The Fifth Profession (12 page)

Savage remained at the entrance to the parlor, too far away for him to hear the substance of what they said, only their muffled voices. He studied the walls to his right and left and saw an Italian escort at one, a Spanish escort at the other, both standing at attention, their backs to their principals, their attention directed toward the windows and porches that flanked the parlor. At the rear of the parlor, an American escort watched the windows that provided a view of the lake.

Professional.

Savage, too, turned his back and watched the hotel's deserted lobby, on guard against intruders. He assumed that the three men Kamichi spoke with had other escorts. Some perhaps patrolled the grounds while others slept as Akira now did, having stood watch outside Kamichi's room from two
A.M.
till dawn when Savage took his place.

The meeting began at eight-thirty. At times, the muffled voices were agitated. Then calm tones prevailed, only to be interrupted by impatient remarks and hasty reassurances. At eleven-thirty, the conversation reached a peak of intensity and concluded.

Kamichi stood and left the parlor, followed by the other men flanked by their escorts. The group looked so dissatisfied that Savage assumed they'd soon be leaving. He hid his surprise when Kamichi told him, “I must go to my room and change clothes now. At noon, my colleagues and I will play tennis.”

Akira was awake by then and took Savage's place as Kamichi and the Spaniard played doubles against the American and the Italian. The sky was clear, the temperature again sixty degrees. The energetic players soon toweled their sweaty faces.

Savage decided to stroll the grounds, in need of stretching his muscles. Besides, he was curious to learn if there were additional security arrangements.

He soon found out. When he reached a trail that led through leafless trees, past boulders, up a slope around the lake, he scanned a bluff and saw a man with a rifle and a walkie-talkie. The guard noticed Savage, seemed aware that he was on the team, and ignored him, returning his eyes to the road that led from the lowlands toward the hotel.

Savage continued along the upwardly winding path, reaching stretches of ice and snow among the woods, and stopped at the rim of a cliff that provided a stunning view of farmland in a valley surrounded by farther mountains. Wooden steps led partway down the cliff toward a ledge that a sign said was
ONLY FOR EXPERT CLIMBERS.

Turning to go back to the hotel, Savage noticed another man with a rifle and a walkie-talkie hidden among pine trees on the rim of the cliff. The man assessed Savage, nodded, and continued his surveillance.

The tennis game concluded when Savage reached the hotel. Victorious, Kamichi went to his room, bathed, and ate lunch while Savage stood guard in the hall and Akira shared his master's meal. At two, the meeting continued. At five, it broke up, the principals again dissatisfied, especially the American whose face was flushed with anger.

The group went to a massive dining room on the second floor, where they sat amid a hundred deserted tables and not only smoked but broke another rule by drinking cocktails. Their previous surliness changed to unexpected conviviality; laughter punctuated raucous remarks. After dinner and cognac, they strolled the grounds, exchanging jokes while their escorts followed. At eight, they returned to their rooms.

Savage stood watch till midnight. Akira took his place till dawn. At eight-thirty, another intense, angry meeting began, as if the fellowship of the night before had not occurred.

12

At the end of the third afternoon, the group stood from the conference table in the parlor, shook hands, and instead of going to the dining room, dispersed to their rooms. They all looked immensely pleased.

“Akira will pack my bags,” Kamichi said when he and Savage reached the third floor. “We leave tonight.”

“As you wish, Kamichi-san.”

A sound froze Savage's heart. The subtle squeak of a doorknob.

From the room across from Kamichi's, four men surged into the hallway. Muscular. Midthirties. Japanese. Wearing dark suits. Three of the men held swords, but the shafts were made of wood, not steel, the swords called
bokken.

Kamichi gasped.

Savage thrust him aside, yelling, “Run!”

Automatically Savage lunged to place himself between his principal and the attackers. There was absolutely no question that he, too, would run. He couldn't allow himself to fear for his own safety.

The nearest assailant swung his
bokken.

Savage parried with a kick and struck the assailant's wrist, deflecting the wooden sword. He spun, thrust with the side of his hand, and chopped toward the neck of another assailant.

He never connected.

