The Fifth Profession (44 page)

Metal scraped. Glass shattered. Despite the explosive impact, Savage thought he heard screams from within the van. For certain, he heard pedestrians scream. And shouts from the men across the street.

Several cars skidded to a stop.

Rachel trembled, frozen with shock.

“Run!” Savage said.

He tugged her.

The compulsion of fear canceled her stunned paralysis. She raced past garbage cans along the dark alley.

But what if the alley's a trap? Savage suddenly thought.

Suppose Hailey's men are
in
here.

No! They can't be
everywhere!

Who shot at the van? Who was
driving
the van?

Dismay racked Savage's mind. Confusion threatened his sanity.

Someone wants to stop us. Someone else wants us to search.

Who? Why?

What the hell are we going to do?

They reached the next street. An approaching taxi made Savage's chest contract. He flagged it down, shoved Rachel inside, and scrambled after her, saying, “Ginza,” hoping the driver would understand that they wanted to go to that district.

The driver, wearing a cap and white gloves, frowned at the disheveled appearance of his harried Caucasian passengers. He seemed uncertain whether he wanted Savage and Rachel to be his customers. But Savage held up several thousand-yen bills.

The driver nodded, pulled away, expertly merging with speeding traffic.

Savage heard the increasing wail of sirens—with no doubt where they were headed. Straining not to show his tension, he could only hope that the driver wouldn't decide that his passengers had something to do with the sirens.

The taxi turned a corner. Police cars swiftly approached in an opposite lane, their sirens louder, flashers blazing.

Then the cruisers were gone, and though the taxi's driver glanced after them, he didn't stop. Savage touched Rachel's hand. Her fingers trembled.

6

Amid dense traffic that somehow kept flowing, they finally reached the Ginza district. Akira had explained that Ginza meant “silver place” and referred to the fact that several hundred years ago the national mint had been located here. Since then, the area had developed into Tokyo's major shopping center, with seemingly endless stores, bars, and restaurants.

The closest equivalent Savage could imagine was New York's Times Square before the junkies, hookers, and porno shops had contaminated its glamour. Neon. Savage had never seen so much of it. Everywhere he looked, brilliant lights turned the night into day. An awesome combination of electrified colors. Some constantly blazed. Others pulsed or flashed messages in a row along buildings like a massive radiant ticker tape. The glare of congested headlights added to the spectacle. Well-dressed pedestrians crowded the exciting streets.

Savage had no intention of showing the driver Akira's note, which in Japanese provided directions to the restaurant where Akira was supposed to call. The authorities might question all taxi drivers who'd picked up Caucasians, and Savage wanted to keep the rendezvous site beyond suspicion. Besides, he and Rachel weren't due there again until Akira's next scheduled call at nine tomorrow morning.

But Savage had
other
motives that compelled him to reach this district. For one thing, the comparatively few Caucasians in the city tended toward the Ginza's glittering nightlife, and he and Rachel needed desperately to blend in. For another, they needed fresh clothes, but having been followed so expertly, they didn't dare return to the railway station, where they'd left their travel bags in a locker. A surveillance team might be waiting, on the chance that Savage and Rachel would retrace their steps and attempt to retrieve their belongings.

“Arigato,”
Savage told the taxi driver, pointing toward the curb. The white-gloved man pulled over, counted the money Savage gave him, and nodded with satisfaction. With a flick of a front-seat lever, he opened the door in back. Savage and Rachel got out.

As the taxi drove away, Savage became more aware of the blazing lights around him. The din of traffic and music from bars overwhelmed him. Exhaust fumes assaulted his lungs. Pungent cooking odors drifted from restaurants.

Wanting to rush, he and Rachel were forced to match the pace of the crowd so they wouldn't attract attention. But despite their efforts to look calm, they did attract attention. Japanese pedestrians kept staring at them. Because Caucasians are unusual, even in the Ginza district? Savage wondered. Or because our faces are dirty, our clothes torn? Rachel's limp and the socks on her feet didn't help.

