The Fifth Profession (10 page)

4

A dingy drizzle fell from a soot-colored sky. It sprayed off the greasy tarmac, forming a dirty mist that beaded against the dusty windows of LaGuardia Airport.

Savage sat in a crowded American Airlines concourse and watched a DC-10 approach an arrival dock. He periodically scanned the confusion of activity around him, on guard for potential danger, sensing none. Of course, an enemy skilled in surveillance would not allow himself to attract attention, so Savage remained alert.

“What's the principal's name?” he'd asked Graham.

“Muto Kamichi.”

The Japanese put their family name first, their given name last. The formal term of respect—
san
instead of “mister” —applied not to the family name but to the given name and came after the given name. Thus the principal would be addressed as Kamichi-san.

“He arrives in New York tomorrow,” Graham had added, “after going through Immigration and Customs in Dallas.”

“The purpose of his visit?” Graham had shrugged.

“Come on. Is he a businessman? A politician? What?” Graham shook his head.
“Ura.
Those private thoughts you so rightly noted the Japanese cherish. The principal prefers to keep his intentions to himself.”

Savage breathed out sharply. “That's exactly why I'm reluctant to take the job. If I don't know at least the general reason for his visit, how am I supposed to assess the risks he might face? A politician has to fear assassination, but a businessman's biggest worry is being kidnapped. Each risk requires a different defense.”

“Of course. But I've been assured that the threat potential is extremely low,” Graham said. “The principal is bringing his own security.
One
escort. Clearly if he were worried, he'd bring others. What he wants you to do is be his driver and stand in for his escort when the escort's sleeping. A simple assignment. Five days’ work. Ten thousand dollars in addition to my agent's fee.”

“For a driver? He's overpaying.”

“He insists on the best.”

“The escort?”

“His name is Akira.”

“Only one word?”

“He follows the practice I recommended to you and uses a pseudonym, so an enemy can't trace his public name to his private identity.”

“That's fine. But is he effective?”

“From all reports, extremely. Equivalent to you. Language won't be a problem, by the way. Both of them speak English fluently.”

Savage was only partially reassured. “Is it too much to hope that the principal's willing to confide in me enough to tell me beforehand
where
I'll be driving?”

“He's not unreasonable. And indeed you will be driving some distance.” Graham looked amused. “He's authorized me to give you this sealed envelope of instructions.”

5

The DC-10 reached the concourse. Its engines stopped shrieking. Friends and relatives hurried toward the arrival door, eager to meet their loved ones.

Savage assessed and dismissed them, studying observers on the sidelines.

Still no sign of a threat.

He moved toward the fringe of the waiting crowd. As usual, it took a frustrating minute for the docking to be completed. At once the empty ramp was filled with surging passengers.

Exuberant hugs of reunion. Kisses of affection.

Savage once again studied his surroundings. Everything seemed normal. He directed his attention toward the exit ramp.

Now came the test. His principal and his escort had flown first class. The extra fare meant not only bigger seats, anxious-to-please attendants, better meals, and unlimited free cocktails (which the escort should decline), but the privilege of entering and leaving the jet before the standard-fare customers.

Early boarding was a plus. Getting quickly through a possible danger in the crowd. But exiting early,
facing
a crowd and its unstudied risks, was a liability. A professional escort would insist that his principal wait until most passengers left the plane.

Avoid commotion. Maintain maximum order.

So Savage felt encouraged when he saw no Orientals among the Rolex-and-gold-bracelet, dressed-to-impress, first-class travelers, who marched past the crowd, their power briefcases clutched severely, their chins thrust high. Many wore expensive cowboy boots and Stetsons, to be expected since this DC-10 came from Dallas where an earlier 747 from Japan had landed. Evidently the Japanese passengers on the trans-Pacific 747 had either stayed in Dallas or taken connecting flights to cities other than New York.

Savage waited.

More Caucasians. More exuberant reunions.

The surge of passengers became a trickle.

An American Airlines attendant pushed an aged woman in a wheelchair through the arrival door. In theory the DC-10 was empty.

In theory.

Savage glanced behind him. The waiting crowd had dispersed. At the same time, another crowd—impatient—had boarded several departing planes.

This section of the concourse was almost empty. An airport custodian emptied ashtrays. A young couple looked dejected because they'd been too low on a waiting list for openings due to canceled reservations.

