Takashi grabbed the empty leather briefcase that he kept next to his desk. He crossed the room to the safe that was hidden in the floor, beneath the Agra Jail rug that had cost him nearly a hundred thousand dollars. He yanked the rug away and spun the combination dial, lining up the wheels and their notches, and then slid the bolt and pulled the door up. He reached inside and started to withdraw the bundles of banknotes that he kept there for emergencies such as this. He lined the briefcase with a first course and then added a second on top. He lowered the lid and pressed down the clasps to secure it.

He went to the monitor and looked at the feeds from the security cameras on the ground floor. A steady stream of people, most of them still in their nightclothes, were emerging from the stairs next to the elevators. They hurried outside and milled around the building, no doubt wondering why there was no sign of the fire that had triggered the alarm. He could now see the red and blue lights of a fire engine. The precinct was at Shiori Park, just five minutes away, and the alarm reported to it directly.

It felt as if events had careened out of his control. He had very deliberately built himself a redoubt at the top of the building. It should have made him safe, yet this man—the gaijin, Milton—had trapped him. He was a prisoner in a gilded prison, waiting for the arrival of the executioner.

He went through into the main living space. Katsuro was speaking on his phone. He saw his father and ended the call.

“Tsukasa is downstairs. He’s resetting the elevators. They should be online again in a minute. He’ll come up when they are, and then we can ride straight down to the ground floor and go outside. It’s going to be fine, Otōsan. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

123

Fumio had explained that Sakura was being held in the apartment to the immediate left of the elevator shaft. Milton approached it and took out the key that the old man had given him. He inserted it into the keyhole, turned it—hearing the click as the lock disengaged—and then carefully pushed down on the handle. He readied himself, his right index finger laid across both shotgun triggers, and stepped inside.