Milton eased open the sliding door that led from the cabin onto the balcony. He looked back at Sakura tangled up in the bedsheets. She was asleep, her hair loose and strewn across her face, one arm extended across the part of the bed that, until a moment before, he had occupied. He stepped out into the cool half-light of the early morning, dressed in only a pair of shorts. He had his phone in his hand, the screen showing a missed call.

Milton leaned on the railing of the balcony, looking down. The drop to the ocean was four storeys—well over fifty feet—and the sight gave him a momentary judder of vertigo. He leaned back and looked out at the horizon instead. The ship had set sail just over two hours earlier and the lights of Benoa Harbour and the island were distant specks on the horizon. He rested his elbows on the railing and checked his phone. He had seen a notice on the way to their cabin that said the ship had equipment that allowed the crew to use their own phones while they were at sea. Milton had a signal now and, as he scrolled through the notifications, he saw that the missed call was from Victoria. He tapped the screen to call her back and waited for the call to connect.

“Hello?” she said.

“It’s me.”

“John?”

“Yes. What’s wrong?”

“You’ve got a problem.”

He slid the door closed. “Go on.”

“We had a visit from someone who was very interested in finding out where Sakura has gone.”

She explained what had happened. Jean-Michel had gone to the kitchen and had been surprised there by a man with a gun who had tied him up and threatened him until he had revealed everything that he knew about Milton, Sakura and the plan that he had just helped put into place.

“Is he okay?”

“He got a nasty burn,” Victoria said. “The guy heated up a knife on the stove and held it against his neck. We’re at the hospital now. He’ll have a scar, but, other than that, no damage.”

“Shit, Victoria. I’m sorry.”

“For what? It’s nothing to do with you.”

“Of course it is. It wouldn’t have happened without me.”

“Forget it.”

There was a pause and Milton could hear the sound of hospital activity in the background.

He switched the phone from left hand to right. “The guy—do you know who he is?”

“He didn’t say anything,” she said.

“Description?”

“I got a pretty good look. Asian, very well built, dark hair, dark eyes. Well dressed. Knew how to handle a gun.”

“Anything else?”

“Tattoos,” she said. “He had one that started up around his ear and ran down his neck. Looked like the tail of a dragon.”

That was plenty to be going on with. “What did Jean-Michel tell him?”

“He gave him your name.”

“My real one?”