The Fifth Profession

AMATERASU

1

Making sure they weren't followed, they walked for several miles. By then, the sun was up, the streets bustling, noisy. Crossing intersections, Savage had to keep reminding himself not to check for cars approaching from the left, as he would have in America and most of Europe, but instead to glance toward the right, for here as in England motorists drove on the left side of the street and thus approached from a pedestrian's right.

At first, Savage's impulse had been to hire a taxi, but for the moment he and Rachel had no destination. Even if they did have an immediate destination, their lack of familiarity with the Japanese language made it impossible for them to give directions to a driver. Akira had partially solved that problem by writing his instructions-how to reach the restaurant and his sensei-in both English and Japanese script. Those instructions didn't help their present circumstance, however, and Savage and Rachel felt totally lost.

Still, they had to go somewhere. Wandering wasn't only pointless but fatiguing. Their travel bags became a burden.

“Maybe we should get on a bus,” Rachel said. “At least we'd be able to sit.”

She soon changed her mind. Every bus was crammed, with no possibility of finding a place even to stand.

Savage paused at the entrance to a subway.

“The trains will be as crowded as the buses,” Rachel said.

“That's more than likely, but let's have a look.”

They descended into a claustrophobia-producing maze. Travelers jostled past them, almost too urgent to cast curious glances at the two Caucasians among them. Savage's bag was slammed painfully against his leg. Ahead, he heard the echoing roar of a train. Emerging from a passageway, he faced a deafening, throng-filled cavern. At least, in contrast with New York subways, the terminal was clean and bright. A chart hung on a wall, various colored lines intersecting. Beneath Japanese ideograms, Savage saw English lettering.

“It's a map of the subway system,” Rachel said.

With effort, they deciphered the map and determined that this branch of the subway was called the Chiyoda line. Its green path led to midtown Tokyo, to the east of which was a black path labeled GINZA.

Savage examined the piece of paper Akira had given him. “The restaurant's in the Ginza district. If we take this train and get off at one of the midtown exits, maybe we'll be close to the rendezvous site.”

“Or even more lost than we are.”

“Have faith,” Savage said. “Isn't that what you keep telling me?”

Travelers lined up at a gate to buy tickets from a machine. Savage imitated them, using Japanese currency he'd obtained at the airport. When a train arrived, the waiting crowd surged toward its opening doors, thrusting Savage and Rachel inside. The sway of the speeding train and the crush of passengers pressed Rachel's breasts against him.

Several stops later, they left the subway, climbing congested stairs to the swelling din of midtown Tokyo. Office buildings and department stores towered before them. The swarm of traffic and pedestrians was overwhelming.

“We can't keep carrying these bags,” Rachel said.

They decided to find a hotel, but what they found instead was a massive railway terminal. Inside the busy concourse there were lockers, where they stored their bags, and finally unencumbered, they felt revitalized.

“Only nine o'clock,” Savage said. “We're not supposed to be at the restaurant till noon.”

“Then let's check out the sights.”

Rachel's buoyant mood was forced, Savage sensed, an anxious attempt to distract herself from the traumas of the night before. She managed to seem carefree only until she reached an exit from the station and noticed a vending machine filled with newspapers. Faltering, she pointed. The front page of a newspaper showed a large photograph of the Japanese they'd seen on television in the North Carolina motel.

“Muto Kamichi.” Savage exhaled forcefully, unable to repress the false memory of Kamichi's body being cut in half. At once he corrected himself, using the name the television announcer had called the anti-American politician. “Kunio Shirai.”

The photograph showed the gray-haired Japanese haranguing an excited group of what looked like students.

Why am I supposed to think I saw him die? Savage thought. An eerie chill swept through him. Does he think he saw us die?

“Let's get out of here,” Savage said, “and find someplace that isn't crowded. I need a chance to think.”

2

They headed west from the railway station and reached a large square called Kokyo Gaien. Beyond a moat, the Imperial Palace glinted. As Savage walked with Rachel along a wide gravel path toward the south of the square, he struggled to arrange his thoughts. “It's almost as if Akira and I were manipulated into coming to Japan.”

“I don't see how that's possible. Every step of the way, we made our own choices. From Greece to southern France to America to here,” Rachel said.

“Yet someone anticipated that we'd arrive at Akira's home. The assault team was ready. Someone's thinking ahead of us.”

“But how?”

They came to a street and once again proceeded west. To the left was the Parliament Building, to the right, beyond a moat, the Imperial Gardens, but Savage was too distracted to pay them attention.

He walked for quite a while in troubled silence. “If two men thought they'd seen each other die and then came into contact with each other,” he finally said, “what would they do?”

“That's obvious.” Rachel shrugged. “The same as you and Akira did. They'd be desperate to know what had really happened.”

“And if they discovered that someone they knew had arranged for them to come into contact?”

“They'd go to that person and demand an explanation,” Rachel said.

“Logical and predictable. So we went to Graham and discovered that he'd been murdered. No answers. But we needed answers. Where else could we look for them?”

“Only one choice,” Rachel said. “Where you thought you'd seen each other die. The Medford Gap Mountain Retreat.”

“Which we discovered didn't exist. So is it also predictable that our next choice would have been to find out what else had never happened?” Savage asked. “To go to the Harrisburg hospital where we thought we'd been treated for our injuries and where we each remembered the same doctor?”

“But after that, your theory falls apart,” Rachel said. “Because no one could predict that you'd decide to have X rays taken to find out if you'd really been injured. And for certain, no one could predict that eventually you'd talk to Dr. Santizo in Philadelphia.”

They passed two institutional-looking buildings. A wooded park attracted them. A Japanese sign at the entrance had English beneath it: INNER GARDEN OF THE MEUI SHRINE.

“But a surveillance team could have been waiting at the hospital,” Savage said. “Or more likely at Medford Gap, where we'd be easier to spot when we showed up to search for the Mountain Retreat. In New York, we made