The Fifth Profession

And since you're American, I doubt you can simply call him up and arrange an appointment.”

“Oh, we'll talk to him, all right,” Savage said. “Bet on it.”

The waitress brought warm, damp napkins. Then their meal arrived: a clear soup with bits of onions and mushrooms, seasoned with grated ginger; yams in a mixture of soy sauce and sweet wine; rice with curry sauce; and boiled fish with teriyaki vegetables. The various sauces accented each other superbly. Savage hadn't realized how hungry he was. Though the portions were more than ample, he ate everything, so ravenous he was hampered only slightly by his awkwardness with chopsticks.

But throughout, he kept thinking about Akira and how in the eighteen hours they'd been separated so much had changed that their arrangements for getting in touch with each other no longer seemed adequate.

“I can't wait till nine tomorrow morning,” Savage said. He gulped the last of his tea, left a generous tip with payment for the bill, and stood. “I saw a pay phone in the lobby.”

“What are you-?”

“Calling Akira.”

The phone was in a corner away from the restaurant's entrance and the coatcheck area. Partially sheltered by a screen that depicted brilliant sunflowers, Savage put coins in the phone and dialed the number Akira had given him.

The phone rang four times.

Savage waited, his fingers cramping around the phone. A fifth ring.

A woman suddenly answered. Eko. Savage couldn't fail to recognize her voice.

“Hai.” In response to her curt tone, Savage's knees weakened. He'd just heard the signal that Akira was in trouble, that Savage was supposed to leave Japan as quickly as possible.

Heart racing, he desperately wanted to question her, to find out what had happened. But Akira had emphasized-Eko didn't speak English.

I can't just break contact! Savage thought. I have to think of a way to communicate! There's got to be a-!

He heard a rattle on the phone. Another voice spoke abruptly. A man's voice. In Japanese.

Savage's heart pounded faster as he listened, dismayed, unable to identify the speaker or to understand his furtive statements.

With equal abruptness, the voice switched to English.

“Doyle? Forsyth? Damn it, whatever you call yourself, listen, buddy! If you know what's good for you, if you want to save your ass, you'd better-”

Savage acted without thinking. Reflexively, in shock, he slammed down the phone. His knees kept shaking.

Madness.

In the background, from the raucous bar, the Japanese country-western singer reprised Hank Williams's song.

So lonesome I could die.

8

“Who was it?” Rachel asked.

They skirted the crowd on the neon-blazing street. Heat from the massive walls of lights felt like sunlamps.

Savage's stomach churned. He feared he'd vomit the enormous meal he'd eaten. “I never heard the voice before. I can't judge his Japanese accent, but his English was perfect. I think-American. No way to know whose side he's on. He was angry, impatient, threatening. I didn't dare stay on the line. If the call was traced, they'd know to search the Ginza district. One thing's sure. Akira wouldn't have permitted strangers in his home, and Eko wouldn't have answered ‘hai’ without a reason.”

“The police?”

“Don't have Americans on their staff. And how did he know to call me ‘Forsyth’ and ‘Doyle’? Akira wouldn't have told them.”

“Willingly.”

Savage knew how effective certain chemicals were in making reluctant informants cooperate. “I have to assume Akira's in trouble. But I don't know how to help him.”

A siren made him flinch. Turning, primed to run, he saw an ambulance wail past.

He exhaled.

“We can't keep walking the streets,” Rachel said.

“But where would we feel safe to spend the night?”

“There's no way I could sleep,” Rachel said. “I'm so uptight I-”

“Two choices. Find someplace to hide, wait till morning, and go to the restaurant, hoping Akira will call at nine. But the restaurant might be a trap.”

“So what's the second choice?” Rachel asked.

“Skip plans. I told Akira that even if Eko gave me the warning signal over the phone, I wouldn't leave Japan. I want answers.” Surprised by the growl in his voice, Savage unfolded the note of directions Akira had given him. “A wise and holy man, Akira said. His sensei. The man he wanted to talk to. Well, let's see just how wise this holy man is.”

9

In contrast with the glare of the Ginza district, this section of Tokyo was shadowy, oppressive. A few streetlights and occasional lamps in narrow windows did little to dispel the gloom. After paying the taxi driver, Savage got out with Rachel and felt conspicuous despite the darkness. His shoulder blades tensed.

“This might not have been such a good idea,” Rachel said.

Savage studied the murky street. The murmur of distant traffic emphasized the silence. Though the sidewalk seemed deserted, even in the darkness Savage detected numerous alleys and alcoves, in any of which hidden eyes might be watching, predators waiting to… “The taxi's gone. I don't see any others. It's too late to change our minds.”

“Swell… How can we be sure the driver even brought us to where we wanted to go?” Rachel asked.

“‘Abraham believed by virtue of the absurd,’” Savage said, reminding Rachel of her favorite quotation. “At this point we have to trust.”

“Swell,” Rachel said again, making the word sound like an expletive.

Savage parted his hands, a gesture of futility. “By the book, the way to do this is to leave the taxi several blocks away and approach the area cautiously, trying to get a sense of whether there's a trap.” He glanced around. “But Tokyo has very few street names. Without the driver's help, I'm not sure I could have found this place, even from a few blocks away.”

The place he referred to was a five-story, dingy concrete building without windows. It looked like a warehouse, out of place among the numerous tiny-windowed apartment complexes along the street, though those structures too looked dingy.

The building was dark.

“I can't believe anyone lives here,” Rachel said. “There's been a mistake.”

“… Just one way to learn.” Yet again Savage scanned the dark street. He placed his hand on the Beretta beneath his windbreaker and approached the front door.

It was steel.

Savage looked but couldn't find a button for a doorbell or an intercom. He didn't see a lock.