The Fifth Profession

1

Obeying professional habits, Savage directed the elevator toward the floor below the one he wanted. Of course, an uninvited visitor would have had to stop the elevator at the second-highest floor, no matter what. A computer-coded card, slipped into a slot on the elevator's control panel, was required to command the elevator to rise to the topmost level. Savage had been given such a card but declined to use it. On principle, he hated elevators. Their confinement was dangerous. He never knew what he might find when the doors slid open. Not that he expected trouble on this occasion, but if he made one exception in his customary methods, he'd eventually make others, and when trouble did come along, he wouldn't be primed to respond.

Besides, on this warm afternoon in Athens in September, he was curious about the security arrangements of the person he'd agreed to meet. Although he was used to dealing with the rich and powerful, they were mostly in politics or industry. It wasn't every day he met someone not only associated with both arenas but who'd also been a movie legend.

Savage stepped to one side when the elevator stopped and the doors thunked open. Sensing, judging, he peered out, saw no one, relaxed, and proceeded toward a door whose Greek sign indicated FIRE EXIT. In keeping with that sign, the door's handle moved freely.

Cautious, Savage entered and found himself in a stairwell. His crepe-soled shoes muffled his footsteps on the concrete landing. The twenty-seven lower levels were silent. He turned toward a door on his right, gripped its knob, but couldn't budge it. Good. The door was locked, as it should be. On the opposite side, a push bar would no doubt give access to this stairwell-in case of emergency. But on this side, unauthorized visitors were prevented from going higher. Savage slid two thin metal prongs into the receptacle for the key-one prong for applying leverage, the other for aligning the slots that would free the bolt. After seven seconds, he opened the door, troubled that the lock was so simple. It should have taken him twice as long to pick it.

He crept through, eased the door shut behind him, and warily studied the steps leading upward. There weren't any closed-circuit cameras. The lights were dim, giving him protective shadow while he climbed toward a landing, then turned toward the continuation of the steps. He didn't see a guard. At the top, he frowned when he tried the door-it wasn't locked. Worse, when he opened it, he still didn't see a guard.

On nearly soundless carpeting, he proceeded along a corridor. Glancing at numbers on doors, he followed their diminishing sequence toward the number he'd been given. Just before he reached an intersecting corridor, his nostrils felt pinched by tobacco smoke. With the elevators to his right, he turned left into the corridor and saw them.

Three men were bunched together in front of a door at the far end of the corridor. The first had his hands in his pockets. The second inhaled from a cigarette. The third sipped a cup of coffee.

Amateur hour, Savage thought.

Never compromise your hands.

When the guards noticed Savage, they came to awkward attention. They were built like football players, their suits too tight for their bullish necks and chests. They'd be intimidating to a nonprofessional, but their bulk made them too conspicuous to blend with a crowd, and they looked too muscle-bound to be able to respond instantaneously to a crisis.

Savage slackened his strong features, making them non-threatening. Six feet tall, he slouched his wiry frame so he looked a few inches shorter. As he walked along the corridor, he pretended to be impressed by the guards, who braced their backs in arrogant triumph.

They made a show of examining his ID, which was fake, the name he was using this month. They searched him but didn't use a hand-held metal detector and hence didn't find the small knife beneath his lapel.

“Yeah, you're expected,” the first man said. “Why didn't you use the elevator?”

“The computer card didn't work.” Savage handed it over. “I had to stop on the floor below and take the stairs.”

“But the stairwell doors are locked,” the second man said.

“Someone from the hotel must have left them open.”

“Whoever forgot to lock them, his ass is grass,” the third man said.

“I know what you mean. I can't stand carelessness.”

They nodded, squinted, flexed their shoulders, and escorted him into the suite.

No, Savage thought. The rule is, you never abandon your post.

2

The suite had a sizable living room, tastefully furnished. But what Savage noticed, disapproving, was the wall directly across from him, its thick draperies parted to reveal an enormous floor-to-ceiling window and a spectacular view of the Parthenon on the Acropolis. Though Athens was usually smoggy, a breeze had cleared the air, making the pillared ruins brilliant in the afternoon sun. Savage allowed himself to admire the view but only from where he'd paused just inside the room, for he hated huge windows whose draperies were open: they gave an enemy an unnecessary advantage, inviting easy invasion with telescopes, microwave-beamed listening probes, and most crucial, sniper bullets.

The potential client he'd been summoned to meet wasn't present, so Savage assessed a door on the wall to his left. A closet perhaps, or a washroom or a bedroom. He directed his attention toward a muffled female voice behind a door on the wall to his right, and that door he was sure led to a bedroom. Because he didn't hear a responding voice, he assumed that the woman was using a telephone. She sounded insistent, as if she wouldn't conclude for quite a while.

With disciplined patience, Savage glanced farther right toward the wall beside the door through which he'd entered. He recognized two Monets and three Van Goghs.

His burly escorts looked bored when they realized that their employer wasn't present. No brownie points for them, no audience with their client, no compliments for supposedly doing their job. Disappointed, two of them shuffled their feet, adjusted their ties, and went back to their stations in the hall, no doubt to drink more coffee and smoke more cigarettes. The third closed the door and leaned against it, crossing his arms, trying to look diligent, though the pressure with which he squeezed his chest made it seem that he suffered from heartburn.

As air-conditioning whispered, Savage turned from the paintings toward a glass-enclosed display of Chinese vases.

The remaining bodyguard straightened.

The door on the right swung open.

A woman, a legend, stepped out of a bedroom.

3

Her official biography put her age at forty-five. Nonetheless she looked astonishingly the same as when she'd last appeared in a film a decade earlier. Tall, thin, angular.

Intense blue eyes. An exquisite oval face, its sensuous curves framed by shoulder-length, sun-bleached hair. Smooth, tanned skin. A photographer's dream.

Ten years ago, at a press conference in Los Angeles after she'd won her best actress Academy Award, she'd surprised the world by announcing her retirement. Her marriage one month later-to the monarch of a small but wealthy island-kingdom off the French Riviera-had been equally surprising. When her husband's health had declined, she'd taken over his business affairs, doubling the tourism and casinos that accounted for his island's wealth.

She ruled as she had acted, with what film reviewers had called a style of “fire and ice.” Intense yet controlled. Passionate but in charge. In her love scenes, she'd always played the dominant role. The sequence in which she finally seduced the charismatic jewel thief whose attentions she'd persistently discouraged remained a classic depiction of sexual tension. She knew what she wanted, but she took it only when her desires didn't put her at risk, and her pleasure seemed based on giving more than she took, on condescending to grant the jewel thief a night he'd never forget.

So, too, her island subjects courted her attention. In response, she waved but kept a distance until at unexpected moments her generosity-to the sick, the homeless, the bereaved-was overwhelming. It seemed that compassion to her was a weakness, a fire that threatened to melt her icy control. But when politically advantageous, emotion could be permitted, indeed allowed in excessive amounts. As long as it didn't jeopardize her. As long as it made her subjects love her.

She smiled, approaching Savage. Radiant. A movie in real life. For his part, Savage admired her artful entrance, knowing that she knew exactly the impression she created.

She was dressed in black handcrafted sandals, burgundy pleated slacks, a robin's-egg-colored silk blouse (its three top buttons open to reveal the tan on the top of her breasts, its light blue no doubt chosen to emphasize the deeper blue of her eyes), a Cartier watch, and a diamond pendant with matching earrings (their glint further emphasizing her eyes as well as her sun-bleached hair).

She paused before Savage, then studied the remaining bodyguard, her gaze dismissive. “Thank you.”

The burly man left, reluctant not to hear the conversation.

“I apologize for keeping you waiting,” she said, stepping nearer, permitting Savage to inhale her subtle perfume. Her voice was husky, her handshake firm.

“Five minutes? No need to apologize.” Savage shrugged. “In my profession, I'm used to waiting a great deal longer. Besides, I had time to admire your collection.” He gestured toward the glass-enclosed display of vases. “At least, I assume it's your collection. I doubt any hotel, even the Georges Roi II, provides its clients with priceless artworks.”

“I take them with me when I travel. A touch of home. Do you appreciate Chinese ceramics?”

