The Fifth Profession

Rachel squirmed. “Speak English!”

  “Wooden swords,” Akira said. “They broke my arms and legs, my ribs, my spleen, my appendix, and my skull. It took me six months to recover.”

  “And the same thing happened to me,” Savage said. “So we're back to where we started. Either both of us are crazy. Or you've been lying. Or …”

  “You've been lying,” Akira said. “I know what I saw. How did you survive?”

  Savage realized that behind the melancholy in Akira's eyes, there lurked a desperate confusion.

  “All right,” Savage said. “I'll agree with you. Let's assume we saw each other die. But it's impossible.” Desperately he reassessed the explanations. “If we're not crazy … and if no one's lying …”

  “Yes?” Akira leaned forward.

  “Your mind's as logical as mine. There is a third option.”

  “The unknown.” Akira nodded. “And since you're alive and I'm alive …”

  “When you shouldn't be.”

  “Nor should you.”

  Savage's mind swirled. “What the hell happened?”

  “I suggest we help each other find out.”

  10

  “The lights behind us don't seem as close,” Rachel said.

  Savage looked. The pursuing helicopter veered and descended toward an island on the right. “It must be almost out of fuel.”

  “Thank God. At least that's one less thing to worry about.” Rachel closed her eyes, exhausted.

  “What about our own fuel?” Akira asked.

  Savage checked the gauge. “A quarter full.”

  Rachel's eyes snapped open. “Enough to reach the mainland?”

  “Yes. If we follow this course.”

  “If? Why wouldn't we stay on course?”

  “What Savage means is that we have to take for granted the pilot who was chasing us radioed ahead for other helicopters to intercept us,” Akira said. “They'll know which direction we're coming from. If we stay on this route, they'll find us.”

  “So we go where we're not expected.” Savage changed course from northwest to west. “Eventually we'll head north.”

  “But this way, it's farther to Athens. We'll use more fuel,” Rachel said.

  “And at maximum speed, the engine can't burn it efficiently. I need to go slower to conserve it,” Savage said.

  “Does that mean we'll still have enough to get there?”

  Savage didn't answer.

  “… Oh, shit,” Rachel said.

  11

  The engine sputtered, the gauge disturbingly near empty, when Savage finally reached the mainland. In predawn twilight, he touched down on an isolated clearing, where the chopper that had waited on Delos would have landed if Savage had used it for the escape. He ran with Rachel and Akira toward shadowy bushes at the edge of the clearing. For a nervous instant, he feared that Akira would draw his weapon and confess he'd lied to gain Savage's trust, but Akira kept his hands at his sides and in fact seemed concerned that Savage might draw his own gun.

  “There's a dirt road beyond these bushes,” Savage said. “A hundred yards to the left, we'll reach a barn.”

  “Which contains a car?”

  Savage nodded, starting to run.

  “But what if we couldn't reach here?”

  “I arranged for two other landing sites. I also had a choice of ports if we came by boat. You know the rule. If something can go wrong, it will go wrong. Arrange for as many backup plans as possible.”

  “Whoever trained you did it thoroughly.”

  They reached the road and rushed to the left.

  “Of course, the authorities will find the helicopter,” Akira said. “If Papadropolis decides to report it stolen, a lab crew will dust for fingerprints.”

  “Are yours on file?”

  “I've never been fingerprinted.”

  “I have,” Savage said.

  “Then Papadropolis will use his power to identify your prints. He'll send men to kill you for taking his wife.”

  “I wiped what I'd touched before I left the chopper. Still, Papadropolis knows your name.”

  “Not correct. All he knows is my pseudonym.”

  “Yes, that's one of the first things my trainer taught me,” Savage said. “Be anonymous. Prevent an angry opponent from coming after you.”

  “A wise instructor.”

  “He can also be a bastard.”

  “All wise instructors are.”

