The first time I saw Noriaki Imai was in a hotel room in Osaka in April when I switched on the television to watch the evening news. There, on top of the polished drinks cabinet where the television rested, were the fuzzy images of an 18-year-old Japanese boy cowering on the ground. Next to him were two equally terrified Japanese people, a young man and woman. All three were blindfolded. Behind them stood Iraqi militiamen, brandishing guns and knives. A message in Japanese moved slowly across the screen: unless Tokyo pulled its troops from Iraq within three days, Imai and the two other "children of Japan" would be burned alive.