No threat.

Savage turned again toward the exit door.

A Japanese man appeared, dressed in dark slacks, a dark turtleneck sweater, a dark windbreaker.

Midthirties. Trim but not slight. No suggestion of muscles, but a
definite
suggestion of strength. Wiry. Supple. His movements smooth. Graceful. Controlled. Economical. No needless gesture. Like a dancer—who knew martial arts, for the tips and the sides of his hands had calluses typical of someone with karate training. Equally telling, his hands were unencumbered. No briefcase. No carry-on bag. Just a handsome Japanese, five feet ten inches tall, with brown skin, short black hair, strong jaw and cheekbones that framed his rectangular face, and laserlike eyes that assessed every aspect of what he approached.

This would be Akira, and Savage was impressed. On equal terms, an enemy would be foolish to confront this man. Even on terms to the enemy's advantage. Savage was so accustomed to dealing with inferior protectors that he almost smiled at the thought of working with an expert.

Behind Akira, another Japanese emerged from the ramp. Late fifties. Slightly stooped. Carrying a briefcase. Blue suit. Protruding stomach. Streaks of gray in his black hair. Sagging brown cheeks. A weary executive.

But Savage wasn't fooled. The second Japanese could probably straighten his shoulders and tuck in his stomach at will. This man would be Muto Kamichi, Savage's principal, and evidently he too had martial arts training, for like Akira (but unlike any other principal Savage had ever worked for), the tips and sides of Kamichi's hands had calluses.

Savage had been instructed to wear a brown suit and paisley tie to identify him. As Kamichi and Akira approached, he didn't offer to shake hands. The gesture would have compromised his ability to defend. Instead he chose the Japanese custom and bowed slightly.

The two Japanese maintained impassive expressions, but their eyes flickered with surprise that this Westerner was familiar with Japanese etiquette. Savage hadn't intended to obligate them. Still, he suddenly realized that the dictates of their culture forced them to respond, though their bows were less than Savage's, Akira's just a bob of the head as he continued to survey the concourse.

Savage gestured politely for them to follow. Proceeding down the concourse, he watched travelers ahead while Kamichi stayed behind him, and Akira followed, no doubt glancing frequently around.

The moment Savage had seen his principal, he'd raised his right hand to the outside of his suitcoat pocket and pressed a button on a battery-powered transmitter. A radio signal had been sent to a receiver in a vehicle that one of Savage's associates had parked in the airport's ramp. As soon as the associate heard the beep, he'd drive from the ramp to rendezvous with Savage.

The group reached the end of the concourse and descended stairs toward the commotion of the baggage area. Weary ex-passengers hefted suitcases off a conveyor belt, impatient to get outside and into taxis.

Savage assessed the harried crowd but didn't go near its risky confusion. Instead he gestured again, this time toward a sliding door. Kamichi and Akira went with him, unconcerned about their luggage.

Good, Savage thought. His initial impression had been accurate. These two understood correct procedure.

They emerged on a busy sidewalk beneath a concrete canopy. Beyond, the drizzle persisted. The temperature, high for April, was sixty degrees. A moist breeze felt tepid.

Savage glanced to the left toward approaching traffic, reassured to see a dark blue Plymouth sedan veering toward the curb. A red-haired man got out, came quickly around to the curb, and opened the rear passenger door. Just before Kamichi got in, he handed the red-haired man several luggage receipts. Savage approved that the principal was experienced enough to perform this menial service rather than requiring Akira to relax surveillance by reaching into his windbreaker pocket to get the receipts.

Savage slid behind the steering wheel, pressed a button that locked all the doors, then fastened his seat belt. Meanwhile the red-haired man went for the luggage. Because Kamichi and Akira had taken a prudent length of time to get off the plane, their suitcases would almost certainly be on the conveyor belt by now. A safe, efficient arrival.

One minute later, the red-haired man finished placing three suitcases in the Plymouth's trunk and shut the lid. Instantly Savage drove from the curb, checking his rearview mirror, noticing his associate walk toward a taxi. Savage had paid him earlier. The man would take for granted that Savage couldn't permit distraction by saying “thanks.”

Savage himself took for granted that since the two Japanese had behaved so knowledgeably about security, they understood why he'd chosen a car that wasn't ostentatious and wouldn't be easy to follow. Not that Savage expected to be followed. As Graham had said, the risk level on this assignment was low. Nonetheless Savage never varied his basic procedure, and the Plymouth—seemingly no different from others—had modifications: bulletproof glass, armor paneling, reinforced suspension, and a supercharged V-8 engine.