  “I …” Rachel's chest heaved, her breathing strident. “I can't keep up with …”

  Both men turned and grabbed Rachel's arms. Carrying her between them, they rushed toward a barn that the gray light of dawn silhouetted. A dark Fiat waited. Five minutes later, they drove along the road, Rachel on the front seat between them.

  Steering, Savage felt her sweat-soaked clothes next to him. “The worst is over. You're safe now. Go to sleep. You'll soon have hot food, fresh clothes, and a very soft bed. I tested it myself.”

  “What I want”—Rachel sighed—”is a bath.’

  “I figured,” Savage said. “It's been arranged. And lots of warm water.”

  “Hot water.”

  “You sound like a Japanese.” Akira watched the gray sky become brilliantly blue in the fullness of dawn. “Where are we going?”

  “A farm to the east of Athens.” Savage's eyes burned from exhaustion. “I rented an abandoned house. ‘I'm a writer,’ I told the owner. ‘I need privacy. I'm doing research for a new biography of Aristotle.’”

  “And what did the owner say?”

  “He thought I meant Aristotle Onassis. He made me promise to tell him all the dirt about Ari and Jackie.”

  “Did you?”

  “According to me, Ari rivaled the pope for holiness. The farmer's eyes glazed over. ‘You professors,’ he said and took my money. He thinks I'm a fool. He won't come to visit.”

  Akira chuckled. Rachel snored.

  12

  They hid the car behind the farmhouse. Grapevines crowded the sunlit fields. Though the house looked dilapidated, its interior was clean and comfortably furnished. Several days earlier, Savage had supervised the arrangements.

  En route, Savage and Akira had persistently discussed their nightmare, but once at the farmhouse, Rachel became their priority. What did she want? they asked. Food? More sleep? The bath, she insisted. Savage had made sure the house would have electricity. The water heater was set on high. She stayed in the bathroom an hour, and when she came out, wearing a St. Laurent dress that Rachel's sister had chosen for her, she looked beautiful despite the bruises on her face.

  Akira frowned at the sight of them. “In the helicopter, I thought your face was merely covered with dirt from two nights and a day of running. I had no idea that what looked like dirt was actually … I knew your husband abused you but … What kind of monster would … ?”

  Rachel raised a hand to conceal the worst bruises.

  “I apologize,” Akira said. “I meant to be sympathetic, not to make you self-conscious. Please remember, the bruises are temporary.”

  “Those on my body, you mean,” Rachel said.

  “But no one can bruise your soul.”

  Rachel lowered her hand and smiled. “Thank you. I needed reminding.”

  Savage couldn't help being impressed. Her eyes, so splendidly blue, accentuated by the burgundy of her cotton dress, glowed with strength and dignity. She'd combed her wet auburn hair behind her ears, emphasizing the elegance of her jaw and cheekbones, which had started to be prominent now that the swelling from her bruises had begun to recede.

  “No, even if your husband had killed you, he wouldn't have harmed your soul,” Akira said. “I believe in Shinto.”

  Rachel shook her head.

  “It's the oldest Japanese religion.”

  “I still don't … I've never been religious.”

  “According to Shinto, when we die, our souls merge with the world around us. Life doesn't end. It only changes. It becomes absorbed. But it still has i
dentity. It accepts. It goes with the flow. Your husband couldn't have defeated your soul, because it's invulnerable. It would have another life.”

  “This life is what I'm concerned about,” Rachel said.

  “By all means.” Akira shrugged. “Shinto doesn't insist that you give up a present form of existence you prefer.”

  “And in this life, I need food.”

  “We've got it cooking,” Savage said. “Lamb stew.”

  “ Sounds delicious.”

  It was.

  But midway through the meal, Savage turned to Akira. “Tell me once more.”

  “I've told you five times.”

  “Make it six. Both of us died, but neither did. And every time I look at you, I shiver. I'm seeing a …”

  “Kami.”

  “What?”

  “A ghost. All right, I've been straining to understand. With no success. So if you want to hear yet again …”

  “In more detail. There's always something more. You just haven't thought of it yet.”

