The Fifth Profession

customs?”

“Nothing.”

“Please come with me.”

They left the office, passed crowded immigration and customs checkpoints, and reached an exit from the airport.

“Enjoy your stay,” the man said.

“We appreciate your cooperation,” Savage said.

The official shrugged. “Your influential acquaintance was most insistent. Charmingly so, of course. When possible, I'm pleased to accommodate her wishes. She instructed me to tell you she's arranged for your transportation. Through that door.”

Curious, Savage stepped outside, followed by Rachel and Akira. In brilliant sunshine, on a street with a grass divider, a parking lot, and a background of palm trees, what he saw at the curb appalled him.

Joyce Stone-ignoring Savage's advice in Athens to use an inconspicuous car-had sent a Rolls-Royce. And behind the steering wheel sat one of the burly escorts that Savage had met at Joyce Stone's hotel suite near the Acropolis.

“I don't like this,” Akira said.

Rachel tensed. “Why?”

“This isn't the way it's done,” Savage said. “All that's missing is a sign on the side of the car. ‘Important people inside.’ We might as well put up a target.”

The burly driver got out of the car, squared his shoulders, and grinned at Savage. “So you actually made it. Hey, when I heard, I was sure impressed.”

Savage felt more dismayed. “You were told? You knew we'd be your passengers?”

“The boss has been biting her nails for the last three days. She couldn't wait to tell me.” The man kept grinning.

“Shit.”

“Hey, everything's cool,” the man said.

“No,” Akira said, “it isn't.”

The man stopped grinning. “Who the hell are you?”

Akira ignored him, turning to Savage. “Should we get another car?”

“What's wrong with this one?” the burly man said.

“You wouldn't understand.”

“Come on, it's fully loaded.”

“At the moment, stereo and air-conditioning aren't our priorities,” Akira said.

“No, I mean fully loaded.”

The stream of passing cars and pedestrians leaving the airport made Savage uneasy. It took him a moment to register what the man had said. “Loaded?”

“A shotgun under each front fender. Automatic. Double-ought buck. Flash-bang ejectors under each side. Smoke canisters in the rear. Bulletproof. Armored fuel tank. But just in case, if the fuel tank gets hit by a rocket grenade, a steel plate flips up in the trunk and keeps the flames from spreading inside. Just what I said. Fucking loaded. With all this terrorist stuff, the boss believes in precautions.”

Akira frowned at Savage. “It's possible.”

“Except the car's so damned ostentatious,” Savage said.

“But perhaps not here in southern France. I saw five equally vulgar cars drive past while we talked.”

“You've got a point. I'm tempted,” Savage said.

“Vulgar?” the burly man said. “This car isn't vulgar. It's a dream.”

“That depends on what kind of dreams you have,” Savage said.

Rachel fidgeted. “I don't like standing out here.”

“Okay,” Savage said. “We use it.” He shielded Rachel while he opened the rear door and she quickly got in. “Akira, sit beside her.” He pivoted toward the burly escort. “I drive.”

“But…”

“Sit in the passenger seat, or walk.”

The man's feelings looked hurt. “You'll have to promise I'm not responsible.”

“That's a given.”

“What?”

“You're not responsible. Get in the car.” As Savage scrambled behind the steering wheel, the man scurried next to him, slamming his door.

“Controls,” Savage said. “Where are they?”

“It's just an automatic.”

“I mean the flash-bangs, the smoke, the shotguns.”

“Lift the console to the right of the gearshift.”

Savage saw clearly marked buttons. He twisted the ignition key and hurried from the airport.

Despite the airport's name, Savage's destination wasn't eastward toward Nice. Instead he drove west on N 98, a coastal road that curved along the Cote d'Azur and would lead him toward Antibes, Cap d'Antibes, and a few kilometers later, Cannes. Among the islands off that glamorous city was Joyce Stone's equally glamorous principality, which she ruled in the name of her infirm husband.

“Yeah,” the burly man said, “just stay on this road until-”

“I've been in southern France before.”

A year and a half ago, Savage had escorted an American film producer to the festival at Cannes. At that time, terrorists had threatened to attack what they called “the purveyors of imperialistic racist oppression.” Given the tense political climate, Savage had approved of his principal's choice to use a hotel in one of the nearby villages instead of Cannes. While the principal slept, he'd be safely away from the site of the threatened violence. Preparing for that assignment, Savage had arrived a few days early and scouted both Cannes and the surrounding area, learning traffic patterns, major and minor streets, in case he had to rush his principal away from an incident.

“Yes, I've been in southern France before,” Savage said. “I'm sure I can find the way to your boss.”

The farther he drove from the airport at Nice, the more traffic dwindled, most of it having turned onto a superhighway to the north. That superhighway ran parallel to this road and would have taken Savage to Cannes sooner, but he didn't intend to enter the city. His instructions to Joyce Stone had been to have a powerboat waiting at a beach along this road a half-kilometer before he reached the city. The powerboat would take them to a yacht, which in turn would take them to Joyce Stone's island-an efficient, surreptitious way to deliver Rachel to her sister.

“I hate to tell you this,” Akira said. “I think we've got company.”

Savage glanced toward his rearview mirror. “The van?”

“It's been following us since we left the airport.”

“Maybe it's headed toward one of the resorts along this road.”

“But it keeps passing cars to stay behind us. If it's in a hurry, it ought to pass us as well.”

“Let's find out.”

Savage slowed. The van reduced speed.

A Porsche veered around both of them.

Savage sped up. So did the van.

Savage glared toward the burly man beside him. “Is it too much to hope you brought handguns?”

“It didn't seem necessary.”

“If we survive this, I'm going to beat the shit out of you.”

Rachel looked terrified. “How did they find us?”

“Your husband must have guessed your sister arranged for the rescue.”

“But he thinks we drove into Yugoslavia.”

“Right. Most of his men are searching there,” Savage said, increasing speed. “But he must have kept a team in