“Appreciate? Yes, though I don't know anything about them. However, I do enjoy beauty, Your Highness. Including-if you'll forgive the compliment-yourself. It's an honor to meet you.”

“As royalty, or because I'm a former film personality?”

“Former actress.”

A flick of the eyes, a nod of the head. “You're very kind. Perhaps you'd feel more comfortable if we dispensed with formalities. Please call me by my former name. Joyce Stone.”

Savage imitated her gracious nod. “Miss Stone.”

“Your eyes are green.”

“That's not so remarkable,” Savage said.

“On the contrary. Quite remarkable. A chameleon's color. Your eyes blend with your clothes. Gray jacket. Blue shirt. An inattentive observer would describe your eyes as-”

“Grayish blue but not green. You're perceptive.”

“And you understand the tricks of light. You're adaptable.”

“It's useful in my work.” Savage turned toward the paintings. “Superb. If I'm not mistaken, the Van Gogh Cypresses were recently purchased at a Sotheby auction. An unknown buyer paid an impressive amount.”

“Do you recall how much?”

“Fifteen million dollars.”

“And now you know the mysterious buyer.”

“Miss Stone, I deal with privileged information. I'd be out of business tomorrow if I didn't keep a secret. Your remarks to me are confession. I'm like a priest.”

“Confession? I hope that doesn't mean I can't offer you a drink.”

“As long as I'm not working for you.”

“But I assumed that's why you're here.”

“To discuss your problem,” Savage said. “I haven't been hired yet.”

“With your credentials? I've already decided to hire you.”

“Forgive me, Miss Stone, but I accepted your invitation to find out if I wanted you to hire me.”

The sensuous woman studied him. “My, my.” Her intense gaze persisted. “People are usually eager to work for me.”

“I meant no offense.”

“Of course not.” She stepped toward a sofa.

“But if you wouldn't mind, Miss Stone.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“I'd prefer that you used this chair over here. That sofa's too close to the window.”

“Window?”

“Or else let me close the draperies.”

“Ah, yes, now I understand.” She sounded amused. “Since I enjoy the sunlight, I'll sit where you suggest. Tell me, are you always this protective of people you haven't decided to work for?”

“A force of habit.”

“An intriguing habit, Mr… I'm afraid I've forgotten your name.”

Savage doubted that. She seemed the type who remembered everything. “It doesn't matter. The name I provided isn't mine. I normally use a pseudonym.”

“Then how should I introduce you?”

“You don't. If we reach an agreement, never draw attention to me.”

“In public. But what if I have to summon you in private?”

“Savage.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“A nickname. The way I'm identified in my business.”

“And did you acquire it when you were in the SEALs?” Savage hid his surprise.

“Your former unit's name is an acronym, correct? Sea, air, and land. The U.S. Navy commandos.”

Savage subdued an impulse to frown.

“I told you I found your credentials impressive,” she said. “Your use of pseudonyms makes clear you cherish your privacy. But with persistence, I did learn several details about your background. In case I alarm you, let me emphasize that nothing I was told in any way jeopardized your anonymity. Still, rumors travel. The help you gave a certain member of the British Parliament-against IRA terrorists, I believe-is widely respected. He asked me to thank you again for saving his life. An Italian financier is similarly grateful for your skillful return of his kidnapped son. A West German industrialist feels that his corporation would have gone bankrupt if you hadn't discovered the rival who was stealing his formulas.”

Savage kept silent.

“No need to be modest,” she said.

“Nor should you. Your sources are excellent.”

“One of the many advantages to marrying royalty. The gratitude of the Italian financier was especially compelling. So I asked him how I might get in touch with you. He gave me the telephone number of-I suppose, in my former life, I'd have used the term-your agent.”

“You didn't learn his name, I hope.”

“I never spoke to him directly, only through intermediaries.”

“Good.”

“Which brings me to my problem.”

“Miss Stone, another force of habit. Don't be specific in this room.”

“No one can overhear us. There aren't any hidden microphones.”

“What makes you sure?”

“My bodyguards checked it this morning.”

“In that case, I repeat…”

“Don't be specific in this room? My bodyguards didn't impress you?”

“They impressed me, all right.”

“But not the proper way?”

“I try not to criticize.”

“Another commendable habit. Very well, then, Savage.” Her smile matched the glint of her diamond earrings. She leaned from her chair and touched his hand. “Would you like to see some ruins?”

4

The black Rolls-Royce veered from traffic to stop in an oval parking lot. Savage and two of the bodyguards got out-the third had remained at the hotel to watch the suite. After the guards assessed the passing crowd, they nodded toward the car's interior.

Joyce Stone stepped smoothly out, flanked by her guards. “Circle the area. We'll be back in an hour,” she told her driver, who eased the Rolls back into traffic.

She turned, amused, toward Savage. “You keep surprising me.”

“Oh?”

“Back at the hotel, you objected to my sitting near a window, but you haven't said a word about my going out in public.”

“Being famous doesn't mean you have to be a hermit. As long as you don't advertise your schedule, an accomplished driver can make it difficult for someone to follow you.” Savage gestured toward the swarm of traffic. “Especially in Athens. Besides, you know how to dress to match your surroundings. To echo a compliment you gave me, you're adaptable.”

“It's a trick I learned when I was an actress. One of the hardest roles… to look average.”

She'd changed before they left the hotel. Now in place of her designer slacks and blouse, she wore faded jeans and a loose gray turtleneck sweater. Her diamonds were gone. Her watch was a Timex. Her shoes were dusty Reeboks. Her distinctive sun-bleached hair had been tucked beneath a floppy straw hat. Sunglasses hid her intense blue eyes.

Though pedestrians had paused to study the Rolls, they'd shown little interest in the woman who got out.

“You're playing the part successfully,” Savage said. “At the moment, a producer wouldn't hire you, even for a walk-on.”

She curtsied mockingly.

“I do have one suggestion,” he said.

“Somehow I knew you would have.”

“Stop using the Rolls.”

“But it gives me pleasure.”

“You can't always have what you want. Save the Rolls for special occasions. Buy a high-performance but neutral-looking car. Of course, it would have to be modified.”

“Of course.”

“Reinforced windows. Clouded glass in the rear. Bullet-proof paneling.”

“Of course.”

“Don't humor me, Miss Stone.”

“I'm not. It's just that I enjoy a man who enjoys his work.”

“Enjoy? I don't do this for fun. My work saves lives.”

“And you've never failed?”

Savage hesitated. Caught by surprise, he felt a rush of torturous memories. The flash of a sword. The gush of blood. “Yes,” he said. “Once.”

“Your honesty amazes me.”

“And only once. That's why I'm so meticulous, why I'll never fail again. But if my truthfulness gives you doubts about me…”

“On the contrary. My third movie was a failure. I could have ignored it, but I admitted it. And learned from it. I won the Oscar because I tried harder, although it took me seven more films.”

“A movie isn't life.”

“Or death? You should have seen the reviews of that third movie. I was buried.” “So will we all.”

“Be buried? Don't be depressing, Savage.”

“Did no one tell you the facts of life?”

“Sex? I learned that early. Death? That's why a man like you exists. To postpone it as long as possible.”

“Yes, death,” Savage said. “The enemy.”

5

They followed a tour group toward the western slope of the Acropolis, the traditional approach to the ruins since the other ridges were far too steep for convenient walkways. Past fir trees, they reached an ancient stone entrance, known as the Beulé Gate.

“Have you been here before?”

“Several times,” Savage said.

“So have I. Still, I wonder if you come for the same reason I do.”

Savage waited for her to explain.

“Ruins teach us a lesson. Nothing-wealth, fame, power-nothing is permanent.”

“ ‘Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair.’ “

She turned to him, impressed. “That's from Shelley's ‘Ozymandias.’ “

“I went to a thorough prep school.”

“But you don't give the name of the school. Anonymous as usual. Do you remember the rest of the poem?”

Savage shrugged.

”… Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,

The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Shelley understood precision. If he'd been Japanese, he'd have written great haikus.”

“A bodyguard quoting poetry?”

“I'm not exactly a bodyguard, Miss Stone. I do more than run interference.”

“What are you then?”

“An executive protector. You know, except for the sand, the ruins Shelley describes remind me of…”

Savage gestured toward the steps they climbed. The marble had been eroded by time, by use, by various invaders, and worst of all, by automobile exhaust.

