The Fifth Profession

“He may be as protective about his family life,” Savage said.

“No doubt. A Greek would kill to protect the honor of his family, even if in private he didn't care for them. But business is survival. Its secrets are fiercely kept, whereas family secrets are taken for granted to be unavoidable gossip, as long as no one dares to repeat the gossip in front of the lord of the household.”

“Then find me some gossip,” Savage said.

“Specifically?”

“About Papadropolis and his wife.”

“I've already heard some specifics.”

“Learn more,” Savage said. “Where she is and how she's being treated. I want to compare what you tell me with what I've been told.”

“May I ask your purpose?”

Savage shook his head. “Ignorance is your protection.”

“And your protection as well. If I'm unaware of what you intend, I can't reveal it if someone questions me with a force I can't resist.”

“But that won't happen,” Savage said. “As long as you stay careful.”

“I'm always careful. Like you, I use intermediaries, and often messengers between intermediaries. I speak directly only to clients and those few assistants with whom I have a bond. You look worried, my friend.”

“Six months ago, something happened to me. It made me doubly cautious.” Remembering, Savage felt his stomach clench.

“Commendable. However, I note the lack of detail in your revelation.”

Savage subdued his temptation to continue revealing. “It's a personal matter. Unimportant.”

“I'm not convinced of this so-called unimportance, but I do respect your discretion.”

“Just find out what I need.” Savage walked toward the door. “Papadropolis and his wife. Two days. That's all the time I can give you. When I return, I want to learn everything.”

7

The Cyclades are a cluster of small Aegean islands southeast of Athens. Their name derives from the Greek word kyklos or “circle” and refers to the ancient Greek belief that the islands surrounded Delos, the island upon which the sun god of truth, Apollo, was supposedly born. In fact, Delos is not at the center but near the eastern rim of the islands. A few kilometers farther east of it, on the edge of the Cyclades, lies Mykonos, one of Greece 's main holiday areas, where tourists worship their own sun god.

Savage piloted a two-engine, propellor-driven Cessna toward Mykonos, taking care to approach the island on an indirect course, first heading due east from Athens, then easing southward above the Aegean Sea until he flanked the eastern rim of his destination. He radioed the airport at Mykonos to notify the controller that he didn't intend to land. His flight was strictly for practice and pleasure, he explained, and if the controller would warn him which air routes to avoid, Savage would gratefully obey instructions.

The controller obliged.

At a distance and height of one-half kilometer, Savage put the Cessna on automatic pilot and began taking pictures. The Bausch and Lomb telephoto lens on his Nikon camera magnified images amazingly. The photographs would be further magnified after he developed them. The main thing, he knew from his training, was to take plenty of pictures, not only of his target but of its surroundings. Details that seemed unimportant at the moment could too often be crucial when he later constructed his plan.

Yes, plenty of pictures.

He paused frequently to readjust the Cessna's automatic pilot, then resumed his photographic surveillance. The sky was blue, the weather calm. The Cessna seemed to glide on a silken highway. His hands were rock steady. Except for the minor vibrations of the plane, conditions were perfect for taking clear photographs.

His initial objective was the town of Mykonos on the western side of the island. The town spread around two small bays, its houses projecting onto a peninsula that separated each harbor. The buildings were shaped like intersecting cubes, each brilliantly white. Here and there, red domes- sometimes blue-identified churches. Windmills lined a jetty.

But the design of the town, not its beauty, attracted Savage's attention. In antiquity, Mykonos had been a frequent target of pirates. To make their homes easier to protect, the local population had constructed the streets in the form of a labyrinth. Attacking pirates had no difficulty entering the town, but as they pillaged deeper into it, higher up its slopes, they soon discovered that the complex maze of lanes confused their sense of direction. The pirates could see their ship in the harbor below them, but to reach it, they had to test this and that route, all the while encountering ambushes set by the villagers. Eventually, after several defeats, the pirates left Mykonos alone in favor of uncomplicated prey on other islands.

Yes, a labyrinth, Savage thought. I might be able to use that.

Continuing to circle the island, all the while taking photographs, he reached a deep gulf to the north… perhaps a pickup site?… then studied a forbidding cape to the east… to be attempted only in an emergency… and finally reached his primary goal: Papadropolis's compound above Anna Bay on the southeastern side of the island.

Since he'd met with his Greek informant two days earlier, Savage had been busy and to his wary satisfaction, had learned a great deal. He'd flown to contacts in Zurich and Brussels, the two most dependable European sources of information about black-market armament sales and the security systems of the men who smuggled the weapons.

Through seemingly casual conversations-and generous gifts to “friends” to whom Savage pretended delight when he learned that the rumors weren't true about their having been killed-he discovered what he'd already guessed. Papadropolis was controlled by his arrogance. The Greek billionaire was too consumed with power to hire protectors who had sufficient professional integrity to insist on giving orders to their employer.

Savage had also learned that Papadropolis was fascinated by gadgets and technology. Just as the shipping magnate had a passion for computers and video games, so he'd hired an expert in security systems to construct a web of intrusion-warning obstacles around his various European estates.

All Savage cared about was the Mykonos estate. The moment he learned who'd designed its defenses, he knew-in the same way an art historian would have recognized a Renaissance style-what barriers he faced.

His longtime and trusted Greek informant had verified what Joyce Stone had claimed. The movie legend's sister was being held captive on her billionaire husband's lavish summer estate on Mykonos.

You want to divorce me, bitch? No woman ever walked away from me. I'd be a joke. An ungrateful wife has only one use. On your back. I'll teach you.

But summer had become September. The start of the tourist season in Athens was the end of the tourist season on Mykonos -because of lowering temperatures. To force her to spend an autumn and perhaps a winter on the island was Papadropolis's idea of a further insult.

Savage lowered his camera, switched off the automatic pilot, and gripped the Cessna's controls. For six months, since the disaster he'd almost described to his Greek informant, he'd been in seclusion, convalescing. His arms, legs, head, and back still ached from the injuries he'd sustained. Nightmarish memories persisted in haunting him.

But the past could not be changed, he strained to remind himself. The present was all that mattered.

And his work.

He had to get back to his work.

To prove himself to himself.

He veered from Mykonos, heading north above the legendary wine-dark Aegean, patting his camera. It was good to be on an assignment again.

He felt as if he'd returned from the dead.