“Fumio,” he said, “please take Milton-san to see Yamato.”

He turned his back on Milton and walked over to the window. Far in the distance, low clouds were obscuring the top of Mount Fuji. He didn’t look back until he heard the click of the apartment door closing. He turned and walked into the living room, examining the empty brackets on the wall where the tantō had once been displayed. He reached up and ran his finger across the bracket, then looked at the thin film of dust that had stuck to his skin. It would be good to have the blade again; if the gaijin could deliver it, perhaps he would meet his demand.

Perhaps.

87

Milton followed Fumio out of the apartment and into the lobby. This time, they took the stairs rather than the elevator. Milton paid attention as they descended; the door that opened onto the floor below was locked. Fumio pressed his key card against a reader until it was recognised and the lock opened.

The eleventh floor was equally opulent. The stairs opened out onto the lobby, with the two elevators directly opposite. The carpets were thick and the walls decorated with marble and classical art that was obviously expensive. Four doors opened out from the lobby, each, Milton assumed, accessing one of the four apartments that had originally been built here; he guessed that they had been remodelled for another purpose, perhaps as bedrooms.

Fumio turned right and approached one of the doors. He rapped his hand on it and, after a moment, Milton heard a woman calling out in Japanese. Fumio replied in kind and, a few seconds later, the door swung open. A small elderly woman stood behind it. Fumio said something to her and Milton watched her eyes flash at him, full of distrust.

“Follow me,” Fumio said.

Milton looked around the rooms beyond the door, committing the layout to memory: a bathroom to the left and a small kitchen to the right, a short corridor and then a large bedroom. The bedroom was beautifully appointed. There was a double bed piled high with plush cushions, a bookcase that was filled with books, and several wicker baskets of toys. The framed posters on the wall celebrated Japanese history: there were images of the first shoguns, an armoured samurai posing with a katana held above his head, and—in an inclusion that Milton suspected was a concession to the room’s young inhabitant—a classic film poster for Ishirō Honda’s Godzilla. The space was large—perhaps thirty-five square metres—with a series of windows that offered spectacular views of the city outside. A child was sitting next to the baskets of toys. Sakura had shown Milton a picture, and he recognised her son. Yamato was engrossed in a battle between two Transformers.

“There,” Fumio said. “The boy.”