They passed through a monument called the Propylaea, its precious decaying walkway protected by a wooden floor. Five gateways of columns grew wider and taller, leading them to a path that split right and left.

After the cloying heat of summer, September's moderate temperature brought the start of the tourist season. Sightseers jostled past them, some out of breath from the climb, others taking photographs of monuments on either side, the Precinct of Brauronia and the less impressive House of Arrhephoroi.

“Tell your guards to walk behind us,” Savage said. “I'll watch ahead.”

Turning right, they proceeded to the vast rectangular Parthenon. In 1687, a conflict between invaders had resulted in a Venetian bomb's igniting a Turkish gunpowder magazine in the Parthenon, which in ancient times had been a temple devoted to the Greek goddess of purity, Athena. The explosion had destroyed a considerable part of the monument, toppling pillars and much of the roof. Restoration was still in progress. Scaffolding obscured the magnificence of surviving Doric columns. Guardrails kept visitors from further eroding the interior.

Savage turned from the tourists, approaching the precipitous southern ridge of the Acropolis. He leaned against a fallen pillar. Athens sprawled below him. The earlier breeze had died. Despite a brilliant clear sky, smog had begun to gather.

“We can talk here without being overheard,” Savage said. “Miss Stone, the reason I'm not sure I want to work for you-”

“But you haven't heard why I need you.”

“-is that an executive protector is both a servant and a master. You control your life-where you go and what you do-but your protector insists on how you get there and under what terms you do it. A delicate balance. But you've got a reputation for being willful. I'm not sure you're prepared to take orders from someone you employ.”

Sighing, she sat beside him. “If that's your problem, then there isn't a problem.”

“I don't understand.”

“The trouble isn't mine. It's my sister's.”

“Explain.”

“Do you know about her?”

“Rachel Stone. Ten years your junior. Thirty-five. Married a New England senator campaigning to be president. Widowed because of an unknown assassin's bullet. Her association with politics and a movie-legend sister made her glamorous. A Greek shipping magnate courted her. They married last year.”

“I give you credit. You do your homework.”

“No less than you.”

“Their marriage is like the Parthenon. A ruin.” Joyce Stone rummaged through her burlap purse. Finding a pack of cigarettes, she fumbled with a lighter.

“You're not a gentleman,” she snapped.

“Because I won't light your cigarette? I just explained, when it comes to protection, you're the servant and I'm the master.”

“That doesn't make sense.”

“It does if you realize I have to keep my hands free in case someone threatens you. Why did you ask to see me?”

“My sister wants a divorce.”

“Then she doesn't need me. What she needs is a lawyer.”

“Her bastard husband won't allow it. She's his prisoner till she changes her mind.”

“Prisoner?”

“She's not in chains, if that's what you're thinking. But she's a prisoner all the same. And she's not being tortured.” She managed to light her cigarette. “Unless you count being raped morning, noon, and night. To remind her of what she'd miss, he says. She needs a true man, he says. What he needs is a bullet through his obscene brain. Do you carry a gun?” she asked, exhaling smoke.

“Seldom.”

“Then what good are you?”

Savage stood from the column. “You've made a mistake, Miss Stone. If you want an assassin-”

“No! I want my sister!”

He eased back onto the column. “You're talking about a retrieval.”

“Whatever you want to call it.”

“If I decide to take the assignment, my fee…”

“I'll pay you a million dollars.”

“You're a poor negotiator. I might have settled for less.”

“But that's what I'm offering.”

“Assuming I accept, I'll want half in an escrow account at the start, the other half when I deliver. Plus expenses.”

“Stay in the best hotels for all I care. Spend as much as you want on meals. A few extra thousand hardly matters.”

“You don't understand. When I say ‘expenses,’ I'm thinking of as much as several hundred thousand.”

“What?”

“You're asking me to antagonize one of the most powerful men in Greece. What's he worth? Fifty billion? His security will be extensive, costly to breach. Tell me where your sister is. I'll do a risk analysis. A week from now, I'll tell you if I can get her.”

She stubbed out her cigarette and slowly turned. “Why?”

“I'm not sure what you mean.”

“I get the feeling this job's more important to you than the money. Why would you consider accepting my offer?”

For a chilling instant, Savage had a mental image of steel glinting, of blood spraying. He repressed the memory, avoiding her question. “You told your driver ‘an hour.’ It's just about time. Let's go,” he said. “And when we get back to the car, tell him to take an indirect route to your hotel.”

6

Adhering to his own advice, Savage used an indirect route to return to the Acropolis, or rather to an area immediately north of it-to the Plaka, the principal tourist shopping district in Athens. He entered narrow, crowded streets lined with myriad markets and shops. Despite the renewed bitter smog, he detected the aroma of smoking shish kebob, which soon gave way to the fragrance of freshly cut flowers. Loud vendors gesticulated toward handcrafted carpets, leather goods, pottery, copper urns, and silver bracelets. He reached a labyrinth of alleys, paused in an alcove, satisfied himself that he wasn't under surveillance, and proceeded past a tavern to a neighboring shop that sold wineskins.

Inside, the wineskins hung in bunches from hooks on rafters, their leather smell strong but pleasant. Savage bowed to pass beneath them, approaching an overweight woman behind a counter.

His knowledge of Greek was limited. He spoke in memorized phrases. “I need a special product. A wineskin of a different type. If your esteemed employer could spare a few moments to see me…”

“Your name?” the woman asked.

“Please tell him it's the opposite of gentle.”

She nodded respectfully and turned to proceed up a stairway. Seconds later, she came back, gesturing for him to ascend.

Passing an alcove from which a beard-stubbled man with a shotgun studied him, Savage climbed the stairs. At the top, a door was open. Through it, Savage saw a room-bare except for a desk, behind which a muscular man in a black suit poured a clear liqueur into a glass.

When Savage entered, the man peered up in surprise, as if he hadn't been notified he had a visitor. “Can it be a ghost?” Though Greek, the man spoke English.

Savage grinned. “I admit I've been a stranger.”

“An ungrateful wretch, who hasn't seen fit to keep in touch and maintain our friendship.”

“Business kept me away.”

“This so-called business must have been truly mythic.”

“It had importance. But now I make up for my absence.” Savage set the Greek equivalent of ten thousand U.S. dollars onto the desk. Spreading the bills, he covered the pattern of circular stains made by the glass refilled compulsively each day with ouzo. A licorice scent-the aniseed in the ouzo- filled the room.

The middle-aged Greek noticed Savage's glance toward the liqueur. “May I tempt you?”

“As you know, I seldom drink.”

“A character flaw for which I forgive you.”

The Greek swelled his chest and chuckled deeply. He showed no sign of his alcoholism. Indeed the ouzo, like formaldehyde, seemed to have preserved his body. Clean-shaven, with glinting, superbly cut black hair, he sipped from his glass, set it down, and studied the money. His swarthy skin exuded health.

Nonetheless he looked troubled as he counted the money. “Too generous, Excessive, You worry me.”

“I've also arranged for a gift. Within an hour, if you agree to supply the information I need, a messenger will deliver a case of the finest ouzo.”

“Truly the finest? You know my preference.”

“I do indeed. But I've taken the liberty of choosing a rarer variety.”

“How rare?”

Savage gave a name.

“Extremely generous.”

“A tribute to your talent,” Savage said.

“As you say in your country”-the man sipped from his glass-”you're an officer and a gentleman.”

“Ex-officer,” Savage corrected him. He wouldn't have volunteered this personal detail if the Greek hadn't known it already. “And you are a trusted informant. How long has it been since I first negotiated for your services?”

The Greek concentrated. “Six years of delight. My former wives and many children thank you for your frequent patronage.”

“And they'll thank me even more when I triple the money I placed on your desk.”

“I knew it. I sensed. When I woke up this morning, I announced to myself that today would be a special occasion.”

“But not without risks.”

The Greek set down his glass. “Every day brings a risk.”

“Are you ready for the challenge?”

“As soon as I fortify myself.” The Greek downed the rest of his glass.

“A name,” Savage said.

“As the greatest English bard said, what's in-“

“A name? I don't think you'll like it.” Savage pulled a bottle of the best-of-the-best, hard-to-find ouzo from beneath the back of his jacket.

