The Fifth Profession

“Eventually Japan, like a sponge, will absorb the worst of other cultures, and money-not Amaterasu-will be our only god.”

“You sound like you agree with Shirai,” Savage said.

“With his motive, not his method. This building, the four years of isolation that each of my students submits to… they are my version of the Tokugawa quarantine. I despise what I see outside these walls.”

“You've joined him?”

Taro squinted. “As a samurai, a protector, I must be objective. I follow events. I don't create them. My destiny is to be distant, to serve present masters without involvement -and without judgment. The Tokugawa Shogunate insisted on that relationship between retainer and principal. But I hope he succeeds. He probably won't, however. The thrust of history moves stronger forward than backward. Shirai can use his wealth, his influence and power, to bribe, to coerce, and entice multitudes of demonstrators. But on television, I've seen the faces, the eyes, of those demonstrators. They're not devoted to the glory of their past. They're consumed by hate for outsiders in the present, for those who don't belong to the tribe. Make no mistake. Pride controls them. Longrepressed anger. Because America won the Pacific War. Because atomic bombs were dropped on our cities.”

Chilled, Savage noticed that Akira's eyes had become more melancholy. In despair, with compassion, Savage recalled that Akira's father had lost his first wife… and his parents… and his brothers and sisters… because of the A-bomb that hit Hiroshima. And the father's second wife, Akira's mother, had died from cancer caused by radiation from the blast.

Taro's brittle voice rasped. “Make no error. Whenever you speak to a Japanese, no matter his reserve and feigned politeness, he remembers the bombs called Fat Man and Little Boy. And this long-repressed rage is the power behind the multitudes Shirai has gathered. He wants retreat, a return to the glorious sacred past. But they want a too-long-postponed attack, to the land-of-gods destiny. Domination.”

“It'll never happen,” Savage said flatly.

“Not under present circumstances. Greed insists, and if Shirai misjudges, the multitudes he incites will outreach his control. Land, possessions, money. That's what they want. Not peace and balance. Not harmony. Shirai was right to protest America 's presence in Japan. Away with you! All of you! But in the vacuum of your absence, the Force of Amaterasu could become not a blessing but a curse.”

Savage's muscles felt drained. Sitting cross-legged on the cushions at the low cypress table, he leaned back on his hips and tried to diffuse his tension. “How do you know this?” His voice was strained, a whisper.

“I seclude myself. But my many former students remain in contact. And they have reliable sources. Kunio Shirai… for motives I admire… has the potential to cause a disaster. Aggression, not consolidation. All I want is peace. But if Shirai pushes harder, if he finds a way to attract even larger and more zealous followers…”

Savage spun toward Akira. “Does what happened… or didn't happen… at the Medford Gap Mountain Retreat have something to do with this?”

Akira raised his increasingly melancholy eyes. “Tarosensei referred to seclusion. At my father's home, which I maintain, I preserve a piece of the past, though I'm seldom there to enjoy it. I wish now I had enjoyed it. Because after everything that's happened I no longer believe in protecting others. I want to protect myself. To retreat. Like Taro- sensei. Like the Tokugawa Shogunate.”

“Then I guess we'd damned well better talk to Shirai,” Savage said. “I'm tired of being manipulated.” He glanced toward Rachel and put an arm around her. “And I'm tired,” he added, “of being a follower, a servant, a watchdog, a shield. It's time I took care of what I want.” Again he glanced with undisguised love toward Rachel.

“In that case, you'll lose your soul,” Taro said. “The Way of the protector, the fifth profession, is the noblest-”

“Enough,” Savage said. “All I want to do is… Akira, what do you say? Are you ready to help me finish this?”

BLACK SHIPS

1

“What are they shouting?” Savage asked.

The seething crowd roared louder, some jerking placards, others shaking their fists. Their furious movements reminded Savage of a roiling river. It was ten A.M. Despite smog, the sun was blinding, and Savage raised a hand to shield his eyes from the glare as he studied the enormous mob that filled the street for blocks, their fury directed toward the U.S. embassy. How many? Savage thought. He found it impossible to count. An estimate? Perhaps as many as twenty thousand demonstrators. They chanted rhythmically, repeating the same brief slogan with greater intensity until the din-amplified echoing off buildings-made Savage's temples throb.

“They're shouting ‘Black ships,’ ” Akira said.

In a moment, the translation became needless, the demonstrators changing to English. From last night's conversation with Taro, Savage understood the reference. Black ships. The armada that America 's Commodore Perry had anchored in Yokohama Bay in 1853. As a symbol of the demonstrators’ antipathy to America 's presence in Japan, the image was fraught with emotion. Succinct. Effective.

But lest the message nonetheless fail to make its point, the mob chanted something new. “ America out! Gaijin out!”

EPILOGUE. THE KEY TO THE MAZE

FORTUNE'S HOSTAGE

What seemed an eternity ago, when Savage had met Rachel's sister, Joyce Stone, in Athens and gone with her to the Parthenon, he'd quoted from Shelley's “Ozymandias” to describe the lesson of those ruins.

“Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”

… Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,

The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Joyce Stone had understood: “Nothing-wealth, fame, power-is permanent.” Indeed. Take nothing for granted. The future confronts, interprets, and more often than not, mocks the past. History. False memory. Disinformation. These issues, as much as his nightmare, haunted Savage. The paradox of, the relentlessness of, the deceit and treachery of time.

The truths of Shelley's poem soon became evident. After the discovery of the massacre at Kunio Shirai's mountain retreat, the Japanese news media inundated its readers, viewers, and listeners with reports and speculations for seemingly endless weeks. Intrigued as much as baffled, the nation demanded increasingly more