A
bokken
whacked across his elbow. The numbing blow slammed his arm toward his side. Bone cracked. He groaned reflexively.

Though the arm was useless, he lunged again, dodging a
bokken,
chopping with his remaining good hand. This time he managed to break the bridge of an assailant's nose.

At once he felt someone who shouldn't be next to him.

Kamichi.

“No!” Savage shouted.

Kamichi kicked toward an assailant.

“Run!” Savage shouted.

A
bokken
whacked across Savage's other arm. Again he groaned as the blow snapped bone. Four seconds had elapsed.

A door slammed open, Akira darting from his room.

Wooden swords swirled.

Akira chopped and kicked.

A
bokken
walloped against Savage's rib cage. He doubled over, unable to breathe. Struggling to raise himself, he saw Akira knock an assailant off balance.

Kamichi screamed from a wooden sword's impact.

With both arms useless, Savage had to rely on kicks but managed only one.

It struck an assailant's groin. Another assailant whacked his
bokken
across Savage's right knee. That leg collapsed, but even while falling, Savage winced in agony from a blow to his
other
knee, then his
spine,
then the back of his skull.

Savage's face struck the floor, blood spurting from his nose.

Helpless, he squirmed. He strained to look up and, through pain-blurred eyes, saw Akira pivot with awesomely coordinated kicks and blows.

Only three of the four assailants had used a
bokken.
The fourth Japanese had remained behind them, his hands apparently free. But now, his movement too fast to be glimpsed, he reached toward his side and suddenly held a
katana,
the long curved sword of the samurai. Its polished steel glinted.

In Japanese, he barked an order. The three men scurried behind him. The fourth man swung his
katana.
Its razor-sharp blade hissed, struck Kamichi's waist, kept speeding as if through air, and sliced him in half. Kamichi's upper and lower torso fell in opposite directions.

Blood gushed. Severed organs spilled over the floor.

Akira wailed in outrage, rushing to chop the man's windpipe before the assassin could swing again.

Too late. The assassin reversed his aim, both hands gripping the
katana.

From Savage's agonized perspective on the floor, it seemed that Akira jumped backward in time to avoid the blade. But the swordsman didn't swing again. Instead he watched indifferently as Akira's head fell off his shoulders.

As blood gushed from Akira's severed neck.

As Akira's torso remained standing for three grotesque seconds before it toppled.

Akira's head hit the floor with the thunk of a pumpkin, rolled, and stopped in front of Savage. The head rested on its stump, its eyes on a level with Savage's.

The eyes were open.

They blinked.

Savage screamed, barely aware of the footsteps approaching him. At once he felt as if the back of his own head had been split apart.

His consciousness became red.

Then white.

Then nothing.

13

Savage's eyelids felt heavy, as if coins had been placed upon them. He struggled to force them open. It seemed the hardest thing he'd ever attempted. At last he managed to raise them. Light made him wince. He scrunched his eyes shut. Even then, the glare stabbed through his lids, and he wanted to lift a hand to shield them, but he couldn't move his arms. He felt as if anvils pressed upon them.

Not only his arms. His
legs.
He couldn't move them either!

He tried to think, to
understand,
but his mind was filled with swirling mist.

Helplessness made him panic. Terror scalded his stomach. Unable to move his body, he jerked his head from side to side, only to realize that something soft and thick encased his skull.

His terror worsened.

“No,” a voice said. “Keep still.” A man's voice.

Savage forced himself to reopen his eyes.

A shadow rose, blocking the stabbing light. A man, who'd been sitting in a chair, turned and twisted a rod that closed slats on a window.

The mist in Savage's mind began to clear. He realized he was on his back. In a bed. He strained to raise himself. Couldn't. Had trouble breathing.

“Please,” the man said. “Keep still.” He stepped toward the bed. “You've had an accident.”

Pulse hammering, Savage parted his lips, inhaling to speak. His throat felt filled with concrete. “Accident?” His voice was like gravel grating together.

“You don't remember?”

Savage shook his head and suddenly groaned from a searing pain.

“Please,” the man insisted. “Don't move your head. It's been injured.”

Savage's eyes widened.

