Takashi gently lowered himself into his padded chair. He had been fortunate to have escaped the gaijin after he had assaulted the tower in Tokyo. He had been shielded from the worst of the shotgun blast by the closing elevator doors, but there had still been enough of a gap for him to have been peppered across the left-hand side of his body. Wakabayashi had intervened before the paramedics could take him to a public hospital, taking him instead to a private physician upon whose discretion Takashi knew that he could depend. Most of the lead shot was close to the surface of his skin, and the doctor had spent a painful hour removing it with a pair of tweezers. Shinoda and Kodama had joined them and, once Takashi had been patched up and the doctor paid, the three guards had driven him out of the city.

He had spoken with his bought-off contacts in the Tokyo Prefectural Police and they had confirmed to him what he had already suspected: Fumio, Tsukasa and Katsuro were all dead. Fumio had been found in his apartment, a single gunshot wound in the centre of his forehead. Tsukasa and Katsuro were found near to the elevator on the twelfth floor, both suffering significant injury from close-range shotgun blasts.

Takashi felt no sadness for the death of his son. It had been different with Miyasato—he had mourned him for weeks—but Katsuro was a dull-witted imbecile and Takashi had already concluded that he was a lost cause. But, while there might not have been much in the way of sadness, there certainly was anger. Takashi was very interested in finding John Milton. He had instructed his police contacts that the gaijin was to be located and had promised to reward the man or woman who delivered him.

Takashi sipped his coffee and gazed out at the pink blossoms that transformed the flanks of the great mountain to the south. He had been here for two weeks and planned to stay for another few days before returning to the city. This was not such a bad place to relax while the security at the tower block was reviewed. There was a pagoda between the villa and the lake, and it looked as if it were floating amid a sea of blossoms.

Takashi was enjoying the vista when he became aware of someone approaching him from behind.

He turned, expecting to see one of the guards, but, instead, he saw his brother.

“Hachirō?”

He was dressed in a simple leather jacket, black denim and a pair of black sneakers. He had a woollen hat on his head and was carrying a small pistol in his right hand.

“What are you doing here?”

Takashi tried to maintain his composure as he flicked his eyes left and right, looking for the men who were supposed to protect him.

“They’re not coming,” Hachirō said.

He raised the pistol.