The Fifth Profession

“This way,” Savage said, urging Rachel to the left, disrupting the concentration of Japanese who gazed toward the shrine's interior in reverence of solemn artifacts that symbolized their noble heritage prior to the U.S. occupation, prior to the Second World War.

Judging the corridor ahead, Savage jerked his eyes furtively to the left, through a doorway that led outside. The five Americans, led by the distinguished-looking, expensively dressed man he remembered from the Mountain Retreat and the Harrisburg hospital, hurried with strained long strides across the crowded courtyard, nearing the shrine. The only reason they didn't break into a run, Savage guessed, was that they knew their skin had attracted too much attention to them already. A commotion here would provoke a rapid police response.

The jasmine-scented corridor veered to the right. Struggling to avoid further groups of meditating Japanese, Savage and Rachel zigzagged, turned sideways, twisted, and veered, desperate to reach an exit on the left.

They burst from the shrine into blinding sunlight, faced another wide courtyard, heard indignant Japanese voices behind them, American voices apologizing, and started to run.

“I'm certain,” Savage said. Past the courtyard, another path-lined with trees-beckoned. “The well-dressed man, the one with the mustache, who seems to be their leader? Midfifties? Sandy hair? Eyes like a politician?”

“Yes, from a door in the shrine I got a look at him,” Rachel said, racing.

“In my memory of the Harrisburg hospital, he came to visit me. He said his name was…”

Words that were never spoken made Savage shiver.

Philip Hailey. “As useful a name as any other. Anonymous. Waspishly American.”

“Kamichi and Akira. What happened to their bodies?”

“They were hurried away.”

“The police?”

“Weren't informed.”

”…So much blood.

“That corridor of the hotel has now been remodeled.”

“Who killed them, damn it, and why?”

“The motive for the murders relates to the conference, but the purpose of the conference is not your business. We expect to identify whoever was responsible. Consider the topic closed. My purpose in coming here was to express our sympathy for your suffering and to assure you that everything possible is being done to avenge the atrocity.”

“In other words, stay out of it.”

“Do you have any choice? Think of this money as compensation. We've also paid for your hospital bills. Incentives. Demonstrations of our good faith. In return, we count on your good faith. Don't disappoint us.”

And good old Phil hadn't needed to add, “If you don't cooperate, if you don't keep away from our affairs, we'll mix your ashes with Kamichi's and Akira's.”

Spurred by fear, Savage raced harder. Japanese pilgrims darted to the side, glaring in outrage at this violation of the shrine's peaceful atmosphere. Rachel's low-heeled shoes rapped on the concrete courtyard.

The tree-lined path seemed to widen as Savage charged toward it. Ten yards. Five. Sweating, he surged into its funnel, hearing Rachel exhale beside him.

He also heard shouts. With a frantic glance backward, he saw the five men led by Philip Hailey lunging out of the temple and across the courtyard.

“Forsyth!” Hailey yelled. “Stop!”

Forsyth? Savage tensed with shocked recognition. Forsyth was the alias I used in the hospital! Roger Forsyth! But I was never in that hospital! I never met Philip Hailey! So how could he know-?

“Damn it, Forsyth, stop!”

Again the objects before him seemed to shimmer, as if the path, the trees and bushes along it, weren't real. But the urgent footfalls of the men in the courtyard sounded very real.

Savage strained to run faster. “Rachel, are you okay? Can you keep up?”

“These shoes”-she breathed-”weren't built for a marathon.” She kicked off the shoes and sprinted next to him, her long strides billowing her loose cotton skirt.

“Forsyth!” Hailey yelled. “Doyle! For God's sake, stop!”

Doyle? In Virginia Beach, that's what Mac said my name was! Savage thought. Robert Doyle! And that's who the bartender told the police killed Mac!

Ahead, the path curved toward the right, but just before the curve, another path intersected with it.

Savage slowed. He couldn't know what lay beyond the curve. Perhaps a barrier. Staring desperately to the right, he saw that the intersecting path formed a straight line for quite a distance. It was almost deserted. We'll be in the open- easy targets. He spun toward the left and saw that this side of the intersecting path had several tangents along the way.

Tugging Rachel's hand, he sprinted toward the left as Hailey and his men rushed closer.

“Doyle!”

Savage almost drew the Beretta from beneath his jacket. But so far Hailey and his men hadn't shown any weapons. Despite their evident determination to stop Savage from continuing to search for answers-had they been responsible for the attack on Akira's home last night?-they weren't foolish enough to start shooting and cause the Japanese pilgrims to panic and the shrine's attendants to alert the authorities. Hailey and his men have to kill us in private, quietly, or they'll never get out of the park before the police block off the exits, Savage thought. If there's shooting, every Caucasian in the area, even blocks away, will be questioned.

Racing past bushes, Savage saw another path to his right and twenty yards farther, one on his left. But the path to his left would lead back toward the shrine. For a startling instant, Savage was reminded of the maze in Mykonos through which he and Rachel had fled her husband's men.

A labyrinth. Assessing the path to his right, he saw that it too had many tangents. Thick shrubs and trees flanked them. “Come on!” he told Rachel, veering right.

“Doyle!”

Another intersection. Which way? Savage wondered. To the right-other paths. Straight ahead-a sharp angle that also led right. To the left-nothing. Dead end. A barrier of trees and bushes.

Can't get trapped, Savage thought and almost charged straight ahead before he realized that Hailey would think as he did. Have to keep moving. Can't get cornered.

But why should the trees and bushes be a trap?

Abruptly Savage corrected his direction and dodged to the left, pulling Rachel with him. The path was short. The dead end threatened. Spotting a gap between shrubs, Savage gripped Rachel and urged her through it, stooping, squirming after her. He squeezed past trees, crawled under branches, struggled up a slope, snaked around boulders, and crouched in a thicket, his shoes sinking into a deep, moist, unpleasant mulch. Bushes surrounded them. The park was a perfect blend of artifice and chaos, the meticulously tended paths in contrast with the formlessness of nature. A wilderness in downtown Tokyo.

Canopied by leaves, tickled by ferns, Savage inhaled the mulch's loamy fragrance and drew his Beretta. Rachel's breasts heaved, sweat trickling off her forehead, her eyes wide with apprehension. He motioned for her not to speak. She nodded rapidly, emphatically. Ready with the pistol, he stared down the slope, the woods so thick he couldn't see the path.

The cloying leaves buffered sound. Hurried footsteps, urgent breathing, frustrated curses, seemed to come from far away.

But Savage's hunters couldn't have been more than twenty yards below.

“Which fucking-”

“-way. How do I know where they-”

“-must have gone-”

“-over here. No-”

“-there. They wouldn't-”