Milton went back into their room. Katsuro had the tantō, and, with it, the last piece of leverage that Milton might have been able to wield. He collected his travelling bag from the wardrobe and left the room. He took the emergency stairs and hurried down to the basement. The stairs opened onto a short corridor, uncarpeted and with unfinished walls. There were doors leading off it on either side and, at the other end of the corridor, another door with a round glass window. Milton could see a kitchen filled with men in white tunics.

He found a staff bathroom and locked himself inside. He pulled the cord to switch on the light and examined himself in the mirror in greater detail. He had been bloodied and beaten. He ran the taps until the basin was full of cold water, and then dunked his face in it. He rubbed the water over his skin, then scrubbed his scalp. When he pulled back and looked down, he saw that the water had been dyed with the red of his blood. He took a towel and dried himself, then checked that his clothes would pass muster. Save for a couple of patches of sticky blood—not his, he thought—he was presentable enough.

He opened the door and went through into the kitchen, picking a route between the stainless-steel counters, the industrial ovens and a large hob, ignoring the startled looks from the staff and the occasional protest in Japanese. He arrived at the other end of the room and a door that, when he opened it, led to a sloping service alley that led up to street level.

Milton walked up it, checked left and right for signs of Katsuro or the police, and then melted into the early afternoon crowd.

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