The Fifth Profession (15 page)

“For the first time, Graham, you've pissed me off.”

“Obviously I didn't have to mention what I'd done. I wouldn't have risked your resentment unless I had a motive.”

Savage rose from the tub.

“Wait. I'll hand you your crutches.”

“Damn it, don't bother.” Savage gripped a railing. His skinny legs wobbled. Taking short, cautious steps, he crossed the deck to a chair next to Graham.

“Impressive. I didn't know you'd made so much progress.”

Savage glared at him.

“I mentioned your father because he pertains to your threat to retire. Nineteen sixty-one. Cuba.”

“So what?”

“The Bay of Pigs disaster.”

“So
what?”

“Your father, working for the CIA, was one of its organizers. But the Kennedy administration had nervous second thoughts. They changed the plan. The invasion—mired in a swamp—became a catastrophe. The White House couldn't acknowledge its mistakes. Someone had to be blamed. A CIA official. A ‘fall guy’ so loyal that he wouldn't object, that he wouldn't place blame where it really belonged.”

“My father.”

“Publicly, he was scorned. Privately, he received a bonus for resigning and accepting ridicule.”

“My wonderful father.” Savage's voice thickened. “How he loved his country. How he honored his obligations. I was only a kid. I didn't understand why he suddenly stayed at home. He'd always been so busy. Away so much. On so many unexplained trips. Understand, when he
was
at home, he made up for his time away. Ball games. Movies. Pizza. He treated me royally. ‘I love your mother,’ he said, ‘but
you're
the pride of my life.’ Then everything changed. More and more, with nowhere to go and nothing to accomplish, all he did was drink beer and watch television. Then the beer became bourbon. Then he didn't watch television. Then he shot himself.”

“I apologize,” Graham said. “Those memories are painful. But I had no choice. I had to remind you.”

“Had to?
Graham, I'm more than pissed off. I'm starting to hate you.”

“I had a reason.”

“It better be fucking good.”

“Your father gave in to defeat. That's not a criticism. No doubt he weighed his options carefully. But despair insisted. In Japan, suicide is a noble solution to seemingly unendurable problems. But in America, it's considered shameful. I intend no disrespect. Still, years ago, when I learned about your background, I was troubled that your response to your father's suicide was eventually to join the most arduous branch of the U.S. military. The extremely demanding SEALs. I asked myself
why.
And I concluded … please forgive me … that you were trying to compensate for your father's failure to endure, for his acceptance of defeat.”

“I've heard enough.”

“No, you haven't. When I learned about your background, I asked myself, ‘Is this candidate, however talented, worthy of being a protector?’ And I concluded that your determination to succeed, to cancel your father's defeat, was the strongest motive I'd yet encountered. So I accepted you as a student. And now I say to you, recently I feared you'd follow your father's example and kill yourself because of
your
defeat. I urge you not to despair. Years ago, you told me, ‘There's so much pain in the world.’ Yes. So many victims. They need your help.”

“What happens if
I
need help?”

“I've given it to you. Next Saturday, I hope to find your attitude greatly improved.”

23

Savage worked even harder, not to alleviate his despair but to punish himself for the cause of his despair: his failure to protect Kamichi. As well, pain and exhaustion helped him to repress all thoughts about his father.

But I didn't join the SEALs and eventually become a protector to compensate for him, Savage thought. I did those things to test myself and make my father proud of me, even if he's dead. I wanted to show the bastards who pushed him into a corner that my father taught me character.

Or maybe that's the same as what Graham meant, that I'm trying to cancel my father's defeat. And like my father, I failed.

Sit-ups. Five to begin with. Then one more each day. The gymnast's rings above his bed had increased the strength in his arms, making it possible for him to do push-ups, again in gradually increased amounts. Using his crutches, he managed to walk down the grassy slope to Chesapeake Bay. The doctor stopped making visits. The nurse—no longer needed—left Savage in the care of his two guards.

By then, it was June, and every Saturday, Graham praised Savage's progress. He still made challenging remarks, but Savage had resolved to conceal his depression and give Graham the reassurances he needed to hear.