The Greek grinned. “That name I like. And the other?”

“Stavros Papadropolis.”

The Greek slammed down his glass. “Holy mother of fuck.” He swiftly poured more ouzo and gulped it. “What lunacy prompts you to risk investigating him?”

Savage glanced around the almost bare room. “I assume you've been cautious as usual. Your vice hasn't made you neglect your daily cleaning chores, I hope.”

The Greek looked hurt. “The day you see furniture in this room, apart from my chair and desk, you'll know I'm unworthy of trust.”

Savage nodded. Not only did the Greek keep his furniture to a minimum. As well, the floor had no rug. There weren't any pictures on the walls. There wasn't even a telephone. The room's austerity made it difficult for someone to conceal a microphone. Nonetheless, each morning, the Greek used two different types of sophisticated electronic scanning devices. With one, he checked every inch of the room for radio signals and microwaves to determine if a “bug” was transmitting sounds from the room. However, that type of scanning device could detect only an active, permanently broadcasting microphone.

To discover a passive microphone-which stayed dormant if there weren't any sounds in the room, or which could be turned off by remote control if an eavesdropper suspected a sweep was occurring-the second scanner had to be used. It was called a nonlinear junction detector. Through an attachment that resembled the head of a portable vacuum cleaner, it beamed microwaves that located the diodes in the circuits of hidden tape recorders and transmitters. Though this second device required more time to be employed effectively, the Greek always activated it, even on those rare occasions when the first device revealed a microphone-because a skillful eavesdropper always left both active and passive monitors, in case a less skillful searcher would feel that his efforts had been successful and stop if he found only an active microphone.

With his customary humor, the Greek referred to this daily thorough search for bugs as “fumigating.”

“Forgive my inquiry,” Savage said. “I meant to be careful, not rude.”

“If you hadn't asked, I'd have wondered if you were worthy of trust.”

“You're understanding as always.”

The Greek sipped his drink and gestured agreeably. “An obligation of friendship.” He pressed his palms on his desk.

“But you still haven't answered my question. Papadropolis?’

“I'm interested in his domestic arrangements.”

“Not his business affairs? Thank Zeus, you had me worried. The wretch has two hundred ships. They earn a modest profit from transporting grain, machinery, and oil. But he accumulated his fortune from smuggling weapons and drugs. Anyone who inquires about his lucrative contraband becomes fish food in the Aegean.”

“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.

8

Savage rose from the waves and crept toward the shore. His black wetsuit blended with the night. He crouched behind boulders, stared at the murky cliff above him, and turned toward the sea. The speedboat's pilot, a British mercenary whom Savage often employed, had been told to hurry from the area as soon as Savage dropped into the water a half-kilometer from the island. The pilot hadn't used any lights. In the dark, with no moon and approaching storm clouds obscuring the stars, a sentry couldn't have seen the boat. Amid the din of waves crashing onto rocks, a sentry couldn't have heard it either, though Savage had taken the precaution of placing a sound-absorbent housing over the speedboat's motor.

Satisfied that he'd reached here undetected… unless the guards had night scopes… Savage pulled at the strong nylon cord cinched around his waist. He felt resistance, pulled harder, and soon withdrew a small rubber raft from the water. Behind a rock that shielded him from the spray of the waves, he unzipped the raft's waterproof compartment and took out a bulging knapsack. His wetsuit had kept the frigid water from draining his body heat and giving him hypothermia as he swam with the raft toward shore.

Now he shivered, peeling off the wetsuit. Naked, he hurriedly reached into the knapsack to put on black woolen clothes. He'd chosen wool because its hollow fibers had superior insulating ability, even when wet. His socks and cap were made of the same dark material. He slipped into sturdy ankle-high shoes with cross-ridged soles and tied them firmly. Warm again, he applied black camouflage grease to his face, then protected his hands with dark woolen gloves that were thin enough to allow his fingers to be flexible.

What remained in the knapsack were the various tools he would need, each wrapped in cloth to prevent their metal from clanking together. He secured the knapsack's straps around his shoulders and tightened its belt. The knapsack was heavy, but not as heavy as the equipment he'd been accustomed to carrying when he was in the SEALs, and his strong back accepted the burden comfortably. He placed his wetsuit, snorkel, goggles, and fins into the raft's compartment, zipped it shut, and tied the raft securely to a rock. He didn't know if he'd be forced to return to this site, but he wanted to have the raft here in case he needed it. Papadropolis's guards wouldn't notice it until the morning, and by then, if Savage hadn't returned, their discovery of the raft wouldn't matter.

He approached the cliff. A breeze gained strength, the storm clouds now completely obscuring the sky. The air smelled of imminent rain. Good, Savage thought. His plan depended on a storm. That was why he'd chosen tonight to infiltrate Papadropolis's estate. All the weather forecasters had agreed-around midnight, the first rains of autumn would arrive.

But Savage had to get to the top of the cliff before the storm made climbing difficult. He reached up, found a handhold, braced the toe of one of his boots in a niche, and began his ascent. Though two hundred feet high, the cliff had multiple fissures and outcrops. An experienced climber, Savage would not have trouble scaling it in the dark.

The wind increased. Spray from the waves stung his face and made the cliff slippery. He gripped his gloved fingers tighter onto outcrops, wedged his boots deeper into niches, and climbed with greater deliberation. Halfway up, he reached a fissure. Recalling it from the photographs he'd studied, knowing it would take him to the top, he squirmed inside it, braced his boots against each side, groped up for handholds, and strained higher. His mental clock told him he'd been climbing for almost ten minutes, but all he cared about was each second of caution. The fissure blocked the wind, but a sudden cascade of rain replaced the spray from the waves, and he fought the urge to climb faster. He groped up, touched nothing, and exhaled, realizing he'd arrived at the top of the cliff.

The rain fell harder, drenching him. Even so, it now was welcome, providing him with greater concealment in the night. He crawled from the fissure, scurried across the rim, and crouched among bushes. Mud soaked his knees. His stomach fluttered with nervousness as it always did at the start of a mission.

But it also burned with fear that despite his meticulous preparations he might fail as he had six months ago.

There was only one way to learn if he'd recovered.

He inhaled, concentrated on the obstacles he faced, and subdued his distracting emotions.

Scanning the storm-shrouded night, detecting no guards, he crept from the bushes.

9

The photographs he'd taken had revealed the first barrier he would come to-a chain link fence around the estate. From the photographs, he hadn't been able to determine the height of the fence, but the standard was seven feet. When he'd magnified the photographs, he'd discovered that the fence was topped by several strands of barbed wire attached to braces that projected inward and outward in the shape of a V.

The rain made the night so dark that Savage couldn't see the fence. Nonetheless, by studying the photographs and comparing the theoretical height of the fence with the distance between the fence and these bushes, he'd calculated that the barrier was twenty yards ahead. The photographs hadn't shown any closed-circuit cameras mounted on the fence, so he didn't worry about revealing himself to remote-controlled night-vision lenses. All the same, from habit, he crawled. The rain-soaked ground felt mushy beneath him.

At the fence, he stopped to remove his knapsack. He took out an infrared flashlight and a pair of infrared goggles. The beam from the flashlight would be invisible to unaided eyes, but through the goggles, Savage saw a greenish glow. He aimed the beam toward the fence's metal posts, scanning upward toward the projecting metal arms that secured the barbed wire.

What he looked for were vibration sensors.

He found none. As he'd expected, the fence was merely a line of demarcation, a barrier but not an intrusion detector. It kept hikers from trespassing unintentionally. Its barbed-wire top discouraged unskilled invaders. If animals-roaming dogs, for example-banged against it, there'd be no alarm needlessly attracting guards.

Savage put the flashlight and goggles into his knapsack, hoisted the pack to his shoulders, and resecured it. As the rain gusted harder, he stepped away from the fence, assumed a sprinter's stance, and lunged.

His momentum carried him halfway up the fence. He grabbed for the projecting metal arm at the top, swung his body up onto the strands of barbed wire, clutched the metal arm on the opposite side of the V, swung over the second group of barbed wire, and landed smoothly, his knees bent, on the far side of the fence. His woolen clothes and gloves were ripped in many places; the barbed wire had inflicted several irritating nicks on his arms and legs. But his injuries were too inconsequential to concern him. Barbed wire was a discouragement only to amateurs.

