The Fifth Profession (47 page)

“Taro-sensei,
a question,” Savage said. “I'm troubled. But please understand, I mean no offense in asking.”

“You have my permission,” the old man said.

“When we entered, after you recognized that we weren't enemies …” Savage hesitated. “I can understand why you wanted to test us. You needed to know how we'd react when apparently threatened, to determine if you could depend on us. Outsiders.
Gaijin.
But even so …” Savage frowned. “There was no guarantee I wouldn't panic. Suppose I'd lost my nerve and started shooting, even though I didn't have an escape plan and hence would have wasted ammunition that I might have needed later. Many of these men would have died.”

“Your question is wise,” Taro said. “But the test had controls.”

“Oh? In what way? I'm sure these men are superbly Skilled, their swords unbelievably fast, but not as fast as a bullet.”

“If you'd raised your weapon …”

Taro didn't need to complete his sentence. As Savage approached the rear of the
dojo,
he saw two men concealed behind the row of swordsmen.…

And each man held a tautly strung bamboo bow, a fiercely barbed arrow strung, ready at any instant to be fired.

Yes, Savage thought. If I'd seemed about to shoot, I'd never have had a chance to pull the trigger.

In a rush, another question insisted, but he forced himself not to ask. Cold sweat trickled down his back. Would the archers have shot to disable his gun arm?

Or to kill?

10

“Taro-sensei's
building is self-sufficient,” Akira explained.

They sat, cross-legged, on cushions at a low cypress table. The small room had latticed paper-thin walls with exquisite pen-and-ink drawings hanging upon them. It reminded Savage of Akira's home.

In an obvious display of deference, Taro dismissed a servant and poured tea into small, thin, beautifully painted ceramic cups, each depicting a colorful scene from nature (a waterfall, a blossoming cherry tree) with a minimum of brush strokes.

Akira continued explaining. “The fifth floor, of course, is the
dojo.
On the other floors, there are dormitories, a shrine, a library, a cooking and eating area, a shooting range … everything that Taro-
sensei's
students need to attempt to perfect their spirits, minds, and bodies, to make them as one.”

Akira paused to pick up his cup, placing his left hand under it, using his right hand to support the cup on one side. He sipped the tea and savored it. “Perfect, Tam-
sensei.”

Savage watched Akira carefully and imitated the way he gripped the cup. Prior to their leaving America, Akira had explained the protocol of the tea ceremony. Its sanctified tradition dated as far back as the fourteenth century. Influenced by Zen Buddhism, the ritualistic sharing of tea was intended to produce a condition of purity, tranquillity, and harmony known in Japanese as
wabi.
When strictly performed, the ceremony took several hours and incorporated a minimum of three locations and servings, accompanied by various foods. The tea-master prepared each serving, adding tea to hot water and whipping it with a bamboo whisk. Conversation was limited to gentle, soothing topics. The participants felt freed from time and the turmoil of the outside world.

On this occasion, the ceremony had been starkly abbreviated. Of necessity. But respect for the ritual still applied. Noting the solemnity of Akira and his
sensei,
Savage quelled his urgent questions and raised the gleaming cup to his lips, inhaling the fragrance of the steaming tea, sipping the clear, delicately flavored liquid. “My spirit feels comforted, Taro
sensei.”
Savage bowed.

“This quenches the thirst in my soul,” Rachel added.
“Arigato,
Taro-
sensei.”

Taro chuckled. “My not-inadequate student”—he indicated Akira—”taught you well.”

Akira's brown face became tinged with a blushing red. He lowered his eyes in humility.

“It's rare to meet a civilized
gaijin.”
Taro smiled and lowered his cup. “Akira mentioned a library in this building. Most
sensei
would never allow their students to read. Thought interferes with action. Words contaminate reflex. But ignorance is itself an enemy. Facts can be a weapon. I would never permit my students to read works of fantasy. Novels”—he gestured with disparagement—“though poetry is another matter, and I encourage my students to expand their spirits by composing haiku and studying such classic examples as those by the incomparable Matsuo Basho. But books of information are mostly what my students read. History, in particular that of Japan and America. Manuals of weaponry, both ancient and modern. The principles of locks, intrusion detectors, electronic surveillance equipment, and various other tools of their craft. Also languages. I require each of my students to be skilled in three, apart from Japanese. And one of those languages
must
be English.”