“You mustn't upset yourself. The accident was serious. You seem to be out of danger, but I don't want to take any chances.” The man wore glasses. His coat was white. A stethoscope hung from his neck. “I know you're confused. That makes you frightened. To be expected, but try to control it. Short-term memory loss sometimes occurs after massive assaults to the body, especially to the skull.” He pressed the stethoscope to Savage's chest. “I'm Dr. Hamilton.”

What the doctor had said was too much, too fast, too complicated, for Savage to understand. He had to backtrack, to grasp the details of the simplest things first.

“Where?” Savage murmured.

The doctor's tone remained reassuring. “In a hospital. Accept your confusion. I know you're disoriented. That'll pass. Meanwhile it's imperative to your recovery that you try your best to stay calm.”

“Not what I meant.” Savage's lips felt numb. “Where?”

“I don't understand. Ah, of course. You mean
where
is the hospital located.”

“Yes.” Savage exhaled.

“Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. You were given emergency treatment a hundred miles north of here, but the local clinic didn't have the special equipment you needed, so one of our trauma teams rushed you here in a helicopter.”

“Yes.” Savage's eyelids fluttered. “Trauma.” The haze returned. “Helicopter.”

Blackness.

14

Pain awoke him. Every nerve in his body quivered with the greatest agony he'd ever known. Something tugged against his right hand. Savage darted his panicked eyes toward a nurse, who removed a hypodermic from a port in an IV tube attached to a vein on the back of his hand.

“A painkiller.” Dr. Hamilton appeared at the side of the bed. “Demerol.”

Savage flicked his eyes in acknowledgment, conscious enough to realize that a nod of his head would cause him more pain. But the pain had a compensation. It made him see with terrible clarity.

His bed had guardrails. To the right, a metal pole held an IV pump. The liquid in the tube was yellow.

“What is it?” Savage asked.

“Nourishment,” the doctor said. “After all, you've been here five days, and we couldn't feed you by mouth.”

“Five days?” Savage's mind reeled.

His pain-intensified consciousness made him aware of other things. Not only was his skull wrapped with bandages, but both of his legs and arms were in casts.

And the doctor—why did these details seem important?— was in his forties, blond, with freckles beneath his glasses.

“How bad?” Savage's face oozed sweat.

The doctor hesitated. “Both your arms and legs were broken in several places. That's why we put the IV into your hand. With the casts on your extremities, we couldn't reach veins in your arms.”

“The bandages around my head?”

“The back of your skull was fractured. On your right side, your fourth, fifth, and sixth ribs were fractured as well.”

Savage suddenly realized that layers of tightly wound tape constricted his chest. Now he understood why he had difficulty breathing, why he felt a lancing pain when he inhaled.

The Demerol began to work. His agony subsided.

But the drug dimmed his thoughts as well as his pain. No! He had too many questions!

He struggled to concentrate. “Is that the worst of my injuries?”

“Not quite, I'm afraid. Bruised kidneys. Ruptured appendix and spleen. Internal bleeding. We had to operate.”

Despite the increasing numbness caused by the Demerol, Savage realized something else: a catheter had been inserted up his penis into his bladder, draining urine to an unseen container that hung at the foot of the bed.

“The rest of your injuries, thank God, are minor—multiple superficial contusions,” the doctor said.

“In other words, I'm all fucked up.”

“Good. A sense of humor's a sign of healing.”

“I wish I could say it only hurts when I try to laugh.” Savage struggled to clear his thoughts. “An accident?”

“You still don't remember?” The doctor frowned.

“It's like trying to see through a fog. Some time ago … Yes. I remember I was in the Bahamas.”

“When?” the doctor asked quickly. “Do you recall what month?”

Savage strained to focus his mind. “Early April.”

“Approximately two weeks ago. Can you tell me your name?”

Savage almost panicked again. What name was he using? “Roger Forsyth.”
Had he guessed correctly?

“The name on the driver's license we found in your wallet. And your address?”

Savage's thoughts focused. He gave the address on the driver's license, a farmhouse outside Alexandria, Virginia. Graham owned it under a pseudonym, allowing Savage and various other protectors to claim it as a residence.