The Fifth Profession (45 page)

“Right.”

“But what if we've got it turned around? What if
Hailey
wants to protect us? What if the team in the van belonged to whoever wants to kill us, and it was
Hailey's
men who shot out the windshield, so we'd keep searching?”

For a moment, Savage had trouble understanding, the twist in assumptions bewildering. Abruptly he felt pressure behind his ears. Something seemed to snap in his brain. His vision paled, his mind attacked by unsettling contradictions. Nothing seemed sure. Everything was false.
Jamais vu
fought with reality. But
something
had to be true! There
had
to be a solution! He couldn't bear …

No! Three weeks ago, his single burden had been to prove himself again. Now?

Total confusion!

He wavered.

Rachel grabbed his arm. Her eyes wide, she steadied him. “You turned pale.”

“I think … For a moment there … I'm … all right now … No … Feel dizzy.”

“I feel a little off balance myself. We haven't eaten since yesterday.” She pointed. “Here. This restaurant. We need to sit down, rest, get something in our stomachs, and try to clear our heads.”

Now instead of Savage guiding Rachel,
she
guided him.

And he felt so helpless he didn't resist.

7

The waitress—wearing white makeup, a kimono, and sandals—presented them with a menu. When Savage opened it, he again felt disoriented. The items on the menu weren't printed horizontally, as in the West, but vertically, the contrast reinforcing his sense that everything was inverted, his mind off balance. Mercifully, English script appeared beside Japanese ideograms. Still, Savage was so unfamiliar with un-Americanized Japanese food that all he could do was point toward a column on the left, the restaurant's recommendation for a dinner for two.

“Sake?” the waitress asked with a bow.

Savage shook his throbbing head. Alcohol was the last thing he needed.

“Tea?” he asked, doubting he'd communicate.

“Hai.
Tea,” she said with a smile and left, her short steps emphasized by her tight kimono, which in addition emphasized her hips and thighs.

In the background, at the restaurant's frenetic cocktail lounge, a Japanese country-western singer delivered a flawless version of Hank Williams's “I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry.”

Savage wondered if the singer understood the words or had expertly memorized them.

The midnight train is …

“If we're in trouble and we thought only
Akira
would be in trouble …” Savage shook his head.

“I know. I hate to imagine what's happened to
him
today.” Rachel reached across the table. “But there's nothing we can do to help him, not right now. I told you,
rest.
The food will be here soon. You've got to try to relax.”

“You realize how turned around this is?”

“Me taking care of you?” Rachel asked. “I love it.”

“I don't like feeling …”

“Out of control? You'll have plenty of chance to
exert
control. To do what
you
do best.
And soon.
But thank heaven, not right now.”

Can't you hear the whippoorwill … ?

The restaurant was filled with cigarette smoke and the permeating aroma of sauces. Savage and Rachel sat on cushions at a low table with a cavity beneath it that allowed them to dangle their legs, an architectural concession to long-legged foreigners who wanted to sit according to Japanese tradition but without discomfort.

“Kamichi … Shirai … We've got to meet him,” Savage said. “Akira and I
have
to learn if he saw
us
die as we saw
him
die.”

“In
his
place, if I were leading demonstrations against U.S. Air Force bases, I'd have protection that even
you
couldn't breach,” Rachel said. “It won't be easy to meet him. And since you're American, I doubt you can simply call him up and arrange an appointment.”

“Oh, we'll talk to him, all right,” Savage said. “Bet on it.”

The waitress brought warm, damp napkins. Then their meal arrived: a clear soup with bits of onions and mushrooms, seasoned with grated ginger; yams in a mixture of soy sauce and sweet wine; rice with curry sauce; and boiled fish with teriyaki vegetables. The various sauces accented each other superbly. Savage hadn't realized how hungry he was. Though the portions were more than ample, he ate everything, so ravenous he was hampered only slightly by his awkwardness with chopsticks.

But throughout, he kept thinking about Akira and how in the eighteen hours they'd been separated so much had changed that their arrangements for getting in touch with each other no longer seemed adequate.