  “Very well. I was hired by …”

  Muto Kamichi.

  Savage listened intensely as Akira described the man.

  Late fifties. Slightly stooped. Protruding stomach. Streaks of gray in his black hair. Sagging brown cheeks.

  “That's exactly how I remember him,” Savage said. “Where did he hire you?”

  “Tokyo.”

  “What was his occupation?”

  “I don't know.”

  “You must have had some idea. Describe his office.”

  “I already told you, we met in neutral territory. A park.”

  “Yes,” Savage said, “and then his limousine picked both of you up.”

  “Correct.”

  “Describe the driver.”

  “A trim man who did his job well. The clouded-glass partition was closed. I didn't get a close look.”

  “Could Kamichi have been a politician?”

  “Perhaps, though he might have been a businessman. My main impression was he looked weary.”

  “A weary executive. That was my impression,” Savage said. “But ‘executive’ can mean many things. Tell me about his hands.”

  “The tips of his fingers had calluses. So did the sides of his palms.”

  “Like yours and mine. From karate training.”

  “That was my conclusion,” Akira said. “But in Japan, where martial arts are traditional, many executives practice them.”

  “What was your assignment?”

  “To accompany Kamichi-san to America. He was scheduled to attend a conference, he said. He expected no danger, but he felt it prudent to have an escort.”

  “That troubles me. Since he had a chauffeur, he must have had other men on his staff who could act as guards.”

  “He explained that,” Akira said. “He wanted a protector who was used to American customs.”

  “You've worked for Americans?”

  “I've worked for many nationalities. But my fluency in English makes me a favorite of wealthy Americans who come to Japan. And for wealthy Japanese who travel to America.”

  “Did he tell you he planned to hire an American escort as well?”

  “Yes. I saw no problem. I needed someone to substitute for me while I ate and slept, and it's practical to have an associate who's a citizen of the country I'm working in,” Akira said.

  “So you flew from Tokyo to … ?”

  “Dallas.”

  “Did anything happen there?”

  “My master spoke with other Japanese who'd been on the plane. Then he met with several Americans.”

  “The meeting was in the airport?”

  “And brief. I didn't hear what they discussed. We proceeded to New York.”

  “Where we met,” Savage said. “Then we drove for an hour and stopped.”

  “My master said you'd been given instructions. In Japanese, he told me to add refinements you did not know.”

  “We stopped at a Howard Johnson's. Briefcases …”

  “Were exchanged. That surprised me.”

  “I felt the same. Then we reached …”

  “After many hours and in the dark, a most unusual building that resembled several buildings, some made of brick, others of stone, others of wood. They varied in height: five stories, three, four. Each had a different style: a town house, a pagoda, a castle, a chalet. Some had straight walls. Others were rounded. Chimneys, turrets, gables, and balconies added to the”—Akira hesitated—”architectural confusion.”

  “Yes. Confusion.”

  “I was worried about security in such an unprotected setting.”

  “No, I was nervous, but you said not to concern myself, that precautions had been taken.”

  Akira shook his head. “I was merely repeating my master's reassurances. I knew nothing about the arrangements.”

  “There were guards on the bluffs. And the three other principals at the conference each had two escorts, the same as Kamichi.”

  “What nationality were the other principals?” Akira asked.

  “American, Spanish, and Italian.”

  Rachel set down her spoon. “I don't know anything about your business.”

  Savage and Akira looked at her.

  “I'm just a civilian, and maybe I ought to keep quiet, but while I listened, one thing occurred to me.”

  “Oh?” Savage waited.

  “It's probably not important, but …”

  “Tell us,” Akira said.

  “Well, how did Kamichi get in touch with you?”

  Akira looked puzzled.

  “The two of you seem obsessed about being anonymous. I doubt very much that you advertise.”

  Savage laughed. “Certainly not.”

  “Then how did you and Akira get chosen for the job?”

  Akira shrugged. “Standard procedure. My agent found the job.”

