Sakura just nodded. Milton glanced across at her and saw that she had a faraway look on her face. She had reported that her father had been curt when she had called him, and it was obvious that she was nervous about the prospect of seeing him again and, in particular, admitting that she was in a precarious situation and needed his help. Milton wasn’t surprised that she was anxious, but he hoped that the filial bonds between the two would be strong enough to withstand their recent disagreements. He had been considering the next move and had concluded that their chances of success would be significantly improved if they had him on their side. He was Takashi’s brother, after all; who better to provide intelligence on their adversary than a sibling, especially one who was about to be given a reason to bear a serious grudge? Takashi had killed his daughter’s husband, kidnapped his grandson and then enslaved his daughter as a drug mule.

If that wasn’t enough to win his support, then Milton had no idea what would be.

They arrived at Takadanobaba Station. Milton kept his wits about him as they disembarked, looking for anyone who might have been following them. There was no one who stood out, no one displaying the kind of suspicious behaviour that only the most accomplished street artistes could hide. There was no reason to think that they would have been spotted since they had arrived in the city, but Milton was not interested in letting down his guard. They traversed the station, changed onto the Tozai Line and settled down for the nine stops that would bring them to Monzen-Nakacho and the final walk to their destination.

* * *

They emerged into a district that Sakura referred to as Mon-Naka, explaining that it was a shortening of Monzen-Nakacho. It was one stop away from the hipsterish Kiyosumi-Shirakawa and was more down-to-earth and less ostentatious than its neighbour. Sakura pointed out the Fukagawa Fudoson Temple and told him that the streets around here remained popular because they refused to be gentrified, still retaining the atmosphere of a bygone, roguish Tokyo. Dusk was falling and strings of bulbs and other illuminations were being lit, the smoke from charcoal grills drifting through the air.

They made their way to a narrow street, perhaps fifty metres long, that was packed with tiny bars. A network of lanes and alleyways split away from the street, with signage that must have been from the seventies and eighties still fixed to the walls. A lattice of cables crisscrossed overhead, and locals and a handful of Western tourists loitered around the bars. Milton was pleased; it was busy, with more than enough people to obscure them or, should events take an unfortunate turn, enough witnesses to dissuade against violence.

They walked by the Tomioka Hachiman Shrine, picking a path between the street vendors who had set up stalls to sell dumplings and bottles of drink and trinkets.