Katsuro felt fresh rage: that Sakura had tricked him again and that she had given his father another reason for criticism.

“I see,” he said. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Why? So you can make another mistake?”

“I am sorry, Otōsan,” he said. “I accept that this is my responsibility—allow me to fix it.”

There was no reply, just buzzes and clicks over the line.

“Father?”

“Fine. One more chance, Katsuro. One.”

“Thank you, Father. When and where are they meeting?”

“A restaurant in Tatsumi Shindo.”

“What time?”

“Four. I will send you the details.”

Katsuro looked at his watch. It was midday. It would take an hour to get to the airport, between four and five hours to fly to Tokyo, and then another hour to cross the city. He wouldn’t be able to get there in time.

“I’ll leave now, but I won’t be back until tonight. Send Tsukasa and Wakabayashi and I’ll take over after that.”

Katsuro tried to apologise again, but the line was dead. He took a moment to breathe, then packed away the binoculars and got up. He looked outside and saw that the Fidelio was being tied up. Katsuro gritted his teeth as the ship sounded its horn; the long, honking boom was the punchline to a bad joke at his expense.

74

Sakura had showered and dressed in fresh clothes and, as she stood next to Milton in the elevator, he smelled the scent of the complimentary shampoo that the hotel left in the bathroom. Sakura had confirmed that she would meet her father in Tatsumi Shindo. It was to the east of the hotel and, rather than take a taxi, Milton decided that they would use the metro. They walked to Seibu-Shinjuku Station, bought tickets and descended to the platform, where they caught the first eastbound train on the Shinjuku Line.

Sakura was silent for much of the way.

“You okay?” Milton said at last.