The Fifth Profession

The Japanese put their family name first, their given name last. The formal term of respect- san instead of “mister” -applied not to the family name but to the given name and came after the given name. Thus the principal would be addressed as Kamichi-san.

“He arrives in New York tomorrow,” Graham had added, “after going through Immigration and Customs in Dallas.”

“The purpose of his visit?” Graham had shrugged.

“Come on. Is he a businessman? A politician? What?” Graham shook his head. “Ura. Those private thoughts you so rightly noted the Japanese cherish. The principal prefers to keep his intentions to himself.”

Savage breathed out sharply. “That's exactly why I'm reluctant to take the job. If I don't know at least the general reason for his visit, how am I supposed to assess the risks he might face? A politician has to fear assassination, but a businessman's biggest worry is being kidnapped. Each risk requires a different defense.”

“Of course. But I've been assured that the threat potential is extremely low,” Graham said. “The principal is bringing his own security. One escort. Clearly if he were worried, he'd bring others. What he wants you to do is be his driver and stand in for his escort when the escort's sleeping. A simple assignment. Five days’ work. Ten thousand dollars in addition to my agent's fee.”

“For a driver? He's overpaying.”

“He insists on the best.”

“The escort?”

“His name is Akira.”

“Only one word?”

“He follows the practice I recommended to you and uses a pseudonym, so an enemy can't trace his public name to his private identity.”

“That's fine. But is he effective?”

“From all reports, extremely. Equivalent to you. Language won't be a problem, by the way. Both of them speak English fluently.”

Savage was only partially reassured. “Is it too much to hope that the principal's willing to confide in me enough to tell me beforehand where I'll be driving?”

“He's not unreasonable. And indeed you will be driving some distance.” Graham looked amused. “He's authorized me to give you this sealed envelope of instructions.”

5

The DC-10 reached the concourse. Its engines stopped shrieking. Friends and relatives hurried toward the arrival door, eager to meet their loved ones.

Savage assessed and dismissed them, studying observers on the sidelines.

Still no sign of a threat.

He moved toward the fringe of the waiting crowd. As usual, it took a frustrating minute for the docking to be completed. At once the empty ramp was filled with surging passengers.

Exuberant hugs of reunion. Kisses of affection.

Savage once again studied his surroundings. Everything seemed normal. He directed his attention toward the exit ramp.

Now came the test. His principal and his escort had flown first class. The extra fare meant not only bigger seats, anxious-to-please attendants, better meals, and unlimited free cocktails (which the escort should decline), but the privilege of entering and leaving the jet before the standard-fare customers.

Early boarding was a plus. Getting quickly through a possible danger in the crowd. But exiting early, facing a crowd and its unstudied risks, was a liability. A professional escort would insist that his principal wait until most passengers left the plane.

Avoid commotion. Maintain maximum order.

So Savage felt encouraged when he saw no Orientals among the Rolex-and-gold-bracelet, dressed-to- impress, first-class travelers, who marched past the crowd, their power briefcases clutched severely, their chins thrust high. Many wore expensive cowboy boots and Stetsons, to be expected since this DC-10 came from Dallas where an earlier 747 from Japan had landed. Evidently the Japanese passengers on the trans-Pacific 747 had either stayed in Dallas or taken connecting flights to cities other than New York.

Savage waited.

More Caucasians. More exuberant reunions.

The surge of passengers became a trickle.

An American Airlines attendant pushed an aged woman in a wheelchair through the arrival door. In theory the DC-10 was empty.

In theory.

Savage glanced behind him. The waiting crowd had dispersed. At the same time, another crowd-impatient- had boarded several departing planes.

This section of the concourse was almost empty. An airport custodian emptied ashtrays. A young couple looked dejected because they'd been too low on a waiting list for openings due to canceled reservations.

No threat.

Savage turned again toward the exit door.

A Japanese man appeared, dressed in dark slacks, a dark turtleneck sweater, a dark windbreaker.

Midthirties. Trim but not slight. No suggestion of muscles, but a definite suggestion of strength. Wiry. Supple. His movements smooth. Graceful. Controlled. Economical. No needless gesture. Like a dancer-who knew martial arts, for the tips and the sides of his hands had calluses typical of someone with karate training. Equally telling, his hands were unencumbered. No briefcase. No carry-on bag. Just a handsome Japanese, five feet ten inches tall, with brown skin, short black hair, strong jaw and cheekbones that framed his rectangular face, and laserlike eyes that assessed every aspect of what he approached.

This would be Akira, and Savage was impressed. On equal terms, an enemy would be foolish to confront this man. Even on terms to the enemy's advantage. Savage was so accustomed to dealing with inferior protectors that he almost smiled at the thought of working with an expert.

Behind Akira, another Japanese emerged from the ramp. Late fifties. Slightly stooped. Carrying a briefcase. Blue suit. Protruding stomach. Streaks of gray in his black hair. Sagging brown cheeks. A weary executive.

But Savage wasn't fooled. The second Japanese could probably straighten his shoulders and tuck in his stomach at will. This man would be Muto Kamichi, Savage's principal, and evidently he too had martial arts training, for like Akira (but unlike any other principal Savage had ever worked for), the tips and sides of Kamichi's hands had calluses.

Savage had been instructed to wear a brown suit and paisley tie to identify him. As Kamichi and Akira approached, he didn't offer to shake hands. The gesture would have compromised his ability to defend. Instead he chose the Japanese custom and bowed slightly.

The two Japanese maintained impassive expressions, but their eyes flickered with surprise that this Westerner was familiar with Japanese etiquette. Savage hadn't intended to obligate them. Still, he suddenly realized that the dictates of their culture forced them to respond, though their bows were less than Savage's, Akira's just a bob of the head as he continued to survey the concourse.

Savage gestured politely for them to follow. Proceeding down the concourse, he watched travelers ahead while Kamichi stayed behind him, and Akira followed, no doubt glancing frequently around.

The moment Savage had seen his principal, he'd raised his right hand to the outside of his suitcoat pocket and pressed a button on a battery-powered transmitter. A radio signal had been sent to a receiver in a vehicle that one of Savage's associates had parked in the airport's ramp. As soon as the associate heard the beep, he'd drive from the ramp to rendezvous with Savage.

The group reached the end of the concourse and descended stairs toward the commotion of the baggage area. Weary ex-passengers hefted suitcases off a conveyor belt, impatient to get outside and into taxis.