“How would your father react if he found out what Takashi has done to you?”

“What do you think? He’ll be furious.”

“Good,” Milton said. “We’re going to need his help.”

The crew called the flight, and the passengers started to assemble in front of the gate.

Milton stood. “Come on,” he said. “We’d better get moving.”

71

Milton looked out of the Perspex oval window and down at the city. Tokyo looked enormous from this height; it was enormous. Ten thousand feet below, thirty-eight million people were going about their daily business. Vast sprawls of buildings carved up by networks of roads and railways spread out almost as far as he could see. They were still too high for him to be able to discern the most obvious landmarks, but, as the airplane banked around to the right, he saw the snow-capped slopes of Mount Fuji. Sakura was looking out of the window, too, and Milton could guess what she was thinking: she was home, and had no idea what she might encounter.

Sakura waited for the plane to level out before turning to Milton. “What do we do when we land?”

“You can call your father,” he said.

“And say?”

“Can you think of somewhere safe to meet?”

She considered the question for a moment, and quickly came to a conclusion. “Tatsumi Shindo. There are bars and cafés there. My father and I had a tradition on his birthday. We’d go to a bar—New Motsuyoshi, usually—and I’d buy him a shot of his favourite whisky. Always single malt. It was a tradition, every year, until we fell out over Miyasato.”

“Describe the area to me.”

“It’s just down from Tomioka Hachiman. It kind of feels like it would have fifty years ago. There’s a central street with all these little bars on either side of it.”

“Busy?”

“It’s always packed. Tourists go there, but it’s still popular with locals.”

“And the bar?”

“It’ll be busy.”

“That’s where we’ll suggest, then.”

“Why do we need to go somewhere that’s busy?”

“We can hide in a crowd. The last thing we need is for them to know we’re there—not until we want them to, anyway.”

The plane touched down a few moments later and taxied to the gate. Sakura and Milton waited until the other passengers had wrestled their bags from the overhead lockers before Milton took down their case and Milton’s battered old leather satchel. Sakura had transferred the clothes that Victoria had given her into a smaller case purchased at Ninoy airport that was small enough to be taken as carry-on.

“Ready?” Milton asked her as they waited at the end of the queue.

She nodded.

“So, immigration,” he said. “We’re together—okay?”

“You’re visiting Tokyo to meet my father for the first time.”

“Exactly. All right?”

She nodded again.