Read The Fifth Profession Online
Authors: David Morrell
The
comitatus.
The forty-seven
ronin.
Savage and Akira. Codes and obligations. Honor and loyalty. To protect and if duty compelled, to avenge—even at the risk of death. The fifth and most noble profession.
RETURN OF THE DEAD
1
Obeying professional habits, Savage directed the elevator toward the floor below the one he wanted. Of course, an uninvited visitor would have had to stop the elevator at the second-highest floor, no matter what. A computer-coded card, slipped into a slot on the elevator's control panel, was required to command the elevator to rise to the topmost level. Savage had been given such a card but declined to use it. On principle, he hated elevators. Their confinement was dangerous. He never knew what he might find when the doors slid open. Not that he expected trouble on this occasion, but if he made one exception in his customary methods, he'd eventually make others, and when trouble did come along, he wouldn't be primed to respond.
Besides, on this warm afternoon in Athens in September, he was curious about the security arrangements of the person he'd agreed to meet. Although he was used to dealing with the rich and powerful, they were mostly in politics or industry. It wasn't every day he met someone not only associated with both arenas but who'd also been a movie legend.
Savage stepped to one side when the elevator stopped and the doors thunked open. Sensing, judging, he peered out, saw no one, relaxed, and proceeded toward a door whose Greek sign indicated
FIRE EXIT
. In keeping with that sign, the door's handle moved freely.
Cautious, Savage entered and found himself in a stairwell. His crepe-soled shoes muffled his footsteps on the concrete landing. The twenty-seven lower levels were silent. He turned toward a door on his right, gripped its knob, but couldn't budge it. Good. The door was locked, as it should be. On the opposite side, a push bar would no doubt give access to this stairwell—in case of emergency. But on
this
side, unauthorized visitors were prevented from going higher. Savage slid two thin metal prongs into the receptacle for the key—one prong for applying leverage, the other for aligning the slots that would free the bolt. After seven seconds, he opened the door, troubled that the lock was so simple. It should have taken him twice as long to pick it.
He crept through, eased the door shut behind him, and warily studied the steps leading upward. There weren't any closed-circuit cameras. The lights were dim, giving him protective shadow while he climbed toward a landing, then turned toward the continuation of the steps. He didn't see a guard. At the top, he frowned when he tried the door—it wasn't locked. Worse, when he opened it, he still didn't see a guard.
On nearly soundless carpeting, he proceeded along a corridor. Glancing at numbers on doors, he followed their diminishing sequence toward the number he'd been given. Just before he reached an intersecting corridor, his nostrils felt pinched by tobacco smoke. With the elevators to his right, he turned left into the corridor and saw them.
Three men were bunched together in front of a door at the far end of the corridor. The first had his hands in his pockets. The second inhaled from a cigarette. The third sipped a cup of coffee.
Amateur hour, Savage thought.
Never compromise your hands.
When the guards noticed Savage, they came to awkward attention. They were built like football players, their suits too tight for their bullish necks and chests. They'd be intimidating to a nonprofessional, but their bulk made them too conspicuous to blend with a crowd, and they looked too muscle-bound to be able to respond instantaneously to a crisis.
Savage slackened his strong features, making them non-threatening. Six feet tall, he slouched his wiry frame so he looked a few inches shorter. As he walked along the corridor, he pretended to be impressed by the guards, who braced their backs in arrogant triumph.
They made a show of examining his ID, which was fake, the name he was using this month. They searched him but didn't use a hand-held metal detector and hence didn't find the small knife beneath his lapel.
“Yeah, you're expected,” the first man said. “Why didn't you use the elevator?”
“The computer card didn't work.” Savage handed it over. “I had to stop on the floor below and take the stairs.”
“But the stairwell doors are locked,” the second man said.
“Someone from the hotel must have left them open.”
“Whoever forgot to lock them, his ass is grass,” the third man said.
“I know what you mean. I can't stand carelessness.”
They nodded, squinted, flexed their shoulders, and escorted him into the suite.
No, Savage thought. The rule is, you never abandon your post.
