He opened his eyes and turned to look at her. He remembered her question: would he stay? His reply at the time had been genuine—he hadn’t decided—but he was leaning toward remaining in Tokyo for a little while longer. He told himself that he was only considering that so that he could be sure that Takashi would be true to his word, that Sakura and Yamato would be safe, but he wasn’t fooled. He found, to his surprise, that he did not want to leave and it was all because of her. For the first time in as long as he could remember, the idea of staying in one place—of adopting something approaching a mundane life—was appealing to him. He had always told himself that he did not deserve happiness, and that he was not entitled to put someone else at risk for the sake of his own happiness. That had been his bulwark against self-indulgence, his motive for running from all of the women who had drawn close to him since he had fled London.

He felt now that the bulwark had been weakened.

Milton slipped from the bed, careful not to disturb Sakura, and went into the bathroom. He went through his ablutions as quietly as he could and returned to the living area to collect his clothes from where they had been abandoned the previous evening.

“John?”

It was mumbled, thick with sleep.

“Come back to bed.”

He went to her and crouched down so that he could kiss her behind the ear. “I’ve got things to do.”

She smiled sleepily at him, turned over, and fell back into sleep. Milton pulled on his shoes and jacket and reached into his pocket. The sobriety chip was there and he ran his finger around it again, feeling the raised edge, taking a moment to reflect on what he had achieved in the eight years that had passed since he had taken his last drink. Progress. He could admit that to himself now. He was a different man now, changed from the implacable killer of before. He still had his demons and knew that they remained close at hand and ready to slip their leashes if he let them, but he had balance, too. He looked at Sakura.

Maybe, he thought.

Maybe.

92

Hachirō was waiting outside the hotel, as they had arranged. He was sitting in the driver’s seat of a battered old delivery van across the road from the entrance. The van was a little the worse for wear, but the rear windows were blacked out and the engine was running. Milton couldn’t have cared less about the condition that it was in; he would be satisfied as long as it was reliable and offered a little discretion.

Hachirō reached across the cab to open the door.

“It sticks from the outside,” he said.

Milton climbed inside. “Good morning.”

“Morning.”

They pulled away.

“Did you get it?”