They arrived at the lot on the western edge of Yoyogi Park. Hachirō parked side-on to the open ground, just as Milton instructed. A running track traced the perimeter of the park, and it ran between the trees and the open space that was being used by three old men who were performing impressive feats of callisthenics. Milton would have preferred that they were not there, but he doubted that they would offer a significant threat, and certainly not one that could not be cowed by his waving the pistol in front of them. He hoped it would not come to that, but was prepared to frighten them if that was what it took.

Milton checked his watch. It was just before six.

“Ready?”

Hachirō nodded. “How long until she’s here?”

“Should be twenty minutes.”

Natsuki Furokawa had followed the same pattern for the last six weeks: she started recording her run at five forty-five, heading west and entering the park; she ran around it twice, passing this spot for the first time at twenty minutes past six, give or take a minute or two either way.

“I’ll be here,” Hachirō said.

“Kill the engine for now,” Milton said. “Don’t attract attention.”

Hachirō nodded.

Milton got out of the van and walked into the park. He had visited the area the previous afternoon, after he had broached the plan with Hachirō. It was one of the largest open spaces in the city and had housed US troops during the American occupation of the city after the war. It was really two separate parks, split down the middle by a road. It had been busy during Milton’s reconnaissance, with fashionistas and hipsters from nearby Harajuku mixing with street performers, singers and dancers. There were far fewer people here now than yesterday: the three old men, a handful of dog walkers, the occasional jogger and cyclist.

Milton felt a moment of uncertainty. There were plenty of things that could go wrong with his plan. He patted the Glock in the inside pocket of his jacket; the pistol felt heavy and cumbersome. He had carried a weapon of some sort for most of his adult life, but this time it felt different. He was going to use it to frighten a young woman who had done nothing wrong and had attracted his attention for the sole reason that she was the sibling of a criminal.

Milton followed the path to the east. It was bounded to the left by a metal fence and, to the right, he saw rose, cherry and plum gardens. He was admiring the view to the striking red bridge that forded one side of a pond to the other when he saw a woman jogging in his direction. She was wearing a white tracksuit top and leggings and was listening to earbuds that led to a phone strapped around her upper arm. Her ponytail bounced left and right as she pounded along the trail.