Keeping watch for more lookouts, Sano crossed the open space outside the worship hall. He tiptoed up the steps. The other men joined him on the veranda. He cracked open the heavy carved door and peered inside.

In the hall’s vast interior, lanterns hung from the coffered ceiling. Their smoky golden light gleamed upon red-lacquered pillars, statues of scowling guardian deities, and brilliantly colored murals depicting a Chinese paradise of castles, lakes, and forests. Candles burned on the altar, where a many-armed Buddha sat enthroned amid gilt flames and sacred lotus. Twelve samurai, whom Sano recognized as Deshima guards, were prying the lids off four crates. The ten commoners had shed their hats and cloaks, revealing shaven heads, tattooed arms and legs: gangsters.

Nirin lifted items out of the crates for their inspection. “Spices. Silks. Medicines.”

Sano didn’t believe that Nirin, despite his air of authority, led the smuggling ring. He could see two men facing away from the door and partially hidden by the statue of an armored warrior. One wore the black hat of the Dutch, the other an ordinary Japanese wicker hat. Turn around, Sano urged silently. He knew the barbarian was Dr. Huygens; he just knew it. But who was the other man? Abbot Liu Yun?

Out of a niche in the hall moved a slight figure dressed in saffron robe and brocade stole. Hands tucked inside his flowing sleeves, Liu Yun silently watched the Dutchman.

Maybe the Japanese was Urabe, whom Hirata had linked with gangsters. Or Governor Nagai, not trusting his subordinates with the sale of the loot? But the barbarian’s presence clued Sano to the man’s identity.

“All right, we’ve seen enough,” the lead gangster told Nirin. To his men, he said, “Close up those crates.” Then he untied a bulky cloth pouch from his sash and offered it to Nirin.

“Pay the boss,” Nirin said, pointing.

The Dutchman rose and walked around the crates. It was Assistant Director deGraeff. Sano felt a melting sensation of relief—his trust in the doctor hadn’t been a mistake after all—and guilt, for wrongly suspecting his friend. Then the Japanese followed, and Sano’s guess was confirmed.

Clutching a portable writing desk, the man jittered with nervous excitement; his toothy grin flashed. It was Interpreter Iishino, who spoke Dutch and whose presence was therefore required for negotiations with barbarians. The “boss”; leader of the smuggling ring.

“I’ll take that,” Iishino said. He put down the desk, a flat rectangular box with a hinged, sloping lid. Then he cupped his hands, gloating as the gangster poured gold coins into them. “Thank you, thank you.” Kneeling, he counted the money into stacks on the floor. The gangsters repacked merchandise in the crates. Abbot Liu Yun, de Graeff, and the other Japanese lined up in front of Iishino.