The Fifth Profession

“Because I disagreed with what happened in Grenada.”

“Yes, the U.S. invasion of that tiny Caribbean island. It's been several years since you approached me, but if my memory hasn't failed, the date of the invasion was October twenty-five, nineteen eighty-three.”

“Your memory never fails.”

“As a Briton, I'm instinctively precise. Six thousand U.S. soldiers-coordinated units of Rangers, Marines, SEALs, and Eighty-second Airborne paratroopers-attacked Grenada, their mission to rescue one thousand American medical students held captive by Soviet and Cuban troops.”

“Supposedly held captive.”

“You sound as angry as the day you came to me. You still feel the invasion wasn't justified?”

“For sure, there'd been trouble on the island. A coup had deposed the prime minister, but he was pro-Cuban, and the man who replaced him was Marxist. Different shades of red. The coup caused civil unrest. A hundred and forty protesters were shot by local soldiers. And the former prime minister was assassinated. But the American medical students stayed in their compound-none of them was injured. Basically two Communist politicians had fought each other for power. Why Americans were studying medicine on a pro-Cuban island I don't know, but the coup hardly threatened the balance of power in Latin America.”

“What about the Cuban, East German, North Korean, Libyan, Bulgarian, and Soviet technical advisors on the island, many of whom were actually soldiers?”

“An exaggeration of U.S. Intelligence. I saw only local soldiers and Cuban construction workers. Sure, when the invasion began, the Cubans grabbed rifles and fought as if they'd had military training, but what young man in Cuba hasn't had military training?”

“And the ten-thousand-foot airstrip being constructed, capable of accommodating long-range bombers?”

“What I saw was less than half that long, suitable for commercial flights to bring in tourists. The invasion was show business. The U.S. looked impotent when Iran took our embassy personnel hostage in ‘seventy-nine. Reagan defeated Carter because he vowed he'd act decisively if Americans were threatened again. Just after the Grenada coup, an Arab terrorist drove a truckload of explosives into the U.S. Marine barracks in war-ravaged Lebanon. Two hundred and thirty peacekeeping soldiers were killed in the blast. What happened in Lebanon was obscene, but did Reagan retaliate in that region? No, because the Mideast situation's too complicated. So what did he do to save face? He ordered American forces to attack an easy target to rescue supposed American hostages in the Caribbean.”

“But the American public perceives Grenada as a blow for freedom, an important U.S. victory against a Communist threat in the Western Hemisphere.”

“Because reporters were restricted from the invasion. The only reports came from the military. In civilian life, it's called lying. In politics, it's called disinformation.”

“Yes,” Graham said. “Disinformation. Exactly the word I was waiting for. As I said, what attracted me to you was your mind. Your ability to step back from your military conditioning, recognize the truth, and think independently. Why was your reaction so bitter?”

“You know that already. I was part of the first team to hit the island. We parachuted from a transport plane. Other chutes brought us rafts because we had to infiltrate the island from offshore. But the Navy misjudged the weather. The wind was stronger than predicted. At night, the waves were so fierce we couldn't see the rafts. A lot of us-a lot of my friends-drowned before we reached the rafts.”

“Died bravely.”

“Yes.”

“In the service of their country.”

“In the service of a movie-star president who sent us needlessly into combat so he'd look like a hero.”

“So with disgust, you refused to reenlist in the Navy, despite the fifty-thousand-dollar incentive the military offered you. However, a disaffected Navy SEAL, a top-of-the-line ex-commando, could have asked a huge fee from mercenary recruiters.”

“I didn't want to be a mercenary.”

“No. You wanted dignity. You had the wisdom to understand your true vocation, not a soldier but a protector.”

Graham leaned back behind his spacious mahogany desk, puffing his cigar with satisfaction. Though corpulent, he wore impeccably tailored clothes that minimized his bulk: a gray pinstripe suit and vest, a subdued maroon tie, and a subtle blue handkerchief tucked perfectly into the chest pocket of his suitcoat. “The tie and the handkerchief should never match,” he always insisted, instructing Savage about the proper way to dress if a distinguished client had to be escorted to a semiformal occasion. “Wear clothes to match your surroundings, but never choose a suit that's more elegant than your client's.”

Proper dress had been only a small part of what Graham taught Savage about the rules of executive protection. The occupation was far more complex than Savage had imagined when he first came to Graham in the fail of ‘83, though to Savage's credit he had not assumed that his extensive experience with one of the finest military units in the world had been all the preparation he would need. Quite the contrary. Savage's commando training had taught him the value of admitting what he didn't know, of thoroughly preparing himself for a mission. Knowledge is power. Ignorance is death. That was why he'd come to Graham in the first place-to dispel his ignorance and learn from a world-class expert about the refinements of his newly chosen profession.

Weapons: Savage required no instruction in that regard. There wasn't a weapon-firearms, explosives, ballpoint pens, or piano wire-that Savage couldn't use proficiently.

But what about surveillance techniques? Savage's training had been to assault, not follow.

And “bug” detection? Savage's experience with bugs was limited to disease-bearing pests in jungles, not miniature microphones implanted in telephones, lamps, and walls.

And evasive driving? Savage had never evaded an objective. He'd always attacked. And as far as driving was concerned, he and his unit had always been transported to whichever plane or ship would take them to their target. Driving was something he did for fun in a rented Corvette to take him from bar to bar while on leave.

“Fun?” Graham had winced. “I'll cure you of wanting that. And conspicuous vehicles are forbidden. As for bars, you'll drink only in moderation, a distinguished wine while eating, for example, and never when on assignment. Do you smoke?”

Savage did.

“Not anymore. How can you notice a threat to a principal-”

“A what?”

“A principal. In the profession you claim you wish to enter, a client is called a principal. An appropriate word, for your principal is your main-your exclusive-concern. How can you notice a threat to your principal when you're busy fumbling to light a cigarette? You think I contradict myself because I smoke a cigar? I indulge myself now that I've given up protecting in favor of teaching and arranging for my students to find employment. For an agent's fee, of course. But you, how can you protect a principal when your hand is compromised by a cigarette? Yes, I can see you have a great deal to learn.”

“Then teach me.”

“First you must prove you're worthy.”

“How?”

“Why did you choose-?”

“To be a bodyguard?”

“An executive protector. A bodyguard is a thug. A protector is an artist. Why did you choose this profession?”

Accustomed to the demeaning shouts of his Navy instructors, Savage hadn't felt angry at Graham's outburst. Instead he'd humbly sorted through his instincts, trying to verbalize his motivation. “To be useful.”

Graham had raised his eyebrows. “Not an inferior response. Elaborate.”

“There's so much pain in the world.”

“Then why not join the Peace Corps?”

Savage had straightened. “Because I'm a soldier.”

“And now you want to become a protector? A member of the comitatus. Ah, I see you're unfamiliar with the term. No matter. You'll soon understand, for I've decided to accept you as a student.