nasai, Yoshiro.”

“Good night to you, too, Don Nishikawa. When this is finished,

I’ll send you a postcard from New York.”

He got up and left the table.

Nishikawa spoke softly to his aide, without turning around.

“When this is finished, kill him.”

There was a soft knock at the door. Thinking it was room service,

Billy went to open it. It was not room service. It was a slim

Japanese man in his late forties with closely cropped,

salt-and-pepper hair and a deadpan expression on his face. He was

wearing a shabby dark suit that was several years out of fashion

and looked as if he’d slept in it. He looked at Billy and his eyes

widened slightly.

“Who the ‘ell are you?” said Billy.

“Lt. Fugisawa, Tokyo Police. ” He held up the little leather folder

holding his shield and ID.

Billy’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Somethin‘ wrong?”

“I’m looking for Mr. Michael Cornwall.”

“What for?”

“Do you mind if I come in?”

“Why?”

“I’d like to ask him a few questions, if I may.”

“Bout what?”

“May I come in?”

“Let the gentleman come in, Billy, ” Modred said from behind

him.

Billy hesitated a moment, then stood aside as Fugisawa entered.

Fugisawa smiled at Billy and said, “Thank you, ” thinking, this

one’s had run-ins with the law before. He could always tell. In this

case, it was particularly obvious, even if it wasn’t for the young

punk’s street-tough appearance. The moment he saw the shield, his

manner became instantly and aggressively defensive. Fugisawa

glanced at the other man inside the suite. Tall, well-muscled, blond,