The Fifth Profession (42 page)

Though he tried to hide it, the distress in his voice made members of the tour group turn and frown at him. A fiftyish woman with blue-tinted hair told him, “Shush.” The Japanese guide hesitated, peering back toward the distraction.

Savage murmured apologies, guiding Rachel around the group, walking anxiously toward the looming shrine. “False memory,
yes,”
he told Rachel. “But that doesn't change the fact that it's in my head. It feels real to me. Akira and I both remember Kamichi having a conference with three men. One looked Italian, the other Spanish, or maybe Mexican or … The third, though, was American! And I saw him just now behind us on the path!”

“But the conference never happened.”

“I saw him one other time.”

“What?”

“At the hospital. While I convalesced.”

“In
Harrisburg?
But you were never
in
a hospital in Harrisburg. How can you recognize a man you never met?”

“How could Akira and I recognize Kunio Shirai, the man we knew as Kamichi?”

“You never met Kamichi either.”

Savage flooded with terror. He needed all his discipline, the effects of all his years of training and hardship under fire, to keep from panicking. Reality—the shrine before him— seemed to waver. False memory insisted that it alone was true. If what I remember isn't true, Savage thought, how can I be sure that
this
is?

They entered the shrine. In a glimmering corridor that stretched to the right and left, Savage saw burnished doors emblazened with golden suns. Equipped with hinges in the middle, the doors had been folded open, revealing the precinct of what looked like a temple. Railings prevented him from going farther.

“This way,” Savage said, urging Rachel to the left, disrupting the concentration of Japanese who gazed toward the shrine's interior in reverence of solemn artifacts that symbolized their noble heritage prior to the U.S. occupation, prior to the Second World War.

Judging the corridor ahead, Savage jerked his eyes furtively to the left, through a doorway that led outside. The five Americans, led by the distinguished-looking, expensively dressed man he remembered from the Mountain Retreat and the Harrisburg hospital, hurried with strained long strides across the crowded courtyard, nearing the shrine. The only reason they didn't break into a run, Savage guessed, was that they knew their skin had attracted too much attention to them already. A commotion here would provoke a rapid police response.

The jasmine-scented corridor veered to the right. Struggling to avoid further groups of meditating Japanese, Savage and Rachel zigzagged, turned sideways, twisted, and veered, desperate to reach an exit on the left.

They burst from the shrine into blinding sunlight, faced another wide courtyard, heard indignant Japanese voices behind them, American voices apologizing, and started to run.

“I'm certain,” Savage said. Past the courtyard, another path—lined with trees—beckoned. “The well-dressed man, the one with the mustache, who seems to be their leader? Midfifties? Sandy hair? Eyes like a politician?”

“Yes, from a door in the shrine I got a look at him,” Rachel said, racing.

“In my memory of the Harrisburg hospital, he came to visit me. He said his name was …”

Words that were never spoken made Savage shiver.

Philip Hailey. “As useful a name as any other. Anonymous. Waspishly American.”

“Kamichi and Akira. What happened to their bodies?”

“They were hurried away.”

“The police?”

“Weren't informed.”

”…So much blood.

“That corridor of the hotel has now been remodeled.”

“Who killed them, damn it, and why?”

“The motive for the murders relates to the conference, but the purpose of the conference is not your business. We expect to identify whoever was responsible. Consider the topic closed. My purpose in coming here was to express our sympathy for your suffering and to assure you that everything possible is being done to avenge the atrocity.”

“In other words, stay out of it.”

“Do you have any choice? Think of this money as compensation. We've also paid for your hospital bills. Incentives. Demonstrations of our good faith. In return, we count on your good faith. Don't disappoint us.”

And good old Phil hadn't needed to add,
“If you don't cooperate, if you don't keep away from our affairs, we'll mix your ashes with Kamichi's and Akira's.”

Spurred by fear, Savage raced harder. Japanese pilgrims darted to the side, glaring in outrage at this violation of the shrine's peaceful atmosphere. Rachel's low-heeled shoes rapped on the concrete courtyard.

The tree-lined path seemed to widen as Savage charged toward it. Ten yards. Five. Sweating, he surged into its funnel, hearing Rachel exhale beside him.