Staying close to the ground, wiping rain from his eyes, he studied the murky area before him. His British mentor, who'd trained him to be an executive protector, had been fond of saying that life was an obstacle course and a scavenger hunt.

Well, now the obstacle course would begin.

10

The island of Mykonos was hilly, with shallow soil and many projecting rocks. Papadropolis had built his estate on one of the few level peaks. Savage's photographs had shown that a surrounding slope led up to the mansion.

From the mansion's perspective, the bottom of the slope could not be seen. Hence Papadropolis had decided that an aesthetic barrier around his property, a stone wall instead of a chain link fence, would not be necessary. After all, if the tyrant didn't have to look at the institutional-looking fence, it wouldn't offend him, and metal was always more intimidating to an intruder than stone and mortar.

Savage tried to think as his opponent did. Because Papadropolis couldn't see this rocky slope and probably avoided its sharp incline, most of the intrusion sensors would be located in this area. The photographs of the estate had shown a second fence, lower than the first but not enough to be jumped across. The fence was halfway up the slope.

But what worried Savage was what the photographs couldn't show-buried detectors between the first fence and the second. He removed his knapsack and selected a device the size of a Walkman radio: a battery-powered voltmeter, its purpose to register electrical impulses from underground pressure sensors. He couldn't risk referring to an illuminated dial on the meter, the light from which might reveal him, so he'd chosen a device equipped with an earplug.

Lightning flashed. His earplug wailed, and he froze. The night became dark again. At once his earplug stopped wailing, causing him to relax. The voltmeter had reacted to atmospheric electricity from the lightning, not to buried sensors. Otherwise the earplug would have continued to wail even when there wasn't lightning.

But the flash of light, though startling, had been useful. He'd been given a glimpse of the fence a few yards ahead of him. It too was chain link. Not topped by barbed wire, however. And Savage understood why-anyone who'd climbed the more imposing first fence would be tempted to scramble over this seemingly less protected barrier.

He approached it cautiously. Another flash of lightning revealed small metal boxes attached to the posts supporting the fence. Vibration detectors. If someone grabbed the chain links and started to climb, an alarm would warn guards in the mansion. A computer monitor would reveal the site of the intrusion. The guards would quickly converge on the area.

In theory, the vibration sensors could not be defeated. But Savage knew that vibration sensors had to be adjusted so that a specific amount of vibration was necessary before the sensors would trigger an alarm. Otherwise, wind gusting against the fence or a bird's landing on it would needlessly alert guards. After several false warnings, the guards would lose faith in the sensors and fail to investigate an alarm. So the only way to get beyond the fence was to use a method that seemed the most risky.

To cut through the links. But it had to be done in a special way.

Savage unslung his knapsack and took out wireclippers. Kneeling, he chose a link at shoulder level and snipped it. Instead of fearing that he'd caused an alarm, instead of succumbing to second thoughts and rushing away, he calmly waited forty seconds, snipped another link, and waited another forty seconds, then snipped a third link. Each snip was the same as a bird landing on the fence or given the weather, rain lashing against it. His carefully timed assault on the fence had insufficient constancy to activate the sensors.

Twelve minutes later, Savage removed a two-foot square from the fence, eased his knapsack through the gap, then crawled through, slowly, making sure he didn't touch the surrounding links.

He put the wireclippers into his pack and resecured the pack to his shoulders. Now, in addition to the voltmeter, he carried a miniature battery-powered microwave detector. As well, he again wore his infrared goggles. Because his photographs had revealed a further danger. A line of metal posts near the top of the slope. Nothing linked them. They appeared to be the start of a fence that would soon be completed, wires eventually attached to them.

But Savage knew better.

He stared through his goggles, anxious to know whether infrared beams filled the gaps between the posts. If his suspicion was correct, if the beams existed and he passed through them, he'd trigger an alarm.

But as he crept closer to the top of the rain-swept hill, his goggles still did not detect infrared beams between the posts. Which meant…

The moment the thought occurred to him, the earplug attached to his microwave detector began to wail.

He halted abruptly.

Yes, he thought. Microwaves. He'd have been disappointed if Papadropolis used infrared. That type of beam was too susceptible to false alarms caused by rain. But microwaves provided an absolutely invisible barrier and were much less affected by weather. This test meant nothing without a sufficient challenge.

Again, as lightning flashed, the earplug to Savage's voltmeter wailed. He paused, in case the lightning coincided with an electrical field from a buried pressure sensor. But when the wail stopped, he knew that the microwave fence was his only obstacle.

He approached his objective. The lightning had allowed him a glimpse of the nearest post. The post had a slot down its right and left side, for transmitting beams to and receiving beams from the next posts right and left. The post was too high for him to leap over the microwaves, the earth too shallow for him to dig under them.

Still, the installer-for all his cleverness-had made a mistake, for this system worked best when the posts weren't in a continuous line with each other but instead were staggered so the microwaves formed an overlapping pattern.

In such a formation, the posts were protected. If an intruder tried to use them to get past the system, he'd interfere with the microwaves. However, Savage's photographs had shown that the system was in a straight line.

It could be defeated.

Savage removed a metal clamp from his knapsack and attached the clamp to the post, above the slots that transmitted and received the microwaves. He screwed several sections of metal together to form a three-foot-long rod, then inserted the rod into the clamp, the rod projecting toward him. Next, he threw his knapsack over the post, gripped the rod, and raised himself onto it. For a heartpounding instant, he almost lost his balance. The rod became slippery in the rain. Wind pushed him. But the ridges on the soles of his boots gripped the rod. He managed to steady himself and dove over the top of the post, avoiding the microwaves.

He landed in a somersault. His shoulders, back, and hips absorbed his impact. So did the rain-soaked ground. He cringed from pain, however, still tender from the injuries he'd sustained six months ago. Ignoring the protest in his muscles, he came smoothly out of his roll and crouched to study the near crest of the slope.

It was haloed by faint light made misty by the rain. No sign of guards. In a careful rush, he put the clamp and rod back into his knapsack, along with the infrared goggles he no longer needed. He aimed his voltmeter and microwave detector and proceeded higher.

At the top, he lay on soggy ground and studied his target. Arc lights, dimmed by the rain, illuminated a lawn. Fifty yards away, a sprawling white mansion-a concatenation of cubes and domes that imitated the houses in the town of Mykonos -attracted his attention. Except for the arc lights on the corners of the building and a light in a far left window, the mansion was dark.

His photographs had not been detailed enough to let him know if closed-circuit television cameras were mounted above the doors, but he had to assume they were present, although in this storm the cameras would relay murky images and at three A.M. the guard who watched the monitors would not be alert.

As Savage charged toward the mansion, he saw a camera above the door he'd chosen-on the right, farthest from the lamp in the window on the opposite side of the building. The camera made him veer even farther right, rushing toward the door obliquely, clutching a canister that he'd taken from his knapsack.

When he reached the door, darting from the side, he raised the canister and sprayed the lens of the camera. The canister held pressurized water, its vapor coating the camera's lens as if a gust of rain had lanced against the house. The streaks of dripping liquid would impair but not eliminate the camera's murky image, thus troubling the guard who watched the monitor but not compelling him to sound an alarm.

Savage picked the door's lock-a good lock, a dead bolt, but freed in twelve seconds. Still he didn't dare open the door.

Instead he removed a metal detector from his knapsack and scanned the door's perimeter. Metal on the upper right, four feet above the doorknob, made his earphone wail. Another intrusion detector.

Savage understood the principle. A magnet within the door kept a metal lever in the doorframe from rising toward a switch that would signal an alarm if the door was opened.

To defeat the alarm, Savage removed a powerful horseshoe magnet from his knapsack and pressed it upward, against the doorframe, while he gently shoved the door open. His magnet replaced the magnet within the door and prevented the lever in the frame from rising toward the contact switch. As he squeezed through a gap in the door, he slid his magnet farther across the doorframe, then eased the door shut before he removed the magnet. Now the door's own magnet prevented the lever from rising.

He was in.

But he didn't dare relax.

