The Fifth Profession

was seared to the depths of his soul. So dark, so deep, so black, so profound. An expanding wall of repressive ebony. Savage felt it. The Plymouth was filled with it.

8

At eleven, a country road wound through night-shrouded mountains, leading them to a town called Medford Gap. Kamichi and Akira again exhanged comments in Japanese. Akira leaned forward. “At the town's main intersection, please turn left.”

Savage obeyed. Driving from the lights of Medford Gap, he steered up a narrow, winding road and hoped he wouldn't meet another vehicle coming down. There were very few places to park on the shoulder, and the spring thaw had made them muddy.

Dense trees flanked the car. The road angled higher, veering sharply back and forth. The Plymouth's headlights glinted off banks of lingering snow. Ten minutes later, the road became level, its sharp turns now gentle curves. Ahead, above hulking trees, Savage saw a glow. He passed through an open gate, steered around a clump of boulders, and entered an enormous clearing. Fallow gardens flanked him. Spotlights gleamed, revealing paths, benches, and hedges. But what attracted Savage's attention was the eerie building that loomed before him.

At first, he thought it was several buildings, some made of brick, others of stone, others of wood. They varied in height: five stories, three, four. Each had a different style: a town house, a pagoda, a castle, a chalet. Some had straight walls; others were rounded. Chimneys, turrets, gables, and balconies added to the weird architectural confusion.

But as Savage drove closer, he realized that all of these apparently separate designs were joined to form one enormous baffling structure. My God, he thought. How long must it be? A fifth of a mile? It was huge.

None of the sections had doors, except for one in the middle, where the road led to wide wooden steps and a porch upon which a man in a uniform waited. The uniform, with epaulets and gold braids, reminded Savage of the type that bellmen wore at luxury hotels. Abruptly he saw a sign on the porch-MEDFORD GAP MOUNTAIN RETREAT-and understood that this peculiar building was in fact a hotel.

As Savage stopped at the bottom of the stairs, the man in the uniform came down toward the car.

Savage's muscles hardened.

Why the hell weren't my instructions complete? I should have been told where we'd be staying. This place… on a mountaintop, totally isolated, with just Akira and me to protect Kamichi, no explanation of why we came here, no way to control who comes and goes in a building this huge… it's a security nightmare.

Recalling the mysterious exchange of briefcases, Savage turned to Kamichi to tell him that ura, private thoughts, might be wonderful in Japan, but here they gave a protector a royal pain and what the hell was going on?

Akira intervened. “My master appreciates your concern. He grants that your sense of obligation gives you cause to object to these apparently risky arrangements. But you should understand that except for a few other guests, the hotel will be empty. And those guests, too, have escorts. The road will be watched. No incident is expected.”

“I'm not the primary escort,” Savage said. “You are. With respect, though, yes, I'm disturbed. Do you agree with these arrangements?”

Akira bowed his head, darting his profoundly sad eyes toward Kamichi. “I do what my master wills.”

“As must I. But for the record, I don't like it.”

“

THE STALKER

1

Savage struggled to control the yacht in the storm. The heavy rain, combined with the night, made it almost impossible for him to see the harbor's exit. Only periodic flashes of lightning guided him. Glancing urgently behind him, he frowned toward the gale-shrouded white buildings of Mykonos and the murky arc light at the end of the village's dock. The guards who'd chased him and Rachel from Papadropolis's estate continued to stare, helpless, enraged, toward the yacht escaping through the turbulent water, afraid of shooting lest they hit their master's wife.

Despite the gloomy distance, one guard in particular attracted Savage's full attention. Handsome, wiry, brown skinned, his eyes the saddest Savage had ever seen. The Japanese.

“Savage?” the man had shouted, racing to a halt at the end of the dock.

“Akira?”

Impossible!

The guards charged back along the dock. The Japanese lingered, glaring toward Savage, then rushed to follow the guards. Darkness enveloped them.

The yacht tilted, shoved by the wind. Waves spewed over the side.

Lying on the deck, Rachel peered up. “You know that man?” A flash of lightning revealed her bruised, swollen face. Her drenched jeans and sweater clung to her angular body.

Savage studied the yacht's illuminated controls. Thunder shook the overhang. He felt sick. But not because of the churning sea. Akira's image haunted him. “Know him? God help me, yes.”

“The wind! I can't hear you!”

“I saw him die six months ago!” A wave thrust his shout down his throat.

“I still can't-!” Rachel crawled toward him, grabbed the console, and struggled to stand. “It sounded like you said-!”

“I don't have time to explain!” Savage shivered, but not from the cold. “I'm not sure I can explain! Go below! Put on dry clothes!”

A huge wave smashed against the yacht, nearly toppling them.

“Secure every hatch down there! Make sure nothing's loose to fly around! Strap yourself into a chair!”

Another wave slammed the yacht.

“But what about you?”

“I can't leave the bridge! Do what I say! Go below!”

He stared through the rain-swept window above the controls.

Straining for a glimpse of something, anything, he felt motion beside him, glanced to the right, and saw Rachel disappearing below.

Rain kept lashing the window. A fierce blaze of lightning suddenly revealed that he'd passed the harbor's exit. Ahead, all he saw was black, angry sea. Thunder rattled the window. Night abruptly cloaked him.

Port and starboard were meaningless bearings. Forward and aft had no significance in the rage of confusion around him. He felt totally disoriented.

Now what? he thought. Where are you going? He checked the console but couldn't find the yacht's navigation charts. He didn't dare leave the controls to search for them and suddenly realized that even if he found them, he couldn't distract himself and study them.

With no other recourse, he had to depend on his research. The nearest island was Delos, he remembered: to