Savage led her toward gleaming storefronts. “We've got to find—”

He halted abruptly before an electronics shop, stunned by the image on television sets in the window. No sound came through the glass. Not that it mattered. The words that matched the startling scenes would have been incomprehensible to him, the text in Japanese.

But he didn't need an interpreter to make him understand the dismaying significance of what he watched. Heart sinking, again he saw a ghost. Muto Kamichi … Kunio Shirai … the man he'd seen sliced in half at the nonexistent Medford Gap Mountain Retreat … harangued thousands of Japanese protestors holding up anti-American signs outside the gates of a U.S. Air Force base. American soldiers stood nervously on guard beyond the fence.

The news report was similar to the TV footage Savage had watched three days ago in America and the photographs he'd seen this morning on the front page of newspapers in vending machines at Central Station.

With two important differences. The earlier protests had been outside U.S.
civilian
buildings, and the demonstrators —numerous to begin with—had increased dramatically not only in size but intensity.

The grim-eyed faces of American officials appeared on the array of television screens. Savage recognized the U.S. secretary of state, haggard, his brow furrowed, being interviewed by Dan Rather. The image shifted to the President's press secretary tensely answering questions from reporters.

At once, Kamichi—Shirai—was back on the screens, inciting the protestors. Whatever his name, the gray-haired, slack-jowled, slightly overweight, midfiftyish man who resembled a weary executive projected an unexpected charisma when he stepped in front of a crowd. His commanding eyes and powerful gestures transformed him into a spellbinding zealot. With every jab of his karate-callused hands, the crowd reacted with greater fervor, their expressions distorted with outrage.

“This new demonstration must have happened today while Hailey's men trapped us in the park,” Savage said. He turned toward Rachel. Her pallor made him frown. “Are you all right?”

She shrugged, impatient, as if the blood that soaked her socks hardly mattered. “What's going on? What
caused
this?”

“Some incident we don't know about?” Savage shook his head. “I think Kamichi”—he quickly added—
“Shirai
doesn't need an incident. I think the point is America …
America in Japan.”

“But America and Japan are friends!”

“Not if you believe those demonstrators.” Savage sensed movement behind him and nervously pivoted. Japanese pedestrians crowded toward the television screens.

“Let's get out of here,” he said. “I'm awfully self-conscious.”

They squirmed through the thickening crowd. Savage's veins chilled. His contracting muscles stopped aching only when he reached the comparative openness of the normally congested sidewalk.

“But all of a sudden,” Rachel said. “Why? The demonstrations are larger, more dangerous.”

“Catalyzed by Kamichi.”

“Shirai.”

“I can't get used to calling him that,” Savage said. “The man I drove to Pennsylvania.”

“To a hotel that doesn't exist.”

“In
my
reality, I drove him there. To me, the hotel
does
exist. But all right”—Savage's mind whirled, seized by
jamais vu
—“let's call him Shirai.
He's
the cause of the demonstrations. I don't know
why.
I can't imagine the source of his power. But he, Akira, and I are somehow connected.”

A sudden thought made Savage face her. “The former emperor, Hirohito, died in January of ‘eighty-nine.”

Rachel kept walking. “Yes? And?”

“After Japan's defeat in World War Two, MacArthur insisted on a new Japanese constitution. Even
before
that, when Japan surrendered in ‘forty-five, America insisted that Hirohito go on the radio and not only announce the unconditional surrender but renounce his divinity and publicly tell his people that he was human, not a god.”

“I remember reading about it,” Rachel said. “The announcement shocked Japan.”

“And helped MacArthur reconstruct the country. But one of the strictest articles in the new constitution was that church and state
had
to be separated. By law, religion and politics were totally severed.”

“What's that got to do with Hirohito's death?”

“His funeral. In violation of the constitution, but with no objection from America, political and
religious
rites were combined. Because of Japan's economic power, every important nation sent its highest representatives. A
Who's Who
of international government. And
all
of them stood passively under wooden shelters in a pouring rain while a Japanese honor guard escorted Hirohito's coffin into a shrine, where behind a screen
Shinto
rites, traditional Japanese
religious
funereal rites, were performed. And no outsider said, ‘Wait a minute. This is illegal. This is how the Pacific War got started.’ “

“They respected a great man's death,” Rachel said.