“I can't wait till nine tomorrow morning,” Savage said. He gulped the last of his tea, left a generous tip with payment for the bill, and stood. “I saw a pay phone in the lobby.”

“What are you—?”

“Calling Akira.”

The phone was in a corner away from the restaurant's entrance and the coatcheck area. Partially sheltered by a screen that depicted brilliant sunflowers, Savage put coins in the phone and dialed the number Akira had given him.

The phone rang four times.

Savage waited, his fingers cramping around the phone. A fifth ring.

A woman suddenly answered. Eko. Savage couldn't fail to recognize her voice.

“Hai.”
In response to her curt tone, Savage's knees weakened. He'd just heard the signal that Akira was in trouble, that Savage was supposed to leave Japan as quickly as possible.

Heart racing, he desperately wanted to question her, to find out what had happened. But Akira had emphasized—Eko didn't speak English.

I can't just break contact! Savage thought. I have to think of a way to communicate! There's got to be a—!

He heard a rattle on the phone. Another voice spoke abruptly. A
man's
voice. In Japanese.

Savage's heart pounded faster as he listened, dismayed, unable to identify the speaker or to understand his furtive statements.

With equal abruptness, the voice switched to English.

“Doyle? Forsyth?
Damn it, whatever you call yourself, listen, buddy! If you know what's good for you, if you want to save your ass, you'd better—”

Savage acted without thinking. Reflexively, in shock, he slammed down the phone. His knees kept shaking.

Madness.

In the background, from the raucous bar, the Japanese country-western singer reprised Hank Williams's song.

So lonesome I could die.

8

“Who was it?” Rachel asked.

They skirted the crowd on the neon-blazing street. Heat from the massive walls of lights felt like sunlamps.

Savage's stomach churned. He feared he'd vomit the enormous meal he'd eaten. “I never heard the voice before. I can't judge his Japanese accent, but his English was perfect. I think—American. No way to know whose side he's on. He was angry, impatient, threatening. I didn't dare stay on the line. If the call was traced, they'd know to search the Ginza district. One thing's sure. Akira wouldn't have permitted strangers in his home, and Eko wouldn't have answered
‘hai’
without a reason.”

“The police?”

“Don't have Americans on their staff. And how did he know to call me ‘Forsyth’ and ‘Doyle’?
Akira
wouldn't have told them.”

“Willingly.”

Savage knew how effective certain chemicals were in making reluctant informants cooperate. “I have to assume Akira's in trouble. But I don't know how to help him.”

A siren made him flinch. Turning, primed to run, he saw an ambulance wail past.

He exhaled.

“We can't keep walking the streets,” Rachel said.

“But where would we feel safe to spend the night?”

“There's no way I could sleep,” Rachel said. “I'm so uptight I—”

“Two choices. Find someplace to hide, wait till morning, and go to the restaurant, hoping Akira will call at nine. But the restaurant might be a trap.”

“So what's the second choice?” Rachel asked.

“Skip plans. I told Akira that even if Eko gave me the warning signal over the phone, I
wouldn't
leave Japan.
I want answers.”
Surprised by the growl in his voice, Savage unfolded the note of directions Akira had given him. “A wise and holy man, Akira said. His
sensei.
The man he wanted to talk to. Well, let's see just how wise this holy man is.”

9

In contrast with the glare of the Ginza district, this section of Tokyo was shadowy, oppressive. A few streetlights and occasional lamps in narrow windows did little to dispel the gloom. After paying the taxi driver, Savage got out with Rachel and felt conspicuous despite the darkness. His shoulder blades tensed.

“This might not have been such a good idea,” Rachel said.

Savage studied the murky street. The murmur of distant traffic emphasized the silence. Though the sidewalk seemed deserted, even in the darkness Savage detected numerous alleys and alcoves, in any of which hidden eyes might be watching, predators waiting to … “The taxi's gone. I don't see any others. It's too late to change our minds.”

“Swell. … How can we be sure the driver even brought us to where we wanted to go?” Rachel asked.

“‘Abraham believed by virtue of the absurd,’” Savage said, reminding Rachel of her favorite quotation. “At this point we have to trust.”