On the Fourth of July, Graham brought fireworks. At nightfall, teacher and student laughed, exploding bottlerockets, ladyfingers, and cannoncrackers. From far-off cottages, they saw the dazzle of pinwheels and sparklers. With a deafening
whump,
a skyrocket burst brilliantly over the Bay.

Graham restrained his laughter, popped open a fresh bottle of Dom Perignon, and sat on the lawn, ignoring the dew that soiled the pants of his suit. “I'm delighted.”

“Why?” Savage asked. “Because these fireworks weren't just a gift but a test?”

Graham frowned. “I don't know what you mean.”

“The fireworks sound like gunshots. You wanted to check my nerves.”

Graham laughed again. “I taught you well.”

“And
you're
still being manipulative.”

“What's the harm?”

“None. As long as we understand each other.”

“I had to make sure.”

“Of course. A teacher has to test his student. But you also tested our friendship.”

“Friends
always
test each other. They just don't admit it.”

“You needn't have bothered. Didn't my guards report to you that I've been practicing my marksmanship?”

“Yes. At a nearby shooting range.”

“Then you've also been told I'm almost as accurate as I used to be.”

“Almost?
Not good enough.”

“I'll get better.”

“Are you still worried that Kamichi's killers or Hailey's men might come after you?”

Savage shook his head. “They'd have attacked when I was helpless.”

“
If
they'd found you. Maybe they're still looking.”

Savage shrugged. “The point is, I've recovered enough to defend myself.”

“That remains to be seen. I'm flying to Europe tomorrow. Our weekly visits have to conclude for a time. And I'm afraid your guards are needed elsewhere. Specifically with me in Europe. You're on your own, I'm sorry to say.”

“I'll manage.”

“You'll have to.” Graham stood from the lawn and brushed his pants. “I hope you won't be lonely.”

“Exhaustion cancels loneliness. Besides, in summer the Chesapeake Bay's supposed to be so lovely it's all a person needs. I'm looking forward to it. Peace.”

“If everyone felt that way, I'd be out of business.”

“Peace. It's something to think about.”

“I warn you. Don't think too hard.”

24

By mid-July, Savage was able to walk ten miles every morning. By August, he could jog. He did a hundred sit-ups and push-ups. His muscles acquired their former lithe hardness. He swam in the Bay, fighting its currents. He bought a rowboat and stretched his arms and legs. Each evening, he perfected his marksmanship.

Only one thing remained—to reacquire his skills in the martial arts. Spiritual discipline became as important as physical strength. His initial sessions ended in disappointment. Shame and anger interfered with the clarity of his soul. Emotion was destructive, thoughts distracting. He had to compose his spirit and merge it with his body. Instinct, not intellect, would then propel him. In combat, to think was to die. To act reflexively was to survive.

He chopped the sides of his hands against concrete blocks to regain his calluses. By the third week of September, he was ready.

25

He was rowing along the Bay, luxuriating in his exertion, smelling a hint of rain from approaching gray clouds, when he noticed a speedboat bobbing a hundred yards away, two men watching him.

The following morning, as he ran through woods, he saw the same blue Pontiac he'd noticed the day before parked on a nearby country road, another two men watching him.

That evening, he kept to his regular routine, turned off the lights at ten-thirty …

And crept from the cottage.

Clouds obscured the sky. The absence of stars made the night unusually dark. Dressed in black, with camouflage grease on his hands and face, Savage crawled from the porch, past the hot tub, across the lawn, toward murky trees.

Concealed among bushes, he waited. Crickets screeched. Waves splashed onto the shore. A breeze scraped branches together.

One of the branches snapped. But not on a tree. On the ground. To Savage's left.

Bushes rustled. Out of rhythm with the gusts of the breeze. To the right.

Two men emerged from the trees. They joined two others who appeared past the cottage.

They opened the cottage's door.

Ten minutes later, three of the men came out and blended with the night and the trees.

Savage clutched his handgun and waited.

At dawn, a man in a three-piece suit came out, sat on a chair beside the hot tub, and lit a cigar.

