Without waiting for a reply, he disconnected the call.

Takashi returned to the window and thought about Katsuro’s failure and what his own father would have done in the circumstances. He did not need to speculate: he knew. He would have insisted upon yubitsume, the removal of a fingertip to signify disgrace. Takashi’s father had been a low-level yakuza, and his otōsan—Kazuo Nakanishi—had made sure that the edge of the knife he used for discipline was dull so that atonement was as painful as possible. Takashi’s father would have insisted that the precedent be followed, but Takashi wasn’t a complete monster. He would do Katsuro the favour of whetting the blade before he gave it to him.

He looked up at the collection of swords that he had mounted on the wall of the apartment that faced Mount Fuji. He had tachi and tantō crafted by Masamune, the greatest swordsmith ever to work in Japan. He had a katana made by Kamakura that he had bought at auction in California for three hundred thousand dollars. The blades were beautiful, and each bore its own historical relevance. They reminded Takashi of a better time, when Japan had not been sullied by the influence of the West.

His eye drifted right, to the empty mount where he had once displayed the tantō that had belonged to Yoshida Shōin. That blade was not as expensive as the Masamunes, nor as impressive as the katana, but it was more important than anything else on the wall. Shōin was the fulcrum upon which the lever of history had balanced: before him had been honour and integrity and principle; after him came immorality, disgrace and humiliation. The tantō was the embodiment of that change. That Takashi’s own son might take the blade from him had been almost more than he could bear. Yubitsume had been too good for him; Takashi had ordered fratricide, and Katsuro had carried out his duty to the letter. Perhaps he should have had Katsuro kill Sakura at the same time rather than indulging his thirst for revenge by having her work for him as a mule.

It didn’t matter.

Katsuro might be a fool, but he was also a killer. Sakura had contributed to Miyasato’s disgrace, and now she would pay the same price as him.

V. Saturday

Part V

Saturday

67