He left the note on the pillow next to her head and quietly made his way across the room and out of the door.

* * *

Milton went down to the reception desk.

“Excuse me?” he asked the young woman attending to guests. “Is there an internet suite here?”

“It’s on the first floor, sir,” she replied with a smile. “Just swipe your key card to gain entry.”

Milton followed her instructions and found the room next to the escalators. There was a series of terminals positioned between wooden partitions, as well as a printer. The room was empty and Milton sat down at the first terminal, woke the screen and opened a browser. He navigated to Google and searched for information on Satoshi Furokawa. It appeared that he was not averse to publicity; there were a number of articles in the mainstream press, many of them lauding him as a successful entrepreneur with a series of profitable businesses in the technology sector. Milton followed the links from one story to the next, building up a picture of Furokawa and those with whom he associated. He printed out the most useful articles and pages, folded the small stack of papers, and slid them into his pocket.

He erased his search history, logged off, got up and left the room. He took out his phone and tapped out the address of Hachirō’s sushi bar and then, armed with directions, he left the hotel and headed for the metro.

84

Hachirō Nishimoto’s sushi restaurant was fifteen miles to the southwest of the hotel. Milton rode the Yamanote and Ikegami Lines until he reached Gotanda Station. He emerged from the subway into a busy residential neighbourhood. Tall apartment blocks lined both sides of the street, with the ground floors given over to businesses. Milton let his phone guide him to the address he wanted; the restaurant was next to another restaurant advertised as the Siddhartha Palace and beneath a salon offering hairstyling and make-up.

Milton walked by the restaurant and continued along the street, looking ahead for anyone who might be showing an unusual interest in the building. He thought that it was likely that Hachirō would have been followed to work, or that the clan had people watching his premises, but, try as he might, Milton couldn’t see anything that might have betrayed someone carrying out surveillance. That didn’t mean that he would be careless, but, beyond that, he wasn’t overly concerned. He intended to visit Takashi later that day, and then he would make absolutely sure that he was clean before he returned to Sakura.

Milton turned back and approached the restaurant. A laminated menu had been placed on a wooden pedestal, and a decorative wooden sign, complete with characters that Milton did not understand, had been placed on a seat in front of it. A series of paper panels, each bearing Japanese script, had been hung in the window, and the door, when he checked, was open.