The Fifth Profession (51 page)

But all he cared about was the sudden realization that he and Akira had a better chance of maneuvering through the congested pedestrians they faced than did the herd of angry guards, whose solid mass would impede their rush.

He was wrong. As he darted around pedestrians, a hand reached to grab his sleeve. He twisted away. But at once another hand grabbed, and his stomach plummeted. Dear God, he'd been thinking like a Westerner, as if this were New York! In Manhattan, pedestrians would scramble to avoid two men being chased.
But not here.
Savage had forgotten what Akira had told him! The Japanese were among the most compliant, law-abiding people on earth.
Tribal.
The group against the individual. Status quo, harmony, order, meant everything. Two men being chased by a mob, especially when one of the men was American,
had
to be at fault, a threat to society, because the majority by definition was in the right.

A third hand grabbed for Savage. Akira turned and grabbed Savage, yanking him through a doorway. They found themselves in a brightly lit department store. Outside, the guards slammed against pedestrians, the chaos of their impact blocking the entrance. Racing past counters and astonished clerks, Savage saw an exit on his left. It led to another street. So out of breath he could barely speak, Savage blurted to Akira, running, “We've got to separate.”

“But …”

“
You
can disappear among the crowd! They're after a Japanese and an
American!
If you drop out of sight, they'll keep chasing me because I'm conspicuous.”

They reached the side exit, scrambling through, hearing the guards burst into the store through the entrance Savage and Akira had used.

“There's no way I'm leaving you,” Akira said.

“Do it! I'll meet you at Taro's!”

“No! I won't abandon you!”

Spotting a uniformed messenger about to get onto a Honda motorcycle, Savage lunged, thrust the messenger aside, grabbed the motorcycle, and leapt onto it.

“Give me room!” Akira leapt on after Savage, clasping his arms around Savage's chest.

Putting the motorcycle into gear, twisting the throttle, Savage sped onto the street, veering past cars. He no longer heard the guards pursuing him. As his chest swelled, all he heard was the suddenly reassuring din of traffic, the roar of the motorcycle, the deafening clamor—so unexpectedly normal—of Tokyo.

“We'll have to get rid of the bike soon,” Akira said as Savage rounded a corner and increased speed. “Before it's reported stolen and the police come after us.”

“Right now, what I'm worried about are those guards.”

“I thank you for offering to be a decoy so I could escape,” Akira said behind him.

“It seemed a friendly thing to do.”

“Yes,” Akira said, his voice strange. “Friendly.” He sounded puzzled.

Three blocks later, they left the motorcycle on the sidewalk outside a subway entrance, hoping the authorities would assume that Savage and Akira had hurried below to escape on a train. Strolling tensely through an intersection, they hailed a taxi and didn't need to discuss that this would be the first of
many
taxis they'd use in their zigzagging evasive tactics that would hide their trail back to Taro's.

“That messenger will probably never see his bike again,” Savage said.

“Not true,” Akira replied. “Someone might move it so it doesn't interfere with pedestrians. But no one would dare to steal it. This is Japan.”

4

“I don't understand. What did Shirai say?” Savage asked.

He sat on a chair in a small infirmary on the fourth floor of Taro's building. His shirt was off, the old man examining the back of his shoulder. Akira and Rachel stood to the side, and Rachel's narrowed eyes made clear to Savage that the bruise the thrown blackjack had caused was considerable.

“Raise your arm,” Taro said.

Savage did, biting his lip.

“Move it back and forth.”

He managed to do so but not to its full extent and not without effort.

“Describe the pain.”

“Deep. It aches. At the same time, it throbs.”

“Nothing feels sharp?” Taro asked.

“No. I don't think anything's broken.”

“All the same, you ought to consider going to a hospital and requesting an X ray.”

Savage shook his head. “I've attracted enough attention today already.”

“
Hai,
” Taro said. “I'll give you something to reduce the swelling. Your shoulder's too stiff to be of use in a crisis.”

“If I have to, believe me, I can use it.”

Taro's wizened lips formed a smile. He rubbed a cotton ball soaked in alcohol against Savage's shoulder.

Savage felt a sting. Taro removed a needle.