11

Joyce Stone had described the mansion's layout. Having memorized the floor plan, Savage proceeded tensely along a dark hallway. He studied an opening to his left and saw an illuminated clock on an oven. The kitchen was spacious, fragrant with the lingering smells of oil and garlic from the evening's meal. Passing a counter, he entered a shadowy dining room, its rectangular table long enough to seat fifteen guests on each side as well as the master and his wife at each end.

But Papadropolis was not in residence. A member of Savage's surveillance team had reported that Papadropolis and an entourage of guards had flown on the billionaire's private plane to Crete this morning. The tyrant's departure had been an unexpected gift of the Fates. Not only had Papadropolis lessened the number of guards at the mansion, but those who remained would feel a lessened sense of duty.

So Savage hoped. He'd soon find out.

At a farther doorway, he halted, hearing muffled voices. Three men. Down a stairwell on his left. Laughter echoed upward. Sure, Savage thought, they're happy to be dry and warm.

He continued through the shadows, entering a murky living room. Halfway across, he heard a chair creak and ducked behind a sofa. The sound came through an archway ahead. Holding his breath, he crept nearer and saw the glow from a rain-misted light outside two barred windows. Each window flanked the mansion's front door, and in the vestibule, another glow-red, from a cigarette-revealed a guard in an alcove on the far side of the door.

Savage raised a pistol. Its projectiles weren't bullets but tranquilizer darts, and its front and rear sights had been tipped with infrared paint that allowed him to aim in the dark, its luminous specks visible only through his goggles.

The weapon made a muffled spit. At once Savage moved as quickly as the need for silence allowed, crossing the vestibule, grabbing the guard as he slumped from a chair, and more important, grabbing the guard's Uzi before it clattered onto the marble floor. He set the guard behind his chair and folded his legs to make sure they didn't project from the alcove.

With the Uzi slung across his shoulder, Savage studied the top of a curving staircase. A light up there indicated a hallway that Joyce Stone had described. Shifting his gaze from the vestibule toward the corridor above him, then once more toward the vestibule, he slowly ascended.

At the top, he pressed against the left wall and peered cautiously through the archway, toward the right, along the illuminated corridor. He couldn't see the corridor's end, but so far he hadn't glimpsed a guard. Rachel Stone's bedroom was in that direction, however, and he took for granted that a sentry would be watching her door.

He risked leaning farther into the archway to get a better view of the corridor. Still no guard.

At last he had to show his head, his view of the hallway complete.

A guard in a chair at the end! The man read a magazine.

Having revealed himself gradually, Savage used equal care to shift back out of sight, lest sudden motion attract the guard.

Would there be a corresponding sentry at the opposite end of the corridor?

Savage stepped softly toward the right side of the archway and peered with greater caution along the left flank of the corridor.

Or started to. A noise alerted him. A gun being cocked.

There was a guard on the left flank of the corridor. Savage aimed reflexively. His weapon spat. The guard on the left stumbled backward, his eyes already losing focus as he pawed at the dart protruding from his throat. The guard's knees buckled.

Savage prayed that the man's cocked handgun wouldn't discharge when it hit the floor. At the same time, he pivoted into the corridor and fired at the guard on the right. This guard had seen his counterpart stagger backward. Reacting to the commotion, he'd dropped what he was reading and grabbed his pistol. He began to surge out of his chair.

Savage's gun spat yet again. Its dart struck the man's left shoulder. Though the man tried desperately to aim his pistol, his eyes rolled upward. He toppled.

The thick carpet had muffled the noise of the falling bodies. Or so Savage prayed. Pulse hammering, he hurried to the right, toward the door to what Joyce Stone had told him was her sister's room. He tested the knob; it was locked. He suspected that the bolt could not be freed from inside but only from this side. After picking the lock, he scanned the doorframe with his metal detector but found no sign of an intruder alarm, urgently entered, and shut the door.

12

The bedroom was luxurious, but Savage barely noticed its expensive furnishings as he scanned them in search of Rachel Stone. A bedside lamp was on. The bed had been slept in; its rumpled covers had been thrown aside. But the room was deserted.

Savage checked beneath the bed. He peered behind closed draperies, finding bars on a window, then searched behind a settee and a chair.

Where the hell was she?

He opened a door, found a bathroom, and turned on the light. The shower door was closed. When he looked inside, the stall was empty.

Where…?

He tried another door. A closet. Dresses. Rachel Stone lunged through the dresses. Scissors glinted. Savage clutched her wrist an instant before she'd have stabbed his left eye.

“Bastard!”

Her anger-contorted features suddenly changed to a frown of surprise. Noticing Savage's black camouflage-greased face, she struggled backward.

“Who-?”

Savage clamped a hand across her mouth and shook his head. As he yanked the scissors from her grasp, his lips formed silent words. Don't talk. He pulled a card from his pocket. The card was sealed in transparent, waterproof plastic.

She stared at its dark hand-printed message.

YOUR SISTER SENT ME TO GET YOU OUT OF HERE.

He turned the card, revealing a further message.

THIS ROOM MIGHT HAVE HIDDEN MICROPHONES. WE MUSTN'T TALK.

She studied the card… and him… subdued her suspicion, and finally nodded.

He showed her another card.

GET DRESSED. WE'RE LEAVING. NOW.

But Rachel Stone didn't move.

Savage flipped the second card.

YOUR SISTER TOLD ME TO SHOW YOU THIS.

TO PROVE SHE SENT ME.

He held up a wedding ring, its diamond enormous.

This time when Rachel Stone nodded, she did so with recognition and conviction.

She grabbed for a dress in the closet.

But Savage squeezed her arm to stop her. Shaking his head, he pointed toward jeans, a sweater, and jogging shoes.

She understood. With no hint of embarrassment, she removed her nightgown.

Savage tried to ignore her nakedness, directing his attention toward the door through which guards might any moment charge.

Hurry, he silently pleaded. His pulse hammered faster.

Glancing again in her direction, he was too preoccupied to dwell on the jeans she tugged up over smooth, sensual thighs and silken bikini panties that revealed her pubic hair.

No, Savage's attention was directed solely toward two other-the most significant-aspects of her appearance.

One: Rachel Stone, though ten years younger than her sister, looked like Joyce Stone's twin. Tall, thin, angular. Intense blue eyes. A superb oval face, its magnificent curves framed by spectacular shoulder-length hair. There was one difference. Joyce Stone's hair was blond whereas Rachel's was auburn. The difference didn't matter. The resemblance between older and younger sister remained uncanny.

Two: while Joyce Stone's face was smooth and tanned, Rachel's was swollen and bruised. In addition to repeatedly raping his wife, Papadropolis had beaten her, making sure his fists left marks that couldn't be concealed. Humiliate- that was the tyrant's weapon. Subdue and dominate.

Not any longer, Savage thought. For the first time, he felt committed not just professionally but morally to this assignment. Rachel Stone might be-probably had been-spoiled by luxury. But nothing gave anyone the right to brutalize her.

Okay, Papadropolis, Savage thought. I started this for me, to prove myself. But I'll end this to get at you.

You son of a bitch!

His skull throbbed with anger.

Turning from the door, he saw that Rachel Stone was now dressed.

He leaned toward her ear, his whisper almost soundless, conscious of her perfume. “Take the few things you absolutely need.”

She nodded with determination and leaned close to him, her words as soft as her breath. “I'll give you anything you want. Just get me out of here.”

Savage headed toward the door.

13

With the grace of a dancer, Rachel Stone rushed soundlessly down the stairs. In the shadowy vestibule, Savage touched her arm to guide her toward the living room, intending to reach the hallway near the kitchen and leave the mansion through the same door he'd used to enter.

But she twisted away from his grasp, her long, lithe legs taking her quickly toward the front door.

Savage rushed to stop her before she opened the door and triggered an alarm.

But she didn't reach for the door, instead for a switch above it, and Savage understood abruptly that, despite her compulsion to escape, she retained sufficient presence of mind to deactivate the alarm.

She opened the door. Rain lashed beneath a balcony. Savage followed her onto wide white steps and gently shut the door. Feeling exposed by a misty arc light, he turned to give her instructions.

She was gone, racing past pillars, down the steps, into the storm.

No! He ran to catch up to her. Christ, doesn't she realize there might be guards out here? She can't just scramble over a fence. She'll trip an alarm!