He also heard shouts. With a frantic glance backward, he saw the five men led by Philip Hailey lunging out of the temple and across the courtyard.

“Forsyth!” Hailey yelled. “Stop!”

Forsyth? Savage tensed with shocked recognition. Forsyth was the alias I used in the hospital!
Roger
Forsyth! But I was never
in
that hospital! I never
met
Philip Hailey! So how could he know—?

“Damn it, Forsyth, stop!”

Again the objects before him seemed to shimmer, as if the path, the trees and bushes along it, weren't
real.
But the urgent footfalls of the men in the courtyard sounded
very
real.

Savage strained to run faster. “Rachel, are you okay? Can you keep up?”

“These shoes”—she breathed—”weren't built for a marathon.” She kicked off the shoes and sprinted next to him, her long strides billowing her loose cotton skirt.

“Forsyth!” Hailey yelled.
“Doyle!
For God's sake, stop!”

Doyle?
In Virginia Beach, that's what Mac said my name was! Savage thought.
Robert Doyle!
And that's who the bartender told the police killed Mac!

Ahead, the path curved toward the right, but just before the curve, another path intersected with it.

Savage slowed. He couldn't know what lay beyond the curve. Perhaps a barrier. Staring desperately to the right, he saw that the intersecting path formed a straight line for quite a distance. It was almost deserted. We'll be in the open— easy targets. He spun toward the left and saw that
this
side of the intersecting path had several tangents along the way.

Tugging Rachel's hand, he sprinted toward the left as Hailey and his men rushed closer.

“Doyle!”

Savage almost drew the Beretta from beneath his jacket. But so far Hailey and his men hadn't shown any weapons. Despite their evident determination to stop Savage from continuing to search for answers—had
they
been responsible for the attack on Akira's home last night?—they weren't foolish enough to start shooting and cause the Japanese pilgrims to panic and the shrine's attendants to alert the authorities. Hailey and his men have to kill us in private, quietly, or they'll never get out of the park before the police block off the exits, Savage thought. If there's shooting, every Caucasian in the area, even blocks away, will be questioned.

Racing past bushes, Savage saw another path to his right and twenty yards farther, one on his left. But the path to his left would lead back toward the shrine. For a startling instant, Savage was reminded of the maze in Mykonos through which he and Rachel had fled her husband's men.

A labyrinth. Assessing the path to his right, he saw that it too had many tangents. Thick shrubs and trees flanked them. “Come on!” he told Rachel, veering right.

“Doyle!”

Another intersection. Which way? Savage wondered. To the right—other paths. Straight ahead—a sharp angle that also led right. To the left—nothing. Dead end. A barrier of trees and bushes.

Can't get trapped, Savage thought and almost charged straight ahead before he realized that Hailey would think as he did. Have to keep moving. Can't get cornered.

But why should the trees and bushes be a trap?

Abruptly Savage corrected his direction and dodged to the left, pulling Rachel with him. The path was short. The dead end threatened. Spotting a gap between shrubs, Savage gripped Rachel and urged her through it, stooping, squirming after her. He squeezed past trees, crawled under branches, struggled up a slope, snaked around boulders, and crouched in a thicket, his shoes sinking into a deep, moist, unpleasant mulch. Bushes surrounded them. The park was a perfect blend of artifice and chaos, the meticulously tended paths in contrast with the formlessness of nature. A wilderness in downtown Tokyo.

Canopied by leaves, tickled by ferns, Savage inhaled the mulch's loamy fragrance and drew his Beretta. Rachel's breasts heaved, sweat trickling off her forehead, her eyes wide with apprehension. He motioned for her not to speak. She nodded rapidly, emphatically. Ready with the pistol, he stared down the slope, the woods so thick he couldn't see the path.

The cloying leaves buffered sound. Hurried footsteps, urgent breathing, frustrated curses, seemed to come from far away.

But Savage's hunters couldn't have been more than twenty yards below.

