“Don’t worry about me,” he said.

“I’m not leaving you here on your own.”

“You have Yamato to think about. I’ll be fine. I’ll see you later. Now—go.”

He started to climb before she could protest.

124

Takashi emptied the small document safe in the study, removing the bonds that he had purchased over the course of the years, another hundred million yen that he was not prepared to leave behind. He put the bonds into his briefcase and wondered what he should do. Milton was just one man; surely it wouldn’t be beyond Katsuro and the others to take care of him? Nevertheless, he was clearly resourceful—he had demonstrated that by retrieving the tantō from Furokawa—and it seemed prudent to relocate until he was out of the way. Takashi was irritated with himself for his weakness—if this was twenty years ago, he would have taken down one of his swords and gone after the gaijin himself—but he was older now, and with age came greater caution.

He opened the desk drawer and fumbled for the Type 94 Nambu pistol that his father had used in the war. He had a small box of 8x22mm cartridges and he thumbed eight of them into the magazine. Takashi shoved the pistol into his dressing gown pocket, collected the briefcase and went through into the living space.

Katsuro was pushing the button for the elevator.

“It’s still not working?”

Katsuro shook his head.

“What are they doing down there?”

“It won’t be long,” Katsuro said. “Are you armed?”

Takashi pulled out the pistol and held it up.

“That’s it?”

“I have the guards. I have you. I shouldn’t need anything else. Where is your weapon?”

“I lost it at the hotel. The gaijin…”

Takashi sighed in resignation. Katsuro frowned angrily, then put the unspoken criticism aside and looked around the room. His eyes settled on Takashi’s collection of swords. He went over to them. “Can I use one of these?”

Takashi was tempted to tell him that they were too precious, but this was an emergency. And, after all, he reminded himself, they were weapons of war. They were meant to be used.

Katsuro reached for the tantō that he had retrieved.

“No,” Takashi said. “Not that. Too small.” He pointed. “The Kamakura.”

The katana was a curved, single-edged blade with a circular guard and a long grip. The blade was eighty centimetres long from the guard to the tip. The sword was seven hundred years old and had cost a small fortune to acquire. Katsuro took it down and held it in both hands.

His phone buzzed again. He switched the katana to his right hand, answered the call, shared a brief conversation, and then put the phone back into his pocket.

“That was Tsukasa. The elevators are fixed. He’s coming up.”