Small talk with a man as ruthless and dangerous as Furokawa was not pleasant. Miyasato knew that he was making a point: I know everything about you and your family.

“He did,” Miyasato said.

“How old is he?”

“Five. He’s five.”

Furokawa put his chopsticks together and rested them in the empty bowl.

“What does he like?”

Miyasato started to sweat. “Sorry?”

“What does he like to play with?”

“Godzilla. Power Rangers. Wrestling.”

Furokawa smiled, his leathery skin crinkling at the corners of his thin, mean lips. He dispensed with the small talk now, revealing by doing so just how inconsequential he considered it.

“Do you have it?”

“Yes.” Miyasato indicated the bag. “I do. In here.”

“Was it easy?”

It had been easy—ridiculously so—but Miyasato did not think it was in his interest to say that. Furokawa was paying him well, and Miyasato knew there was value in his encouraging the misapprehension that the item he was so keen to have had been difficult to acquire. In reality, all Miyasato had had to do was wait for his father to go to sleep and then take the item from the wall in his apartment where it was displayed. It had taken less than a minute, and the fact was not lost on Miyasato that those sixty seconds would change his life beyond all recognition.

“Not easy,” he lied.

Of course, the fact that it had been easy to remove the item was neither here nor there. He was being well paid because of who he had stolen from. His father would not tolerate thievery, and his rage would not be tempered by the fact that the thief was his son. There would be a reckoning, and Miyasato had arranged to be remunerated well enough to avoid it. He didn’t just plan to take his family out of Tokyo; he planned for them to be out of the country entirely.

Furokawa leaned forward, his eyes gleaming. “Show me.”

Miyasato took the bag and set it on the table. He opened the zip and, with careful hands, withdrew the bundle from inside. He had wrapped the item in newspaper, but, before he could uncover it, Furokawa held up his hand and indicated that he wanted to do it himself.

“Do you know the story of Yoshida Shōin?” he asked as he peeled back one corner of the sheet.

“Not really.”