Minister Takahashi was incensed. His dark rugged face had turned a crimson red and the veins in his neck pulsed like worms in a bait box. One of his key lieutenants, his wakagashira and second in command, had been murdered in a way that was so shameful that he was tempted to order the whole gang, who had been at the exclusive Cherry Blossom club in downtown Tokyo that night, to commit seppuku, the ritual slicing open of their own stomachs, instantly. But Nobu Takahashi was a patient man, a virtue that had seen him rise from the son of a lowly Kyoto shopkeeper to one of the most important men in Japan. He had ordered the gang, through his saiko-komon or personal adviser Hirayama, for the oyabun himself had minimal contact with the Yakuza, to leave no stone unturned to find the killer and bring him to a swift and bloody justice.

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