Savage glanced surreptitiously at Akira, at last understanding how his counterpart had acquired so impressive a fluency in English. But why the emphasis on English? Savage wondered. Because English was pervasive throughout the world? Or because of America's victory in World War Two? Why did Akira's expression become more melancholy as Taro emphasized that his students had to be expert in America's history and language?

Taro stopped talking and sipped his tea.

Akira kept a close watch on his
sensei.
Apparently concluding that Taro did not intend to say anything further for the moment, that it would not be rude to break the silence, he resumed his explanation.

“When I was ten,” Akira said, “my father sent me to Taro-
sensei,
to study martial arts. Until I completed high school, I came here five times a week for two-hour sessions. At home, I religiously practiced what I had been taught. Most male teenagers in Japan supplement their high school classes with intensive private tutoring in order to devote themselves to preparing for university entrance examinations. These occur in February and March and are known as ‘examination hell.’ To fail to be accepted by a university and especially Tokyo University is a great humiliation. But as my studies with Taro-
sensei
became more demanding and intriguing, I realized that I had no interest in applying to a university, or rather that
he and this institution
would be my university. Despite my unworthiness, Taro-
sensei
graciously accepted me for greater instruction. On my nineteenth birthday, I came here with a few belongings and never stepped outside for the next four years.”

Savage tightened his grip on his cup. Turning to Rachel, he saw that the surprise on her face was as strong as what he felt. “Four years?” She was too amazed to blink.

“A moderate amount of time, considering the objective.” Akira shrugged. “To attempt to become a samurai. In our corrupt and honorless twentieth century, the only option for a Japanese devoted to the noble traditions of his nation, committed to becoming a samurai, is to join the fifth profession. To make himself the modern equivalent of a samurai. An executive protector. Because now—just as then—a samurai without a master is a warrior without a purpose, a frustrated wanderer, a directionless, unfulfilled
ronin.”

Savage gripped his frail teacup harder, afraid he'd break it but controlled by greater surprise. “And all those men in the
dojo …”

“Are Taro-
sensei's
advanced students. Many are about to graduate after the privilege of having studied with my master for almost four years,” Akira replied. “You might compare them to monks. Or hermits. Except for grocers and other merchants who bring necessary goods, no outsider is permitted to enter.”

“But the outside door was unlocked,” Savage said. “And so was the door to the
dojo.
In fact, I didn't even
see
a lock.
Anyone could walk in.”

Akira shook his head. “Each door has a hidden bolt, electronically activated, although tonight the bolts were left open. In case my enemies managed to follow me here. An enticement. So they could be subdued and questioned. The stairway, of course, is a trap once the doors are sealed.”

Savage pursed his lips and nodded.

Taro inhaled softly.

Akira turned to him, aware that his master intended to speak.

“Although my students retreat from the world,” Taro said, “I do not wish them to be ignorant of it. By means of newspapers, magazines, and television broadcasts, they're instructed in contemporary events. But in these sequestered surroundings, they're trained to study the present with the same detachment that they do the past. They stand apart, watchers, not participants. Because only by being objective can a protector be effective. The essence of a samurai is to be neutral, without expectations, maintaining a stillness at his core.”

Taro considered his words, bobbed his wizened head, and sipped his tea, the signal that others could speak.

“My apologies, Taro-
sensei.
But another potentially indelicate question occurs to me,” Savage said.

Taro nodded in permission.

“Akira mentioned the corrupt age in which we live,” Savage said. “In that case, few young men—even Japanese— would be willing to shut themselves away and commit themselves to such arduous training.”

“Yes, few. But sufficient,” Taro said. “The way of the samurai is by definition limited to the most determined. You yourself, as I've been told, committed yourself to the severest branch of America's armed forces—the SEALs.”