“Or they almost shit their pants in fear that if they objected to the Shinto rites, Japan would get so angry it would cut off their credit. Hell, Japan finances most of America's budget deficit. No country would dare object if Japan reverted to its former constitution. As long as Japan has the money—and the power—its government can do what it wants.”

“That's where your argument falls apart,” Rachel said. “Japan's government is responsible.”

“While moderates rule it. But what if Kamichi—
Shirai—
takes command? Suppose the old ways come back and a radical party assumes control! Did you know that Japan— supposed to be nonmilitary—spends more on defense than any NATO country except America? And they're suspicious of South Korea! And China's always worried them! And … !”

Savage realized he was talking too loud. Japanese pedestrians frowned at him.

Rachel kept limping.

“Come on. We've got to do something about your feet.”

A brightly lit sportswear shop attracted Savage's gaze. He and Rachel stepped inside. There were almost no customers. When two clerks—a young man and woman—bowed in greeting, they looked puzzled by Rachel's stockinged feet.

Savage and Rachel bowed quickly in return and proceeded through the store. In addition to athletic clothes, there were jeans, T-shirts, and nylon jackets. Rachel made a stack in her arms and looked questioningly at the female clerk, who seemed to understand that Rachel wanted to know if there was a changing room.

The clerk pointed toward a cubicle in the back, where a drape functioned as a door. Adding thick white running socks and a pair of Reeboks to her pile, Rachel disappeared behind the drape.

In the meantime, Savage chose a pair of brown socks to replace the pair he'd given Rachel. His pants were filthy, his shirt soiled with sweat. He picked up replacements. As soon as Rachel came out of the cubicle, wearing stone-washed jeans, a burgundy top, and a blue nylon jacket that matched the cobalt of her eyes, Savage went in to change, glancing periodically through a corner of the drape to make sure no one who looked threatening entered the store while Rachel was unprotected. Eight minutes later, they paid and left the store, carrying their dirty clothes in a bag, which they dumped in a trash container a few blocks away.

“These shoes make all the difference.” Rachel sighed. “It feels so good not to be limping.”

“Not to mention we don't look like we slept in a ditch.” Savage wore khaki slacks, a yellow shirt, and tan windbreaker. The combination made his chameleon green eyes seem tinged with brown. He'd combed his hair in the changing room, as had Rachel. “A few smudges on our faces. All in all, though, not bad. In fact, you look lovely.”

“Blarney, but I never turn down a compliment. The bonus is, now that we've changed clothes, it'll be harder for witnesses at the park to identify us if the police decide to pick us up.”

Savage studied her with admiration. “You
are
catching on.”

“Given the right teacher and the proper motivation— fear—I learn damned fast.” She wrinkled her brow. “That van at the park. It seemed to veer out of traffic and aim toward the alley, toward
us.”

“Hailey must have had vehicles circling the park, so his men could radio to them if we were spotted. Our bad luck that the van was nearby.”

”Our
bad luck? The unlucky ones were in the van,” Rachel said. “The windshield starred as the van headed toward us. Did I see
bullet
holes?”

Savage pursed his lips and nodded. “Someone was determined to stop Hailey's men from catching us.”

“But
who,
and
how
did they know where we'd be?”

“For that matter, how were
Hailey's
men able to follow us through the subway? We were careful. I kept checking behind us while we walked from the railway station. But then all at once they showed up at the park. It's like they're thinking the same as us or even
ahead
of us.”

“You said earlier …” Rachel brooded. “A lot of what we've done is predictable, given the problems we need to solve. But that park had nothing to do with our problems. We just happened to go there.”

“Yes,” Savage said. “We've been intercepted too many times. I don't understand how they keep doing it.”

“My God”—Rachel turned—“I just thought of something. We've been assuming that Hailey's the one who wants to stop us.”