He took his hands from the windows and turned to look at the plush living space. He had the entire top two floors of the building and had spared no expense in decorating them in such a way that anyone fortunate enough to be invited to visit could not fail to be impressed by his wealth and taste. He had always been inspired by Louis XIV and the palace of Versailles and had hired an interior designer to recreate that look for him in Tokyo. French classicism with a Japanese twist. The apartment was decked out in gold, with wide mirrors that reflected the grandeur. There were chandeliers, floor-to-ceiling marble, and ceilings painted with scenes from Greek myths. The rooms totalled ten thousand square feet and, although the apartment was worth a fraction of those that could be found in Toranomon or Azabudai, Takashi had no desire to live in those wards. This—this apartment in this building in this part of the city—suited him just fine. He never left the building; everything he needed was here, and, for a man with enemies, like him, it was better to remain in a place that he had made almost impregnable.

The tranquillity of his afternoon was disturbed by the buzzing of his phone on his Mazarin desk. He crossed the room and picked it up. He looked at the display and saw, with a grunt of irritation, that it was his son, Katsuro.

“Tell me you have good news, Katsuro-chan,” he said, using the diminutive because he knew it would irritate his son.

“I do, Otōsan.”

“Where are you?”

“Manila.”

“Why?”

“The ship they are on is docking in three days. I will deal with them here before the ship reaches Tokyo.”

“That’s not the good news that I was hoping to hear. What about the packages that you lost?”

“I have been unable to locate them, Father. I believe they have been taken. They are gone.”

“That is disappointing.”

“Forgive me.”

Takashi sat down on the semicircle ivory couch and stretched out his legs. There was a fountain behind the couch, and a portrait of his late father, Akari, was displayed on the seventeenth-century lacquered Kaomi Nagashige coffer that he had purchased last year.

“Father? Are you still there?”

“What about the man she is with? The Westerner?”

“His name is John Milton. I was hoping you might be able to ask our mutual friend for assistance in finding out a little more about him.”

“You want me to do your job for you?”

“I ask only because it will save time. I am sure that I—”

“Stop whining, Katsuro. I will see what I can find out.”

“Thank you, Father. Again—I am sorry.”

“Being sorry doesn’t make up for the mistakes that you have made. You have been negligent. Sloppy. You know how much I despise that.”

“I do.”

“We will discuss what to do when you return.”