The Fifth Profession

a woman climb over.

Despite the myth that New Yorkers minded their own business, it was more than likely that someone would call the police.

“Do the honors, Akira.”

On the way here, they'd stopped at an East Side tavern, where the owner-one of Savage's contacts-had sold them a set of lockpicks.

Akira freed the lock as easily as if he'd possessed a key. From their frequent visits here, both men knew that the gate was not equipped with intrusion sensors. Akira pushed the gate open, waited for Savage and Rachel to follow, then shoved the gate back into place. In case they needed to leave here quickly, he didn't relock it. Anyone who lived along this lane and found the gate unlocked would merely be disgusted that one of the neighbors had been irresponsible.

They faced the lane. A century earlier, stables and carriage houses had flanked it. The exteriors of the buildings had been carefully modified, their historical appearance preserved. Narrow entrances alternated with quaint double doors that had long ago provided access to barns. The surface of the lane remained cobblestoned. Electric lights, shaped like lanterns, reinforced the impression that time had been suspended.

An exclusive expensive location.

The lane was wide. Intended for horse-drawn buggies, it now permitted residents to steer cars into renovated garages. Lights gleamed from windows. But the only lights Savage cared about were those that shone from the fourth town house on his left.

He walked with Rachel and Akira toward it. Pausing at the entrance, he pressed a button beneath an intercom.

The oak door was lined with steel, Savage knew. Even so, he heard a bell ring faintly behind it. Ten seconds later, he Tang the bell again, and ten seconds later again. He waited to hear Graham's voice from the intercom.

No response.

“Asleep?” Savage wondered.

“At ten P.M.? With the lights on?”

“Then he doesn't want to be interrupted, or else he's gone out.”

“There's one way to tell,” Akira said. “If he's home, he'll have wedged a bar against the door in addition to locking it.”

The door had two dead-bolt locks. Akira picked them in rapid succession. He tested the door. It opened.

Savage hurried through. He'd been here so often that he knew the specifics of Graham's defenses. Not only were the windows barred; they had intrusion sensors. So did the doors to Graham's garage. And this door. As soon as its locks were freed, anyone entering had to open a closet on the left and press a series of buttons on a console to prevent an alarm from shrieking throughout the neighborhood and, more important, to prevent the local police from sending a squad car in response to a flashing light on their precinct's monitor. This had to be done within fifteen seconds.

Savage yanked the closet door open. A year ago, after several tries, due to professional habit, he'd managed to catch a glimpse of the numbers Graham had pressed.

He pressed those numbers now. A red light stopped glowing.

No siren wailed.

Savage leaned against the closet's wall.

Akira's silhouette filled the doorway. “I've checked this floor. No sign of him.”

Savage had been so preoccupied he hadn't paid attention to the harsh throbbing music he'd heard when he entered. “Heavy metal?”

“The radio,” Akira said. “Graham must have left it on when he went out. If someone tried to break in, the intruder would hear the music, decide the house was occupied, and look for another target.”

“But why would Graham bother? If someone tripped a sensor, the sirens would scare an intruder a lot more than the music would. Besides, when we stood outside, I barely heard the doorbell and didn't hear the music at all. The radio's hardly a deterrent.”

“It's not like Graham to go out and forget to turn it off. Heavy metal? Graham hates electric music. He's strictly classical.”

“Something's wrong. Check the top floors. I'll take the basement. Rachel, stay here.”

As Akira crept up a stairway to the left, Savage's bowels contracted. He crossed the large room that occupied this level. The room was Graham's office, though the glass-and-chrome desk at the rear was the only detail that indicated its purpose. Otherwise, it seemed a living room. To the right, bookshelves flanked a fireplace. To the left, stereo equipment filled a cabinet, Boston Acoustics speakers on either side, the source of the throbbing music. In the middle, a coffee table-its glass and chrome a match to Graham's desk-separated two leather sofas. Beneath them, an Afghan rug covered most of the floor, the border brightly waxed hardwood. Large pots of ferns occupied each corner. The brilliant white walls-upon which hung only a few paintings, all by Monet-reinforced the feeling of spaciousness created by the sparse furnishings.

A stranger could not have known, as Savage did, that Graham hid business documents in alcoves behind the bookshelves, and that the stereo's purpose was to assure those few clients he trusted enough to come here that the swelling cadences of Beethoven's glorious Eroica prevented their subdued conversation from being picked up by undetected microphones.

While Savage passed the coffee table, he noticed three empty bottles of champagne. Approaching the desk in the rear, he saw an ashtray filled with cigar butts and a tall-stemmed glass, the bottom of which contained a remnant of liquid.

To the left of the desk, he reached a door and cautiously opened it. Shadowy steps descended to a murky basement. He opened his overcoat and withdrew a.45 pistol that the owner of the East Side bar had sold him along with the lockpicks. Akira had bought one as well.

Gripping the pistol with his leather-gloved right hand, Savage pawed with his other hand, found a light switch, and illuminated the basement. Sweating, he took one step down. Another. Then another.

He held his breath, sprang to the bottom, and tensely aimed.

Three tables. Neat piles of wires, batteries, and disc-shaped objects covered them, various sophisticated eavesdropping devices in progressive stages of assembly.

A furnace. Ready with the.45, Savage peered behind it, seeing no one. Moisture dripped from his forehead. There weren't any other hiding places. He climbed the stairs.

But he wasn't relieved.

4

When Akira joined him, having searched the upper floors and reporting nothing unusual, Savage still didn't feel at ease.

Rachel slumped on a sofa.

Akira holstered his pistol. Electric guitars kept wailing.

“Maybe we're overreacting. There might be a simple explanation for Graham's uncharacteristic choice of music.”

“You don't sound convinced.”

Rachel pressed her hands to her ears. “Maybe he likes to torture himself.”

“Let's do ourselves a favor.” Savage pushed a button on the stereo's tuner, and the heavy-metal radio station became mercifully silent.

“Thank God,” Rachel said. She studied the coffee table. “Did you notice these empty bottles?”

Akira nodded. “Champagne. Graham loves it.”

“So much? Three bottles in one evening?”

“Graham's large enough to tolerate a great deal of alcohol,” Savage said. “But you're right, it does seem strange. I've never seen him overindulge.”