The Fifth Profession

Akira kept a close watch on his sensei. Apparently concluding that Taro did not intend to say anything further for the moment, that it would not be rude to break the silence, he resumed his explanation.

“When I was ten,” Akira said, “my father sent me to Taro-sensei, to study martial arts. Until I completed high school, I came here five times a week for two-hour sessions. At home, I religiously practiced what I had been taught. Most male teenagers in Japan supplement their high school classes with intensive private tutoring in order to devote themselves to preparing for university entrance examinations. These occur in February and March and are known as ‘examination hell.’ To fail to be accepted by a university and especially Tokyo University is a great humiliation. But as my studies with Taro-sensei became more demanding and intriguing, I realized that I had no interest in applying to a university, or rather that he and this institution would be my university. Despite my unworthiness, Taro- sensei graciously accepted me for greater instruction. On my nineteenth birthday, I came here with a few belongings and never stepped outside for the next four years.”

Savage tightened his grip on his cup. Turning to Rachel, he saw that the surprise on her face was as strong as what he felt. “Four years?” She was too amazed to blink.

“A moderate amount of time, considering the objective.” Akira shrugged. “To attempt to become a samurai. In our corrupt and honorless twentieth century, the only option for a Japanese devoted to the noble traditions of his nation, committed to becoming a samurai, is to join the fifth profession. To make himself the modern equivalent of a samurai. An executive protector. Because now-just as then-a samurai without a master is a warrior without a purpose, a frustrated wanderer, a directionless, unfulfilled ronin.”

Savage gripped his frail teacup harder, afraid he'd break it but controlled by greater surprise. “And all those men in the dojo…”

“Are Taro-sensei's advanced students. Many are about to graduate after the privilege of having studied with my master for almost four years,” Akira replied. “You might compare them to monks. Or hermits. Except for grocers and other merchants who bring necessary goods, no outsider is permitted to enter.”

“But the outside door was unlocked,” Savage said. “And so was the door to the dojo. In fact, I didn't even see a lock. Anyone could walk in.”

Akira shook his head. “Each door has a hidden bolt, electronically activated, although tonight the bolts were left open. In case my enemies managed to follow me here. An enticement. So they could be subdued and questioned. The stairway, of course, is a trap once the doors are sealed.”

Savage pursed his lips and nodded.

Taro inhaled softly.

Akira turned to him, aware that his master intended to speak.

“Although my students retreat from the world,” Taro said, “I do not wish them to be ignorant of it. By means of newspapers, magazines, and television broadcasts, they're instructed in contemporary events. But in these sequestered surroundings, they're trained to study the present with the same detachment that they do the past. They stand apart, watchers, not participants. Because only by being objective can a protector be effective. The essence of a samurai is to be neutral, without expectations, maintaining a stillness at his core.”

Taro considered his words, bobbed his wizened head, and sipped his tea, the signal that others could speak.

“My apologies, Taro-sensei. But another potentially indelicate question occurs to me,” Savage said.

Taro nodded in permission.

“Akira mentioned the corrupt age in which we live,” Savage said. “In that case, few young men-even Japanese- would be willing to shut themselves away and commit themselves to such arduous training.”

“Yes, few. But sufficient,” Taro said. “The way of the samurai is by definition limited to the most determined. You yourself, as I've been told, committed yourself to the severest branch of America 's armed forces-the SEALs.”

Savage stiffened. He strained not to frown at Akira. What else had Akira revealed about him? Mustering discipline not to look troubled, he replied, “But I wasn't shut off from the world, and the military paid for my instruction. This school… four years of isolation… surely few candidates could afford the financial expense of…”

Taro chuckled. “Indeed. And you warned me. Your question is indelicate. Americans do say what they think.” His good-humored tone barely hid his disapproval. He sobered. “None of my students bears any financial expense in coming here. The only criteria for acceptance are ability and determination. Their equipment, meals, and lodging, everything they require, is given to them.”

“Then how can you afford…?” Savage held his breath, unable to bring himself to complete his further indelicate question.

Taro didn't help but merely studied him.

The silence lengthened.

Akira broke it. “With your permission, Tam-sensei.”

A flick of the eyes signified yes.

“My master is also my agent,” Akira said, “as he is for every student with strength and discipline enough to complete the course. Taro-sensei arranges for my employment, continues to advise me, and receives a portion of everything I earn-for the rest of my life.”

Savage felt jolted. Thoughts raced through his mind. If Taro was Akira's agent…

Taro must have information about Kunio Shirai, the man Savage knew as Muto Kamichi and saw cut in half at the Medford Gap Mountain Retreat.

Akira had said he worked with an American agent when assigned to America. Graham. But Graham had not been the primary agent. Taro was. Taro might have the answers Savage needed.

But Kamichi-Shirai-was never at the Mountain Retreat. No more than we were, Savage thought.

He winced. Lancing, crushing, spinning, and twisting, jamais vu yet again assaulted his mind.

If we never met Kamichi, we couldn't have been hired to protect him! Savage thought. So Taro might know nothing about him.

But someone set this up. Someone arranged for Akira and me to imagine we were hired. Who? When? At what point did jamais vu intersect with reality?

This much was sure, Savage knew. Akira had held back information. In emphasizing that his agent was Graham, he'd deliberately avoided drawing attention to Taro.

Was Akira an enemy? Savage's former terrible suspicion flooded through him, chilling his soul. His sense of reality had been so jeopardized that he feared he couldn't trust anyone.

Even Rachel? No, I've got to trust! If I can't depend on Rachel, nothing matters!

Again he realized the dilemma of trying to protect himself as well as Rachel, in trying to be his own principal. He needed a protector who wasn't involved, and at the moment, that luxury wasn't possible.

“I'm afraid I will be rude,” Savage said. “I know that conversation over tea is supposed to be soothing. But I'm too upset to obey the rules. Akira, what the hell happened since we last saw you?”

11

The question hung in the room. Akira, who'd been sipping tea, gave no indication he'd heard it. He took another sip, closed his eyes, seemed to savor the taste, then set down his cup, and looked at Savage.

“The police arrived quickly.” Akira sounded oddly detached, as if what he described had happened to