“Novocaine, epinephrine, and a steroid,” the old man said. “Sit with your hand on your thigh and give the arm a rest.”

The shoulder began to feel numb. Savage exhaled and glanced at Akira. “But what did Shirai
say?
It was all in Japanese. I didn't understand a word, although I did get the message. He was terrified by the sight of us.”

Akira scowled. “Yes … Terrified. And not because he feared we might be anonymous assailants. And not because after delivering his anti-American speech, he found an American close to him. Clearly he recognized us. ‘You. No,’ he shouted. ‘It can't be. You're … It's impossible. Keep them away from me.’ “

“And that's
all
he said?”

“A few more outbursts as he scrambled into his car. The gist was the same. ‘You. How did—? Stay away. Don't let them near me.’ “

Savage brooded, the injection taking effect, the pain in his shoulder replaced by a total lack of sensation: But his mind felt numbed as well, stunned by the morning's events. “So what are we supposed to conclude? That we were right?”

“I don't see any other explanation.” Akira sighed. “He remembers us, just as we remember him.”

“Even though we never really saw each other before,” Savage said. “Like us, he recalls things that never happened.”

“But
what
things?” Akira demanded. “Because he recognized us, that doesn't mean he saw us killed just as we imagine
he
was killed! We can't assume that
his
false memory is the same as ours. For all we know, in
his
nightmare we were assassins from whom he barely escaped.”

Rachel stepped closer. “
That
would explain the look of terror you described and his desperation to get away from you.”

“Perhaps.” Savage squinted. “But he might have acted the same way if he suddenly found himself confronted by two men he'd seen die! Preoccupied, exhausted, leaving the demonstration, eager to reach the safety of his limousine, he sees two ghosts and panics. In
his
place, would you want to stick around and chat, or feel so shocked that your only impulse would be to get away?”

Rachel considered, then gestured. “Probably the latter. But by now, if I thought I'd seen two ghosts, my shock would have changed to bewilderment. I'd want to know why you're still alive, how you survived, what you were doing at my car. And I'd be furious that my guards didn't catch you so I could learn the answers.”

“Good,” Savage said. “Good point.” He raised his eyebrows and turned toward Akira. “So what do you think? Maybe he'll be ready to talk to us.”

“Maybe … There's one way to find out.”

“Right. Let's give him a call.”

As Savage stood, his arm dangled uselessly. He rubbed it, preoccupied, and at once reminded himself that they had yet another problem. “Taro-
sensei,
your men still haven't come back? There's still no word about their attempt to infiltrate Akira's home and rescue Eko?”

The old man's face seemed more wrinkled, his body apparently shorter, thinner, dwarfed by his loose karate
gi.
For once, his appearance of frailty was not deceptive. “Almost twelve hours, and they haven't reported.”

“That might not mean a disaster,” Akira said. “Taro-
sensei
trained us not to attempt a mission unless we were confident of accomplishing our purpose. They might be in position, waiting for their chance to move.”

“But wouldn't they have called to report?” Savage asked.

“Not if their plan required all of them to stay in place, prepared to make a coordinated effort,” Taro said. “We don't know the obstacles they face.”

“I should have gone with them,” Akira said. “They're doing this for me, to get Eko. I ought to be sharing their risk.”

“No,” Taro said. “You must not feel ashamed.
They
went so that
you
could be free to contact Shirai. You haven't failed in your duty. You cannot do more than one thing at once.”

Akira's lips trembled. He straightened, his back rigid, bowing deeply. “
Arigato
, Taro-
sensei.
”

Taro gestured. It seemed as if he knocked a burden off Akira's shoulders. “Go. Make your call.”

“But not from here,” Savage said. “We mustn't allow Shirai to be able to trace our call to this building.”

“But of course,” Taro said. “I never doubted that you'd follow the correct procedure.” He narrowed his wrinkled eyes. Despite his concern for his absent students, his wizened lips again formed a possible smile. “Your
sensei
deserves respect.”

“He's dead,” Savage said. “I don't know his part in this, but yes, like you, he deserves respect.” Savage grimaced. “I have a request.”

“My home is yours.”

“My Beretta. I want it back.”