Savage stiffened. He strained not to frown at Akira. What
else
had Akira revealed about him? Mustering discipline not to look troubled, he replied, “But I wasn't shut off from the world, and the military paid for my instruction. This school … four years of isolation … surely few candidates could afford the financial expense of …”

Taro chuckled. “Indeed. And you warned me. Your question is indelicate. Americans do say what they think.” His good-humored tone barely hid his disapproval. He sobered. “None of my students bears any financial expense in coming here. The only criteria for acceptance are ability and determination. Their equipment, meals, and lodging,
everything
they require, is given to them.”

“Then how can you afford … ?” Savage held his breath, unable to bring himself to complete his further indelicate question.

Taro didn't help but merely studied him.

The silence lengthened.

Akira broke it. “With your permission, Tam-
sensei.”

A flick of the eyes signified yes.

“My master is also my agent,” Akira said, “as he is for every student with strength and discipline enough to complete the course. Taro-
sensei
arranges for my employment, continues to advise me, and receives a portion of everything I earn—for the rest of my life.”

Savage felt jolted. Thoughts raced through his mind. If Taro was Akira's agent …

Taro must have information about Kunio Shirai, the man Savage knew as Muto Kamichi and saw cut in half at the Medford Gap Mountain Retreat.

Akira had said he worked with an American agent when assigned to America. Graham. But Graham had
not
been the primary agent. Taro was.
Taro might have the answers Savage needed.

But Kamichi—Shirai—was never at the Mountain Retreat. No more than
we
were, Savage thought.

He winced. Lancing, crushing, spinning, and twisting,
jamais vu
yet again assaulted his mind.

If we never met Kamichi, we couldn't have been hired to protect him! Savage thought. So Taro might know nothing about him.

But
someone
set this up.
Someone
arranged for Akira and me to imagine we were hired.
Who? When?
At what point did
jamais vu
intersect with reality?

This much was sure, Savage knew. Akira had held back information. In emphasizing that his agent was Graham, he'd deliberately avoided drawing attention to Taro.

Was Akira an enemy?
Savage's former terrible suspicion flooded through him, chilling his soul. His sense of reality had been so jeopardized that he feared he couldn't trust anyone.

Even Rachel? No, I've got to trust! If I can't depend on Rachel, nothing matters!

Again he realized the dilemma of trying to protect himself as well as Rachel, in trying to be his own principal. He needed a protector who wasn't involved, and at the moment, that luxury wasn't possible.

“I'm afraid I
will
be rude,” Savage said. “I know that conversation over tea is supposed to be soothing. But I'm too upset to obey the rules. Akira, what the hell happened since we last saw you?”

11

The question hung in the room. Akira, who'd been sipping tea, gave no indication he'd heard it. He took another sip, closed his eyes, seemed to savor the taste, then set down his cup, and looked at Savage.

“The police arrived quickly.” Akira sounded oddly detached, as if what he described had happened to someoneelse. “One car, then two, then three, as word of the situation's gravity spread. The coroner arrived. Police photographers. A forensic team. Senior police officials. At one point, I counted twenty-two investigators in my home. They listened to my account. They made me repeat it several times. Their questions became more detailed, their expressions more grave. I'd rehearsed my story before they arrived. I'd made necessary adjustments so the crime scene would be consistent with the robbery attempt I described and the murderous reaction of the intruders when they were discovered. But this isn't America, where multiple killings seem an everyday occurrence. Here, violent crime involving handguns is rare. The investigators were grim and methodical. In my favor, although I'd fired and killed with one of the intruders’ pistols, I'd also used a sword in defending my home, and that—as I anticipated—evoked tradition, making me seem heroic.

“As noon approached, I was still being questioned. I anticipated your concern if I didn't phone the restaurant on schedule, so I asked permission to excuse myself and make a call to break an appointment. Imagine my concern when I learned that you weren't at the restaurant to receive my call. I hid my feelings and answered more questions. By midafternoon, the bodies had been removed. Eko mustered strength despite her grief and accompanied Churi's body to the morgue, to make arrangements for his funeral. In the meantime, the investigators decided they wanted me to go with them to headquarters and dictate a formal statement. On the street, the police cars had attracted a swarm of reporters. Without making it seem I had something to hide, I tried not to face their cameras, but at least one man took my picture.”