The rain was stronger than when he'd entered the mansion, and colder. But though he shivered, he knew that some of the moisture streaming down his face was sweat. From fear.

He reached her, about to tackle her, intending to drag her toward the cover of a large statue to his left. At once he changed his mind. She wasn't fleeing at random. Rather she stayed on a concrete driveway that curved in front of the mansion. Constantly heading toward the right, she reached a short lane that intersected with the driveway. At the end of the lane, a storm-shrouded arc light revealed a long, narrow, single-story building with six large doors of a type that opened upward.

The estate's garage. That was her destination. They could hide behind it while he explained how he planned to get her past the sensors.

Gaining speed, Savage flanked her, his voice low but forceful. “Follow me. Toward the back.”

But she didn't obey and instead lunged toward a door on the side of the garage, in view of the mansion. She twisted the knob. It didn't budge.

She sobbed. “Jesus, it's locked.”

“We have to get in back-out of sight.”

She kept struggling with the doorknob.

”Come on,” Savage said.

He spun toward a shout from the mansion.

A guard charged out the front door, pistol raised, scanning the storm.

Oh, shit, Savage thought.

A second man charged out.

Savage hoped that the rain was too dense for the men to see the garage.

Then a third man charged out, and Savage knew the entire guard force would soon be searching the grounds.

“No choice,” he said. “Your idea's lousy, Rachel, but right now I can't think of anything better. Stand back.”

Rain drenched him as he frantically picked the lock. When he opened the door, Rachel shoved past him, reaching for a light switch. He managed to shut the door just in time, before the sudden illumination would have attracted the guards.

He faced a long row of luxury cars. “Is it too much to hope you brought keys? I can hot-wire one of these cars, but it'll take me a minute, and thanks to you, we don't have that much time.”

Rachel darted toward a Mercedes sedan. “The keys are already in them.”

“What?”

“No thief would dare to steal from my husband.”

“Then why was the door locked?”

“Isn't it obvious?”

“No.”

“To stop me from taking a car if I somehow got out of the house.”

As they spoke, Savage ran after her toward the Mercedes. But she got behind the steering wheel and slammed the driver's door before he could stop her. She twisted the ignition key she'd predicted would be in place. The car's finely tuned engine purred; acrid exhaust spewed into the garage.

At once she pressed a button on a remote control attached to the dashboard. A rumble reverberated. The door ahead of the Mercedes slid smoothly upward.

Savage barely managed to open the passenger door and scramble inside before she stomped the accelerator. His head snapped back. He slammed the door shut an instant before it would have smashed against the garage exit's frame.

“You almost left me behind!”

“I knew you'd manage.”

“But what if I hadn't?”

Rachel spun the steering wheel to the left and skidded down the lane away from the garage. A brief glare from an arc light revealed her braised, swollen face. She pressed harder on the accelerator and spun the steering wheel again, this time to the right, toward the driveway that led away from the mansion.

Before he could put on his seat belt, Savage was jerked in the direction of her steering.

“What if you hadn't got into the car before I sped away?” Rachel asked. “I've got the feeling you're resourceful.”

“And I've got the feeling you're a bitch.”

“My husband calls me a bitch quite a lot.”

“I apologize.”

“Hey, don't get sentimental on me. I need a savior who kicks ass.”

“No, what you need right now”-Savage reached toward the controls and pressed a switch-“is to turn on your windshield wipers.”

“I told you, you're resourceful.”

Savage glanced all around, seeing guards try desperately to intercept the car. They carried weapons but didn't aim them.

Why?

It didn't make sense.

Then it did.

They'd be glad to blow my brains out, Savage thought. They'd get a bonus. But they don't dare shoot for fear of hitting Papadropolis's wife. In that case, the guards themselves would not be shot. Papadropolis would feed them to the sharks.

As Savage stared forward, lightning flashed, and in the stark illumination, he saw a man on the driveway ahead. The man held a rifle, and like the other guards, he refused to raise it and fire.

Unlike the others, he held up a powerful flashlight, aiming its fierce beam toward the driver's side, hoping to blind Rachel and force her off the road.

Rachel jerked up a hand to shield her eyes and steered toward the man with the flashlight.

The guard jumped out of the way, his leap so smooth that Savage wondered if he'd had gymnastic training. Landing safely on Savage's side of the car, the guard continued to aim the glaring flashlight.

And that, too, didn't make sense. The guard couldn't hope to blind Rachel from the side.

Then the logic was obvious.

The guard directed the flashlight not toward Rachel but Savage.

To get a good look at me! So he can describe me to Papadropolis, and maybe someone can identify me!

Savage quickly covered his face with his hands. At the same time, he slumped, in case the guard decided to risk a shot at the passenger window.

The moment the car sped past the guard, Savage stared backward. Other guards ran down the road from the mansion. Every light was on in the house, silhouetting the guards in the night and the rain. The man who'd aimed the flashlight stood with his back to the house, scowling toward the Mercedes. The flashlight had prevented Savage from seeing his opponent's face, but now as the man shut the beam off, a further bolt of lightning revealed the guard's features.

The glimpse was imperfect. Because rain streaked down the back window. Because Savage's vision had not fully recovered from the glare of the powerful flashlight. Because the Mercedes was speeding away from the man.

But Savage saw enough. The guard was Oriental. His deft leap away from the car-had it been due to gymnastic training, as Savage had first suspected, or to expertise in martial arts?

Four seconds. That was all the time Savage had to study the man. The lightning died. The night concealed.

But four seconds had been enough. The man was in his midthirties: five feet ten inches tall, trim, and solid looking. He wore dark slacks, a matching windbreaker and turtleneck sweater. His brown face was rectangular, his rugged jaw and cheekbones framing his stern, handsome features.

Oriental, yes. But Savage could be more specific. The man was Japanese. Savage knew the man's nationality as certainly as his four seconds of shocked recognition had made him shudder at the eerie resemblance the man bore to…

Savage didn't want to think it.

Akira?

No! Impossible!

But as the Mercedes sped farther from the mansion, Savage analyzed his brief impression of the guard, and the major detail about the man wasn't his wiry frame or his stark rectangular features.

No, the major detail was the melancholy behind the intensity on the Japanese sentry's face.

Akira had been the saddest man Savage had ever met.

It couldn't be!

In shock, Savage pivoted toward Rachel. She supposedly was in his custody, but her hysteria controlled her. “You'll never get through the gate.”

“Just watch me.” She increased speed.

“But the gate's made of steel. It's reinforced.”

“So is this car. Armor-plated. Grab the dashboard. When we hit the gate, the Mercedes'll be a tank.”

Ahead, guards scrambled away. The chain link gate loomed quickly. With a jolting concussion, the sedan crashed through the barrier.

Savage swung to stare through the rain-drenched rear window, seeing headlights pursuing them.

He brooded.

With terrible certainty.

The man who drove the car would look impossibly like Akira.

“Did I scare you?” Rachel chuckled.

“Not at all.”

“Then why do you look so pale?”

“It could be I've just seen a ghost.”

14

Savage had planned several ways to get Rachel off the island. Under ideal circumstances, they'd have rushed to a motorcycle that a member of Savage's team had hidden among rocks on a slope a half-kilometer away. From there, they'd have had a choice of three widely separated coves, in each of which a small, powerful boat was waiting to speed them to a fishing trawler that circled the island.

One of the contingencies Savage had to worry about was the weather. While he'd invaded the estate, the storm had been to his advantage-the harder it rained, the better he'd been concealed. But he'd hoped that the storm would lessen during the evacuation, and instead it had strengthened. The wind would be too powerful, the sea too rough for a boat to take them to the fishing trawler, which itself would be in danger and need to seek shelter.

Of course, Savage never based a plan merely on the chance that the weather would improve, even if the forecasts were in his favor. One of his scouts had found a secluded cave in which they could hide till conditions permitted them to use a boat. Savage hadn't worried about dogs following their scent, for Papadropolis had a phobia about dogs and refused to have them on his property. But even if there had been dogs, the rain would have impaired their sense of smell.

Savage took into account that guards might find the boats in the coves, so he'd arranged for a helicopter to be waiting on the neighboring island of Delos. All he had to do was signal it with a radio transmitter in his pack, and the chopper would rush to pick them up at a prearranged rendezvous.