“Which fucking—”

“—way. How do I know where they—”

“—must have gone—”

“—over here. No—”

“—there. They wouldn't—”

“—choose a trap. This other path—”

“—heads toward that
other
path which—”

“—heads toward the western exit. Damn it, give me the radio. Christ.” The labored voice belonged to Hailey, Savage realized. But with frightening clarity, he remembered the voice not from the shouts that had chased him out of the shrine, instead from the cultivated, threatening, oh-so-confident, imperious aristocrat who'd tried to bribe him in the hospital and implied a death sentence if Savage didn't back off.

False memory. Yes! But it made no difference. I didn't back off, you son of a bitch, Savage thought. And if it's death you want to talk about—Savage clutched the Beretta —let's debate.

Below him, past the dense tangle of trees and shrubs, he heard Hailey say, “Beta, this is Alpha!” Hailey evidently spoke to the radio he'd told one of his men to give him. “We've lost them! Instruct all units! Block all exits from the park!”

In the distance, sirens wailed, the distinctive alternating high-low blares of police cars approaching. Had the disturbance at the shrine been sufficient for attendants to phone the authorities?

“Christ!” Hailey said. “Beta, fall back! Avoid all contact with—!”

The sirens reached a crescendo, their wail diminishing.

“Wait!” Hailey said.

The wails receded, farther, fainter.

“Beta, disregard fallback order! Maintain surveillance on exits! Assume camouflage status! Out!” His tone changed, less loud, as if he addressed the men beside him. “Let's
go.”

“Which way?” a man on the path asked.

“How the hell do I know? Split up! Check
all
the paths! Maybe they've doubled back! One thing we're sure of—they can't get out, and they're bound to attract attention!”

Footsteps scurried from the area, veering down various lanes.

“What if they're in the woods?” a receding voice said.

“Hope to God they're not!” Hailey's voice diminished. “A hundred and eighty acres! We'd need fucking Tonto and Rin Tin Tin to find them! … No, they'll feel trapped! They'll want to get out of here as quick as they can! Before we block off the exits!”

A breeze rustled branches. Birds sang. This section of the park became silent.

Savage exhaled softly, slowly, and lowered his Beretta. When he turned toward Rachel hunkered behind him in the bushes, he saw her open her mouth to speak. Quickly he put a hand to her lips and forcefully shook his head. He pointed toward the unseen path below and shrugged as if to indicate that one of the men might have stayed behind.

She flicked her eyes in acknowledgment. He removed his hand and eased his hips to the ground, straining to be quiet. Sweat trickled down his face. The shadows of trees cooled his brow.

But fear still churned his stomach. How long will they search? he thought. Besides the men who chased us, how many others does Hailey have? Who
is
he?
Why am I a threat to him? How did he find us?

The nagging questions made Savage's temples throb.

Forsyth. He called me Forsyth, then Doyle.
But why both names?
And why
last
names? Why
didn't
he call me Roger or Bob?

Because a first name is used for a friend. But a last name's for someone you hate or …

Yes? Or what? Or control. During SEAL special warfare training, the instructors always chose our last names and always made them sound as if they were calling us shitheads.

But this isn't the SEALs. Hailey looks like a corporate executive or a politician, and for whatever reasons, he sure wants me out of the way.

Savage frowned, suddenly hearing voices on a path. He didn't understand what they were saying, suspected that the bushes muffled their words, then realized that the words were Japanese. The speakers didn't sound frantic or angry but rather seemed entranced by the gardens. He relaxed his tight grip on his handgun.

A further glance toward Rachel forced him to smile. She was tugging at her cotton top, trying to fan the sweat that had trickled onto her breasts. He averted his gaze from the dark stains that emphasized her nipples, pulled his own damp shirt from his chest, flicked a bug off his arm, and pretended disgust. It did the trick. Her blue eyes brightened, tension slowly draining from her.

But at once she seemed to remember something, scrunched her forehead, and pointed toward her Rolex watch. Savage knew what she meant. It was almost eleven o'clock. They were due to be at the restaurant in the Ginza district at noon, ready for Akira's phone call.

If
Akira had a chance to phone. Maybe the police hadn't believed his story about defending himself against the three intruders. Maybe they'd taken Akira to headquarters for intensive questioning.