5

Akira chose a pay phone in another ward of Tokyo, making doubly certain that if the call was traced it wouldn't attract Shirai's bodyguards toward Taro's building. The pay phone was located at the rear of a
pachinko
parlor, a harshly lit huge room crammed with rows of what resembled vertical pinball machines.
Pachinko,
Savage learned, was one of Japan's most popular entertainments, with over ten thousand parlors and millions of machines throughout the country. Players crowded next to each other. The pervasive clatter of steel balls dropping through the machines made it impossible for anyone except Savage, standing close to the phone, to overhear Akira's conversation.

Though Akira spoke in Japanese, Savage knew what he was saying, both men having agreed on the essence of Akira's remarks.

The first call was to Shirai's political headquarters, but the receptionist claimed that Shirai had not returned there after the demonstration. The next call was to Shirai's corporate office, but again the receptionist claimed that Shirai wasn't present. While Savage and Akira had been at the demonstration, Taro had used his many contacts to obtain the unlisted number for Shirai's home, but yet once more when Akira phoned, he was told that Shirai wasn't available.

Akira set down the phone and explained. “Of course, any of them could be lying. But I left our message. ‘The two men he saw at his car this morning are extremely anxious to speak with him. Please relay that information.’ I said I'd be calling back every fifteen minutes.”

“So now we have to wait again.” Savage's chest ached with frustration. He wanted to move, to do something, to confront his problem and finally solve his nightmare. “Should we go to another pay phone?”

Akira shrugged. “Each call took no longer than forty seconds. Not enough time for anyone to trace it.”

“But all the same,” Savage said.

“
Hai.
Let's go.”

6

The next calls were made from a pay phone across from a crowded playground in a small wooded park that contrasted starkly with a traffic-jammed overhead highway. The receptionist at Shirai's political headquarters repeated that Shirai had not returned from the demonstration. Persistent, Akira dialed Shirai's corporate office, and after a few remarks, his features became alert, though he permitted no trace of excitement in his voice. Breathing quickly, Savage stepped closer.

Akira pressed the disconnect lever. “Shirai's at his business office. We have an appointment to see him in an hour.”

Savage's pulse quickened. Elated, he started to grin.

Abruptly his mood changed. His grin became a frown.

“What's the matter?” Akira asked.

Traffic blared in the background.

“Just like that?” Savage said. “He didn't explain why he was terrified when he saw us, why he scrambled into his limousine and rushed away in horror? Or why, despite his terror, he's agreeing to see us?”

Akira left the phone and walked with Savage. “He didn't explain because I never had a chance to speak with him. His secretary relayed the message.”

Savage frowned harder. “No.”

“I don't understand,” Akira said. “What's wrong?”

“That's the question, isn't it? That's what
I
want to know. It doesn't make sense. After the demonstration, Shirai's reaction to us was so extreme I have trouble believing he'd adjust this quickly and agree to meet us right away.”

“But that's exactly what
makes
it believable,” Akira said. “He
was
upset. Frightened to the point that he lost control. Whatever he falsely remembers … it may be he thinks he saw us killed, or else he imagines we tried to kill
him …
whatever the reason, in
his
place I'd be desperate for answers, the same as
we
are. I'd want to know how dead men were resurrected, or in the latter scenario, why my protectors turned against me.”

“Desperate. Yes.” Savage kept walking, scanning the crowded street, on guard against possible danger, his protective instincts at a nerve-straining zenith. He'd never felt this vulnerable. “
That's
why I'm suspicious. If his secretary told him you were going to call back every fifteen minutes, why would he simply instruct her to make an appointment an hour from now? Instead of risking a face-to-face meeting, he should have ordered her to put your call through … so he
wouldn't
be in danger, so he could speak to you
safely
from a distance.”

“I take for granted he'll have protectors at the meeting,” Akira said. “He'll guarantee his security.”

“And what about
our
security? If his guards are the same men who chased us after the demonstration, they might be waiting for us with big grins and blackjacks.” Savage rubbed his throbbing shoulder. The painkiller had dissipated. He felt as if he'd been hit with a baseball bat. “I don't know how much damage I caused to the first man who rushed me, but I know I heard you break another man's hand. They won't be happy.”