  “Same with me,” Savage said. “That detail's not important. “

  “Five minutes ago, you insisted everything's important.”

  “She's right,” Akira said. “We have to consider everything.”

  “But my agent knows nothing about Kamichi,” Savage said. “He couldn't even tell me if I'd be protecting a businessman or a politician. Kamichi simply contacted him with an offer to pay an escort well for five days’ work.”

  “My agent knew nothing about him either,” Akira said, then turned to Rachel, explaining, “A businessman requires different security techniques than a politician because they usually face different threats—abduction versus assassination. I remember feeling frustrated by the lack of information.”

  “Well, since you keep asking each other to repeat what happened,” Rachel said, “why not ask your agents, too? Maybe they'll remember something that didn't seem relevant before.”

  Savage raised his eyebrows.

  “I suppose,” Akira said.

  “Why not? It's worth a try. We're not solving anything on our own.”

  Savage suddenly looked discouraged. “But your agent's in Japan and mine's in America, and we can't talk about this on a long-distance line.”

  “So we travel,” Akira said. “But only half the distance you think. I don't need to go to Japan. When I work in America, I use an American agent.”

  “What's his name?”

  Akira hesitated, frowning at Rachel, as if debating how much to reveal before an outsider. He stiffened, apparently compelled by his urgent need for answers. “Graham Barker-Smythe.”

  “Jesus.”

  13

  Savage stood so abruptly his chair fell, clattering. “That's the name of mine. The son of a bitch.”

  “Graham's your agent?” The shock on Savage's face made Akira surge to his feet as well. “There's some mistake. I said ‘an American.’ He's actually—”

  “English. Close to sixty. Overweight. Bald. Smokes cigars. Always wears three-piece suits.”

  “And only the best,” Akira said. “Loves champagne and caviar.”

  “Be
luga and Dom Pérignon. That's Graham. The bastard.”

  Rachel jerked her hands up. “Would somebody please … ? Both of you used the same agent, and neither of you realized?”

  “We couldn't have,” Savage said. “The profession is secretive by definition. The work we do makes us a target.”

  “We guarantee loyalty to our masters,” Akira said. “Never to betray a confidence. Never to reveal indiscretions. But we can't always depend on our masters being loyal to us, so we hide our identities, in case our masters decide to come after us to insure our silence. Or in case our masters’ enemies decide to punish us.”

  “You talk like you live in another century,” Rachel said.

  “If you understand that, then you understand everything,” Akira said. “How I wish. If I could be alive three hundred years ago.”

  Savage stared toward Akira in puzzlement and abruptly swung his gaze toward Rachel. “The point is, we have to be paranoid. Not just for our clients. But for ourselves. A protector trusts his agent completely. Because the agent's the common link among the enemy, the client, the assignment, and—”

  “You, the protector,” Rachel said, then turned to Akira. “And you. So Graham, as the agent, also has to be paranoid.”

  “And totally reliable. He must never betray his client's confidence,” Savage said.

  “Or betray the anonymity of the protectors he represents?” Rachel asked.

  “Exactly. That's why Savage and I would never have known we had the same agent. If Graham had told me the name of another protector he represented, I'd have instantly distrusted him and looked for another agent.”

  Savage rounded the table. “So was Graham being ethical by refusing to tell us we had common nightmares?”

  “You spent six months recovering. So did I. Did he visit you?”

  “Every Saturday,” Savage said. “On Chesapeake Bay.”

  “He came to me every Thursday. At Martha's Vineyard.”

  “And all the time, he knew I thought you'd been killed.”

  “As I thought you'd been killed.”

  “This isn't an agent being justifiably paranoid. He should have told us!”

  “You think he was part of it?”

  “It sure as hell seems that way,” Savage said.

  Akira's face hardened.

  Rachel gripped their hands. “Not to seem nervous, friends, but …”

  “We won't catch the next plane to the States and leave you, if that's what you're afraid of,” Savage said. “You're still our priority.”