Milton gazed up at the building. “You think he’ll be inside?”

“He never leaves. You heard what Fumio said—he hasn’t stepped foot outside for months.”

“You’re sure you’re okay to wait?”

“I will be here.”

“I don’t know how long I’ll need.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Milton nodded his acknowledgement and reached for the door handle. Hachirō put out a hand and grasped him on the shoulder.

“Thank you,” he said. “I don’t blame you for what happened. It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t have to help her, and you did. You don’t have to do this, either, and you are.”

“I do. I’m not leaving her up there. Or Yamato, either.”

Hachirō released his shoulder. Milton took the bag and opened the door.

“You have a message for your brother? Anything you’d like me to say?”

“Tell him to go to hell.”

Milton pushed the door open and stepped down. “I’ll see you when I’m done.”

* * *

Milton put the motorcycle helmet onto his head and lowered the visor. He hoisted the delivery bag with the sawn-off and slung it across his shoulder. He didn’t look much like a delivery driver, but he wasn’t planning on getting to the top floor through subterfuge; he just needed a little leeway when he arrived, and he hoped that his appearance might be enough.

He made his way across the road and approached the entrance to the building. There were two men sitting on the kerb outside the doors, drinking from bottles of spirits and speaking in slurred Japanese. One of them pointed at Milton and the other looked, then called out; Milton took a diversion to avoid them and then turned into the lobby.

He opened the door and quickly reconnoitred the interior. It was much as it had been before, but, thanks to the late hour, there were fewer people. There were no occupants passing into or out of the building. The concierge at the desk was absent, but there were two guards standing by it and, as he approached, Milton recognised them from the metro station: the inept tails he had identified and disabled. They had suffered a run of bad luck; their unfortunate streak was going to continue.

Milton had observed the security from his previous visit, and had noticed that the guards had not concerned themselves with anyone unless they tried to use the restricted elevator. That made sense; the building must have accommodated several hundred Tokyoites, and it would be impractical to check identification for all of them and their guests. The man nearest the desk called out to Milton; Milton responded with “Haitatsu,” the word that Hachirō had suggested would be understood to mean delivery. He held up the bag to underline his point, and the guard waved him toward the elevator with a grunt of assent.