Graham.

You bastard, Savage thought.

He rose from cover and approached the cottage.

“What a pleasant morning,” Graham said.

“You set me up.”

“Regrettably.”

“For Christ's sake, to find out if I spotted those jerks in the boat and the car?”

“I had to make sure you'd recovered.”

“They were
obvious
.”

“Only to someone with skill.”

“And you didn't think … ?”

“You'd retained your skill? I repeat I
had
to make sure.”

“Thanks for the confidence.”

“But do you
have
confidence? Are you ready for another assignment?”

THE STALKER

1

Savage struggled to control the yacht in the storm. The heavy rain, combined with the night, made it almost impossible for him to see the harbor's exit. Only periodic flashes of lightning guided him. Glancing urgently behind him, he frowned toward the gale-shrouded white buildings of Mykonos and the murky arc light at the end of the village's dock. The guards who'd chased him and Rachel from Papadropolis's estate continued to stare, helpless, enraged, toward the yacht escaping through the turbulent water, afraid of shooting lest they hit their master's wife.

Despite the gloomy distance, one guard in particular attracted Savage's full attention. Handsome, wiry, brown skinned, his eyes the saddest Savage had ever seen.
The Japanese.

“Savage?”
the man had shouted, racing to a halt at the end of the dock.

“Akira?”

Impossible!

The guards charged back along the dock. The Japanese lingered, glaring toward Savage, then rushed to follow the guards. Darkness enveloped them.

The yacht tilted, shoved by the wind. Waves spewed over the side.

Lying on the deck, Rachel peered up. “You
know
that man?” A flash of lightning revealed her bruised, swollen face. Her drenched jeans and sweater clung to her angular body.

Savage studied the yacht's illuminated controls. Thunder shook the overhang. He felt sick. But not because of the churning sea. Akira's image haunted him. “Know him? God help me, yes.”

“The wind! I can't hear you!”

“I saw him die six months ago!” A wave thrust his shout down his throat.

“I still can't—!” Rachel crawled toward him, grabbed the console, and struggled to stand. “It sounded like you said—!”

“I don't have time to explain!” Savage shivered, but not from the cold. “I'm not sure I
can
explain! Go below! Put on dry clothes!”

A huge wave smashed against the yacht, nearly toppling them.

“Secure every hatch down there! Make sure nothing's loose to fly around! Strap yourself into a chair!”

Another wave slammed the yacht.

“But what about
you?”

“I can't leave the bridge! Do what I say! Go below!”

He stared through the rain-swept window above the controls.

Straining for a glimpse of something, anything, he felt motion beside him, glanced to the right, and saw Rachel disappearing below.

Rain kept lashing the window. A fierce blaze of lightning suddenly revealed that he'd passed the harbor's exit. Ahead, all he saw was black, angry sea. Thunder rattled the window. Night abruptly cloaked him.

Port and starboard were meaningless bearings. Forward and aft had no significance in the rage of confusion around him. He felt totally disoriented.

Now
what? he thought.
Where
are you going? He checked the console but couldn't find the yacht's navigation charts. He didn't dare leave the controls to search for them and suddenly realized that even if he found them, he couldn't distract himself and study them.

With no other recourse, he had to depend on his research. The nearest island was Delos, he remembered: to the south, where he'd arranged for a helicopter to wait in case his primary evacuation plan had failed and he and Rachel needed an airlift from Mykonos.

Delos was close. Six miles. But the island was also small, only one and a half square miles. He might easily miss it and risk being swamped before he reached the next southern island twenty-five miles away. The alternative was to aim southwest toward an island flanking Delos. That island, Rhineia, was larger than Delos and only a quarter-mile farther. It seemed the wiser choice.

But if I miss it? Unless the weather improves, we'll sink and drown.

He studied the illuminated dial on the compass and swung the wheel, lighting waves, heading southwest through chaos.

The yacht tipped over a crest and plummeted toward a trough. The force of the impact nearly yanked Savage's hands from the wheel and threw him onto the deck. He resisted and straightened, at the same time seeing a light pierce the dark to his right.