2
The suite had a sizable living room, tastefully furnished. But what Savage noticed, disapproving, was the wall directly across from him, its thick draperies parted to reveal an enormous floor-to-ceiling window and a spectacular view of the Parthenon on the Acropolis. Though Athens was usually smoggy, a breeze had cleared the air, making the pillared ruins brilliant in the afternoon sun. Savage allowed himself to admire the view but only from where he'd paused just inside the room, for he hated huge windows whose draperies were open: they gave an enemy an unnecessary advantage, inviting easy invasion with telescopes, microwave-beamed listening probes, and most crucial, sniper bullets.
The potential client he'd been summoned to meet wasn't present, so Savage assessed a door on the wall to his left. A closet perhaps, or a washroom or a bedroom. He directed his attention toward a muffled female voice behind a door on the wall to his right, and
that
door he was sure led to a bedroom. Because he didn't hear a responding voice, he assumed that the woman was using a telephone. She sounded insistent, as if she wouldn't conclude for quite a while.
With disciplined patience, Savage glanced farther right toward the wall beside the door through which he'd entered. He recognized two Monets and three Van Goghs.
His burly escorts looked bored when they realized that their employer wasn't present. No brownie points for them, no audience with their client, no compliments for supposedly doing their job. Disappointed, two of them shuffled their feet, adjusted their ties, and went back to their stations in the hall, no doubt to drink more coffee and smoke more cigarettes. The third closed the door and leaned against it, crossing his arms, trying to look diligent, though the pressure with which he squeezed his chest made it seem that he suffered from heartburn.
As air-conditioning whispered, Savage turned from the paintings toward a glass-enclosed display of Chinese vases.
The remaining bodyguard straightened.
The door on the right swung open.
A woman, a legend, stepped out of a bedroom.
3
Her official biography put her age at forty-five. Nonetheless she looked astonishingly the same as when she'd last appeared in a film a decade earlier. Tall, thin, angular.
Intense blue eyes. An exquisite oval face, its sensuous curves framed by shoulder-length, sun-bleached hair. Smooth, tanned skin. A photographer's dream.
Ten years ago, at a press conference in Los Angeles after she'd won her best actress Academy Award, she'd surprised the world by announcing her retirement. Her marriage one month later—to the monarch of a small but wealthy island-kingdom off the French Riviera—had been equally surprising. When her husband's health had declined, she'd taken over his business affairs, doubling the tourism and casinos that accounted for his island's wealth.
She ruled as she had acted, with what film reviewers had called a style of “fire and ice.” Intense yet controlled. Passionate but in charge. In her love scenes, she'd always played the dominant role. The sequence in which she finally seduced the charismatic jewel thief whose attentions she'd persistently discouraged remained a classic depiction of sexual tension. She knew what she wanted, but she took it only when her desires didn't put her at risk, and her pleasure seemed based on giving more than she took, on condescending to grant the jewel thief a night he'd never forget.
So, too, her island subjects courted her attention. In response, she waved but kept a distance until at unexpected moments her generosity—to the sick, the homeless, the bereaved—was overwhelming. It seemed that compassion to her was a weakness, a fire that threatened to melt her icy control. But when politically advantageous, emotion could be permitted, indeed allowed in excessive amounts. As long as it didn't jeopardize her. As long as it made her subjects love her.
She smiled, approaching Savage. Radiant. A movie in real life. For his part, Savage admired her artful entrance, knowing that she knew exactly the impression she created.
She was dressed in black handcrafted sandals, burgundy pleated slacks, a robin's-egg-colored silk blouse (its three top buttons open to reveal the tan on the top of her breasts, its light blue no doubt chosen to emphasize the deeper blue of her eyes), a Cartier watch, and a diamond pendant with matching earrings (their glint further emphasizing her eyes as well as her sun-bleached hair).
She paused before Savage, then studied the remaining bodyguard, her gaze dismissive. “Thank you.”
The burly man left, reluctant not to hear the conversation.
“I apologize for keeping you waiting,” she said, stepping nearer, permitting Savage to inhale her subtle perfume. Her voice was husky, her handshake firm.
