The Fifth Profession

“-choose a trap. This other path-”

“-heads toward that other path which-”

“-heads toward the western exit. Damn it, give me the radio. Christ.” The labored voice belonged to Hailey, Savage realized. But with frightening clarity, he remembered the voice not from the shouts that had chased him out of the shrine, instead from the cultivated, threatening, oh-so-confident, imperious aristocrat who'd tried to bribe him in the hospital and implied a death sentence if Savage didn't back off.

False memory. Yes! But it made no difference. I didn't back off, you son of a bitch, Savage thought. And if it's death you want to talk about-Savage clutched the Beretta -let's debate.

Below him, past the dense tangle of trees and shrubs, he heard Hailey say, “Beta, this is Alpha!” Hailey evidently spoke to the radio he'd told one of his men to give him. “We've lost them! Instruct all units! Block all exits from the park!”

In the distance, sirens wailed, the distinctive alternating high-low blares of police cars approaching. Had the disturbance at the shrine been sufficient for attendants to phone the authorities?

“Christ!” Hailey said. “Beta, fall back! Avoid all contact with-!”

The sirens reached a crescendo, their wail diminishing.

“Wait!” Hailey said.

The wails receded, farther, fainter.

“Beta, disregard fallback order! Maintain surveillance on exits! Assume camouflage status! Out!” His tone changed, less loud, as if he addressed the men beside him. “Let's go.”

“Which way?” a man on the path asked.

“How the hell do I know? Split up! Check all the paths! Maybe they've doubled back! One thing we're sure of-they can't get out, and they're bound to attract attention!”

Footsteps scurried from the area, veering down various lanes.

“What if they're in the woods?” a receding voice said.

“Hope to God they're not!” Hailey's voice diminished. “A hundred and eighty acres! We'd need fucking Tonto and Rin Tin Tin to find them!… No, they'll feel trapped! They'll want to get out of here as quick as they can! Before we block off the exits!”

A breeze rustled branches. Birds sang. This section of the park became silent.

Savage exhaled softly, slowly, and lowered his Beretta. When he turned toward Rachel hunkered behind him in the bushes, he saw her open her mouth to speak. Quickly he put a hand to her lips and forcefully shook his head. He pointed toward the unseen path below and shrugged as if to indicate that one of the men might have stayed behind.

She flicked her eyes in acknowledgment. He removed his hand and eased his hips to the ground, straining to be quiet. Sweat trickled down his face. The shadows of trees cooled his brow.

But fear still churned his stomach. How long will they search? he thought. Besides the men who chased us, how many others does Hailey have? Who is he? Why am I a threat to him? How did he find us?

The nagging questions made Savage's temples throb.

Forsyth. He called me Forsyth, then Doyle. But why both names? And why last names? Why didn't he call me Roger or Bob?

Because a first name is used for a friend. But a last name's for someone you hate or…

Yes? Or what? Or control. During SEAL special warfare training, the instructors always chose our last names and always made them sound as if they were calling us shitheads.

But this isn't the SEALs. Hailey looks like a corporate executive or a politician, and for whatever reasons, he sure wants me out of the way.

Savage frowned, suddenly hearing voices on a path. He didn't understand what they were saying, suspected that the bushes muffled their words, then realized that the words were Japanese. The speakers didn't sound frantic or angry but rather seemed entranced by the gardens. He relaxed his tight grip on his handgun.

A further glance toward Rachel forced him to smile. She was tugging at her cotton top, trying to fan the sweat that had trickled onto her breasts. He averted his gaze from the dark stains that emphasized her nipples, pulled his own damp shirt from his chest, flicked a bug off his arm, and pretended disgust. It did the trick. Her blue eyes brightened, tension slowly draining from her.

But at once she seemed to remember something, scrunched her forehead, and pointed toward her Rolex watch. Savage knew what she meant. It was almost eleven o'clock. They were due to be at the restaurant in the Ginza district at noon, ready for Akira's phone call.

If Akira had a chance to phone. Maybe the police hadn't believed his story about defending himself against the three intruders. Maybe they'd taken Akira to headquarters for intensive questioning.

Maybe.

But maybe not. If Akira phoned the restaurant at the scheduled time and Savage and Rachel weren't there, he'd…

Phone again at six P.M. as they'd agreed. That was the point of a backup plan-to allow for contigencies.

But what if we can't get out of here by six? Savage thought. The next contact time was nine in the morning, and if that didn't work, if Savage and Rachel still couldn't get away from Hailey by then…

Akira would assume the worst. He might go to ground. The only chance for contact was the further backup plan of Savage's phoning Akira's home. But Eko didn't speak English. Her sole instructions were to answer “moshi, moshi” -hello-if Akira was safe, and “hai”-a rude tone of “yes”-if Akira was threatened and wanted Savage to run.

Christ, we didn't plan enough, Savage thought. We're professionals, but we're used to protecting others, not ourselves. We need protectors. As it is, trying to defend ourselves, we're too involved, we've got fools for clients, and we screwed up. We assumed that Akira would be the only one in danger. But now…!

Get control, Savage told himself. You're safe for the moment, and even if it's impossible to get to the restaurant by noon, six P.M. is a long way off.

Yes, that's what worries me, he thought. Anything can happen. If Hailey and his men are stubborn-and Savage assumed that they would be-we won't get out of here till dark.

And then?

We can't just walk out. We'll have to go over a wall. And in a city of twelve million Japanese with only a few thousand Americans living here, we'll attract as much attention, we'll be as conspicuous, as Godzilla.

Shit! Savage mustered the strength to subdue his increasing distress and turned yet again to Rachel. Leaves on her skirt. Dust on her cheeks. Dangling strands of auburn hair. Despite all those imperfections, she looked as beautiful… as spirited, angular, sharply featured, and glowing… as only Rachel could look.

I love you, Savage wished he could take the risk of telling her. Instead of violating silence, he leaned close and gently kissed the tip of her nose, tasting her dusty, sweat-salty skin. She closed her eyes, shuddered, reopened her lids, blinked nervously, and stroked his hair.

Remember, Savage told himself. Until this is over, she's your principal, not your lover. And Akira's waiting. Maybe. And Hailey's men are out there. Certainly.

So what are you going to do?

Move!

Savage gripped Rachel's elbows, kissed her…

And turned her, pointing toward the thickets beyond them.

She mouthed silent words. It took him a moment before he realized. What she'd silently told him… a familiar refrain…

Was…

I'll follow you to hell.

They squirmed through the mulch through the forest.