“Swell,” Rachel said again, making the word sound like an expletive.

Savage parted his hands, a gesture of futility. “By the book, the way to do this is to leave the taxi several blocks away and approach the area cautiously, trying to get a sense of whether there's a trap.” He glanced around. “But Tokyo has very few street names. Without the driver's help, I'm not sure I could have found this place, even from a few blocks away.”

The place he referred to was a five-story, dingy concrete building without windows. It looked like a warehouse, out of place among the numerous tiny-windowed apartment complexes along the street, though those structures too looked dingy.

The building was dark.

“I can't believe anyone lives here,” Rachel said. “There's been a mistake.”

“… Just one way to learn.”
Yet again
Savage scanned the dark street. He placed his hand on the Beretta beneath his windbreaker and approached the front door.

It was steel.

Savage looked but couldn't find a button for a doorbell or an intercom. He didn't see a lock.

He tried the doorknob. It turned.

“Apparently no one cares if strangers go in,” Savage said. He couldn't subdue the puzzlement in his voice. “Stay close.”

“Hey, if I was any closer, I'd be in your underwear.” Savage almost grinned.

But her joke didn't ease his tension. He pushed the heavy door open and frowned at a dimly lit corridor. “Quickly,” he said, tugging Rachel in before their silhouettes made them easy targets.

As quickly, he shut the door behind them and noticed that there wasn't a lock on this side either. More puzzled, he scanned the corridor.

It ended ten feet before him.

No doors on either side. A staircase led up.

“What kind of—?” Rachel started to ask.

But Savage put a finger to his lips, and she became silent.

He knew what she'd meant to say, though, and nodded with understanding. He'd never seen a warehouse or an apartment building with a layout like this. No sign on the wall to give directions or indicate where they were. No mailboxes with names and buzzers. No further door with a security system that prevented access to the core of the building.

The stairway was concrete. As Savage and Rachel ascended warily, their shoes scraped faintly, echoing.

The next floor was also dimly lit, the corridor short, without doors, a further staircase leading upward.

Again they climbed, Savage's nervousness increasing. Why weren't Akira's instructions complete? he thought. How the hell can I find where someone lives when there aren't any doors or names on—?

At once he realized that Akira's instructions
were
complete.

The absence of doors eliminated the possibility of making a mistake. There was only one continuing direction— upward—and after an identically barren third floor and fourth floor, there was only one destination: the
fifth
floor.

Where the staircase ended.

Like the others, this corridor was short.

But at its end, a steel door beckoned.

Savage hesitated, his hand on the pistol beneath his jacket. The door seemed larger the closer he came. Again, as with the door through which he and Rachel had entered the building, Savage couldn't find a doorbell or an intercom, and this door too had no lock.

Rachel's eyes narrowed, communicating bewilderment and apprehension.

Savage squeezed her arm to reassure her, then reached for the doorknob. Pulse hammering, he changed his mind and decided that this door—seemingly unprotected—looked too much like the entrance to someone's apartment for him to just walk in.

Holding his breath, he raised his knuckles and rapped.

The steel door responded with muted thunks.

Savage knocked again, this time harder.

Now the steel door reverberated, a hollow echo beyond it.

Five seconds. Ten seconds.

Fifteen. Nothing.

No one's home, Savage thought. Or there's no apartment beyond the door, or Akira's
sensei
is too asleep to hear me, or …

Akira's
sensei
would be the best. No professional sleeps that deeply.

Screw it.

Savage turned the doorknob, pushed the door open, and entered.

Though Rachel clutched the back of his jacket, Savage ignored her, finding himself confronted by muted lights in a massive chamber.

No, not muted lights. The recessed bulbs beneath ledges that framed the ceiling glowed so dimly that “muted” wouldn't describe them. Twilight. False dawn. Even those descriptions weren't adequate. The illumination was vaguer than candles but just sufficient to reveal an enormous
dojo,
countless
tatami
mats on the floor, with subtly reflecting polished cypress wood on the beams and panels of the burnished walls and ceiling.