“Five minutes? No need to apologize.” Savage shrugged. “In my profession, I'm used to waiting a great deal longer. Besides, I had time to admire your collection.” He gestured toward the glass-enclosed display of vases. “At least, I assume it's your collection. I doubt any hotel, even the Georges Roi II, provides its clients with priceless artworks.”
“I take them with me when I travel. A touch of home. Do you appreciate Chinese ceramics?”
“Appreciate? Yes, though I don't know anything about them. However, I do enjoy beauty, Your Highness. Including—if you'll forgive the compliment—yourself. It's an honor to meet you.”
“As royalty, or because I'm a former film personality?”
“Former
actress.
”
A flick of the eyes, a nod of the head. “You're very kind. Perhaps you'd feel more comfortable if we dispensed with formalities. Please call me by my former name. Joyce Stone.”
Savage imitated her gracious nod. “Miss Stone.”
“Your eyes are green.”
“That's not so remarkable,” Savage said.
“On the contrary.
Quite
remarkable. A chameleon's color. Your eyes blend with your clothes. Gray jacket. Blue shirt. An inattentive observer would describe your eyes as—”
“Grayish blue but not green. You're perceptive.”
“And
you
understand the tricks of light. You're adaptable.”
“It's useful in my work.” Savage turned toward the paintings. “Superb. If I'm not mistaken, the Van Gogh
Cypresses
were recently purchased at a Sotheby auction. An unknown buyer paid an impressive amount.”
“Do you recall how much?”
“Fifteen million dollars.”
“And now you know the mysterious buyer.”
“Miss Stone, I deal with privileged information. I'd be out of business tomorrow if I didn't keep a secret. Your remarks to me are confession. I'm like a priest.”
“Confession? I hope that doesn't mean I can't offer you a drink.”
“As long as I'm not working for you.”
“But I assumed that's why you're here.”
“To discuss your problem,” Savage said. “I haven't been hired yet.”
“With your credentials? I've already decided to hire you.”
“Forgive me, Miss Stone, but I accepted your invitation to find out if I wanted
you
to hire
me.
”
The sensuous woman studied him. “My, my.” Her intense gaze persisted. “People are usually eager to work for me.”
“I meant no offense.”
“Of course not.” She stepped toward a sofa.
“But if you wouldn't mind, Miss Stone.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“I'd prefer that you used this chair over here. That sofa's too close to the window.”
“Window?”
“Or else let me close the draperies.”
“Ah, yes, now I understand.” She sounded amused. “Since I enjoy the sunlight, I'll sit where you suggest. Tell me, are you always this protective of people you haven't decided to work for?”
“A force of habit.”
“An
intriguing
habit, Mr. … I'm afraid I've forgotten your name.”
Savage doubted that. She seemed the type who remembered everything. “It doesn't matter. The name I provided isn't mine. I normally use a pseudonym.”
“Then how should I introduce you?”
“You don't. If we reach an agreement, never draw attention to me.”
“In public. But what if I have to summon you in private?”
“Savage.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“A nickname. The way I'm identified in my business.”
“And did you acquire it when you were in the SEALs?” Savage hid his surprise.
“Your former unit's name is an acronym, correct? Sea, air, and land. The U.S. Navy commandos.”
Savage subdued an impulse to frown.
“I told you I found your credentials impressive,” she said. “Your use of pseudonyms makes clear you cherish your privacy. But with persistence, I did learn several details about your background. In case I alarm you, let me emphasize that nothing I was told in any way jeopardized your anonymity. Still, rumors travel. The help you gave a certain member of the British Parliament—against IRA terrorists, I believe—is widely respected. He asked me to thank you again for saving his life. An Italian financier is similarly grateful for your skillful return of his kidnapped son. A West German industrialist feels that his corporation would have gone bankrupt if you hadn't discovered the rival who was stealing his formulas.”
Savage kept silent.
“No need to be modest,” she said.
“Nor should you. Your sources are excellent.”
“One of the many advantages to marrying royalty. The gratitude of the Italian financier was especially compelling. So I asked him how I might get in touch with you. He gave me the telephone number of—I suppose, in my former life, I'd have used the term—your agent.”