As windshield wipers flapped and tires hissed along the wet pavement, Savage steered smoothly through traffic, left the airport complex, and headed west on the Grand Central Parkway. The envelope Graham had given him was in his suitcoat, but he didn't refer to its contents, having memorized his instructions. He couldn't help wondering why Kamichi had rejected Newark's airport in favor of LaGuardia. The drive would have been shorter, less complicated, because although Savage's immediate route was toward Manhattan, his ultimate destination forced him across the northern tip of the island, then west through New Jersey into Pennsylvania. Kamichi's logic, the purpose of the mazelike itinerary, eluded him.

6

At five, the drizzle stopped. Amid the congestion of rush hour traffic, Savage crossed the George Washington Bridge. He asked his principal if he'd care to enjoy some sake, which having been heated was in a thermos, the temperature not ideal but acceptable.

Kamichi declined.

Savage explained that the Plymouth was equipped with a telephone, if Kamichi-san required it.

Again Kamichi declined.

That was the extent of the conversation.

Until twenty miles west on Interstate 80, where Kamichi and Akira exchanged remarks. In Japanese.

Savage was competent in several European languages, a necessity of his work, but Japanese was too difficult for him, its complex system of suffixes and prefixes bewildering. Because Kamichi spoke English, Savage wondered why his principal had chosen to exclude him from this conversation. How could he do his job when he couldn't understand what the man he'd pledged to protect was saying?

Akira leaned forward. “At the next exit, you'll see a restaurant-hotel complex. I believe you call it a Howard Johnson's. Please stop to the left of the swimming pool.”

Savage frowned for two reasons. First, Akira had remarkably specific knowledge of the road ahead. Second, Akira's English diction was perfect. The Japanese language made no distinction between
r
and
J.
Akira, though, didn't say “prease” and “Howald Johnson's.” His accent was flawless.

Savage nodded, obeying instructions, steering off the highway. To the left of the swimming pool, where a sign said CLOSED, a balding man in a jogging suit appeared from behind a maintenance building, considered the two Japanese in the Plymouth's rear seat, and held up a briefcase.

The briefcase—metal, with a combination lock—was identical to the briefcase that Kamichi had carried from the plane.

“Please,” Akira said, “take my master's briefcase, leave the car, and exchange one briefcase for the other.”

Savage did what he was told.

Back in the car, he gave the look-alike briefcase to his employer.

“My master thanks you,” Akira said.

Savage bowed his head, puzzled by the exchange of briefcases. “It's my purpose to serve.
Arigato.”

“ ‘Thank you’ in response to his ‘thank you’? My master commends your politeness.”

7

Returning to Interstate 80, Savage checked his rearview mirror to see if he was being followed. The vehicles behind him kept shifting position. Good.

It was dark when he crossed the mountain-flanked border from New Jersey into Pennsylvania. Headlights approaching in the opposite lanes allowed him to study the image of his passengers in his rearview mirror.

The gray-haired principal seemed asleep, his slack-jawed face tilted back, his eyes closed, or perhaps he was meditating.

But Akira sat ramrod straight, on guard. Like his master, his face did not reveal his thoughts. His features were stoic, impassive.

Akira's
eyes,
though, expressed the greatest sadness Savage had ever seen. To someone familiar with Japanese culture, Savage's conclusion might have seemed naive, for the Japanese by nature tended toward melancholy, Savage knew. Stern obligations imposed on them by complex traditional values made the Japanese watchful and reserved, lest they unwittingly insult someone or place themselves in another's debt. In premodern times, he'd read, a Japanese would hesitate to tell a passerby that he'd dropped his wallet—because the passerby would then feel honorbound to supply a reward much greater than the value of the contents of the wallet. Similarly Savage had read ancient accounts in which someone who'd fallen from a boat and thrashed in a river, in danger of drowning, had been ignored by people on shore—because to rescue the victim would be to inflict upon that victim an obligation to repay the rescuer again and again and
again,
forever in this ephemeral earthly existence, until the rescued victim was granted the gift of rescuing the rescuer or else had the privileged release from obligation by dying as the gods had intended at the river before the rescuer intervened.