of an educated man, which would cut, say twenty per cent of the names. Also we know that he survived the war, so we could first check the register of war deaths; this would leave only about fifteen per cent of the names to check.’ The professor leaned back with his legs on the table and his arms behind his head. ‘Shouldn’t take you more than an hour or so, Lisa. If you need me, just ask.’ Lisa gave a laugh of incredulity and opened the first book.
     
    The smoke rose about him but the wind had stopped completely. He was in the darkness again but this time he could hear movement. Who’s there?’ he asked, but heard no reply. He became agitated. He wanted nothing more than to get out of the darkness – to see the light again, to breathe the fresh air of the outside, to be free of this oppression. He grasped at his throat and gasped for air but the harder he tried the more difficult it became; the walls seemed as if they were closing in. Once again he heard the sound of movement and once again he cried out in the darkness. ‘Who’s there? Who is it? Speak, please!’ He felt a hand on his shoulder and was suddenly calm and quiet. The hand felt warm and reassuring, like a blanket thrown about him. He fell to his knees and still it caressed his shoulder and made him feel that he was not alone. The professor raised his own hand and placed it on top of the other. He knew he was safe now, he knew this presence would not let harm come to him; he felt as if everything had fallen into place suddenly, as if the world had become still. He looked up and saw the smiling face of a man he did not recognise. It was a harsh face, a face that had seen things, evil things, but a face that had come through. The skin that was stretched tight over the cheekbones was stained with mud and blood but it radiated a beauty that was easily discernible. The kind eyes looked down on the professor and seemed to absolve him of any sin he had committed, to take away any pain. For the briefest of moments the professor thought that he was witnessing a god.
     
    The man lifted the professor up off of his knees and onto his feet. He took him by the hand and led him down the tunnel. As they walked, a strange eerie glow lit the tunnel and the professor was able to see the marks in the earth that had been left by the diggers. Here and there were finger marks scratched into the tunnel’s surface – a testament to the last few desperate hours spent here. He followed his guide deeper and deeper into the tunnel; the air became thicker and thicker but somehow it did not worry the professor any more. He held