But suppose the weather stayed bad, and the chopper couldn't fly? Suppose Papadropolis's men were in the rendezvous area? Pursued, Savage had no opportunity to get Rachel to the cave. That left him with one final variation in his plan. The most desperate alternative.

“Ahead, the road soon forks. Turn left,” he said.

“But that'll take us northwest. Toward-”

“ Mykonos.” Savage nodded.

“The village is a labyrinth! We'll be trapped before we can hide!”

“I don't plan to hide.” Savage stared back toward the headlights enlarging in rapid pursuit.

Akira? No! It couldn't be!

“What do you mean, you don't plan to hide? What will we-?”

“Here's the fork. Do what I tell you. Turn left.”

When they'd crashed through the gate, the concrete driveway had become a dirt road. The rain had softened the dirt. The heavy armor-plated Mercedes sank into muddy puddles. Tires spinning, rear end fishtailing, the car struggled forward. At least the pursuing car will have the same trouble we do, Savage thought. Then he noticed that farther back the headlights of other cars had joined the chase.

The mushy road had slowed the Mercedes to thirty kilometers an hour. Even then, Rachel had trouble controlling the steering wheel and keeping the car from sliding into a ditch as she obeyed instructions and took the left fork. “Satisfied?”

“For now. You drive well, by the way.”

“Trying to bolster my confidence?”

“It never hurts,” Savage said. “But I wasn't lying.”

“My husband lies to me all the time. How do I know-?”

“That I'm not? Because your safety depends on me, and if you couldn't control this car, I'd insist on trading places with you.”

“Compliment accepted.” Frowning with concentration, she managed to increase speed.

Savage stared again toward the headlights behind him. They weren't gaining. The trouble was, they weren't receding either.

“My husband hired fools. When they had the chance back there, they weren't smart enough to shoot at the tires.”

“It wouldn't have mattered.”

“I don't understand.”

“The tires on a car this heavy are reinforced. They can take a shotgun blast or a bullet from a forty-five and still support the car.” A gust of wind shook the car.

Rachel almost veered off the road. Voice trembling, she asked, “What happens when we get to Mykonos?”

“If we get to Mykonos. Pay attention to the moment.”

They reached the village of Ano Mera. At this late hour, the village was dark, asleep. The Mercedes gained speed on its rock-slabbed road. Too soon, with the village behind them, the route became muddy again and Rachel eased her foot off the accelerator.

Savage exhaled.

Rachel misinterpreted. “Am I doing something wrong?”

“No, I was worried that the guards would have phoned ahead to warn the men your husband pays to watch for strangers passing through the village toward his estate. We might have faced a roadblock.”

“You've done your homework.”

“I try, but there's always something, the risk of an unknown threat. Knowledge is power. Ignorance…”

“Finish. What do you mean?”

“Ignorance is death. I think the headlights are gaining on us.”

“I noticed in my rearview mirror. Talking helps me not to be afraid. If they catch us…”

“You won't be harmed.”

“Until my husband returns. To beat me again before he rapes me. But you'll…”

“Be killed.”

“Then why are you helping me? How much did my sister pay you?”

“It doesn't matter. Keep your eyes on the road,” Savage said. “If we get to Mykonos -it's only eight kilometers ahead-follow my instructions exactly.”

“Then you do have a plan.”

“I had several, but this is the one I'm forced to use. I repeat”- Savage glanced toward the pursuing, possibly gaining headlights-“your life depends on total obedience. Do everything I say.”

“When my husband gives me orders, I resent it. But when you give me orders, I'm ready to follow you to hell.”

“Let's hope you don't have to prove it.”

15

Their headlights gleamed off cube-shaped houses, brilliantly white even in the rain-swept darkness.

“ Mykonos!” Rachel pressed her foot harder onto the accelerator.

“No!” Savage said.

Too late. The sudden increased speed caused the Mercedes to hydroplane on the mud. The car veered sideways, spun- twice, the steering wheel useless, Savage's stomach twisting-and crashed against a fence at the side of the road.

Rachel rammed the gearshift into reverse, tromping the accelerator again.

“Stop!” Savage said.

But the worst had been done. Instead of easing away from the fence toward the road, Rachel had made the car slip sideways onto a mound of earth that snagged the car's drive shaft, propping it up. The tires spun not on mud but air. The car was useless. Two people wouldn't be strong enough to push it off the mound.

The pursuing headlights loomed closer.

Rachel scrambled out of the car. Savage rushed to join her. His boots sank and slid in the mud. He almost lost his balance but managed not to fall as Rachel did lose her balance. He caught her, kept a tight grip on her arm, and urged her forward. The sensation was that of a nightmare, racing through mud and yet staying in place.

But they stubbornly gained momentum. Before them, the white cube-shaped houses enlarged as the headlights behind them magnified.

At once, the nightmare of running in place concluded. Rock slabs beneath Savage's boots made him feel as if a cable that restrained him had snapped. He and Rachel shot forward, the solid street providing traction.

The moment they entered the village, Savage realized that the Mercedes would have been useless anyhow. The street they ran along was narrow, winding. It forked, the angles so sharp and confining that the Mercedes could not have maneuvered with any speed. Hearing the engines of the pursuing cars, Savage chose the left tangent and hurried along it, suddenly confronted by two more tangents. Dismayed, he knew that no matter which direction he took, there'd soon be other tangents.

The maze of Mykonos, the streets arranged in a labyrinth, a means of confusing pirates in antiquity, of making it easy for villagers to trap marauders. Or for present-day hunters to trap their quarry.

Behind him, Savage heard slamming car doors, angry voices, urgent footsteps echoing along a street. He studied the tangents before him. The one to the left veered upward, the other down. His choice was inevitable. He had to keep moving toward the harbor. Guiding Rachel, he fled to the right, only to discover that the street soon angled upward.

It's taking us back to where we started!

Savage pivoted, forcing Rachel to retrace her steps. Except for the gusting rain and the angry voices of their hunters, the village was silent. Only the white of the houses, occasional lights in windows, and sporadic flashes of lightning helped Savage to see his way.

He found a lane he'd failed to notice when he'd passed this way earlier. The lane led downward, so constricting that his shoulders brushed against the walls. He emerged on a wider lane, horizontal, so flat that he couldn't tell which direction might eventually lead downward. But clattering footsteps to his left made him nudge Rachel and charge to the right.

This time, when the lane ended, there was only one exit -to the right, and that led upward.

No! We have to keep aiming toward the harbor!

Savage spun, staring along the lane they'd just taken. The footsteps and curses of the guards sounded closer. Flashlights blazed at the end of the lane. One guard turned to another, his beam revealing the face of the second guard.

The second man was the Japanese. Even at a distance, he still reminded Savage disturbingly of Akira. The Japanese grabbed the first guard's arm and shoved the flashlight away from his face. They rushed along the lane.

In Savage's direction.

They haven't seen us yet, but they will.

Savage's boot struck an object at the side of the lane. A ladder lay against a wall, half of which had a fresh coat of white. He braced it against the wall. Rachel scurried up. As Savage followed, he saw the flashlights checking doorways and alleys, rushing closer.

On the roof, he pulled the ladder up. It scraped against the wall. The flashlights aimed toward the noise. Savage was blinded when a beam revealed him. He ducked back, yanking the ladder with him, hearing the distinctive muffled report of a pistol equipped with a silencer, a bullet zipping past his ear. An instant later, he was out of sight from the lane.

He almost set the ladder down but quickly changed his mind.

“Rachel, grab the other end.”

Awkward, they strained to hurry with the ladder across the roof, lurching to a stop when a gap before them revealed another lane.

In the distance, Savage saw murky lights in the rain-swept harbor.

“Let go of the ladder.”

He swung it over the gap, setting the far end on the other roof, propping the near end securely.

Rachel started to crawl across, but the ladder's rungs were slick with rain, and her knee slipped, a leg falling through. She dangled, gasped, raised her knee to the ladder, and crawled again.

Savage steadied the ladder. He stared toward the gap below him-no flashlights, although he did hear shouts. He glanced behind him, toward where he and Rachel had used the ladder to climb the wall. No one appeared on the rim.

Rain gusted against his eyes. He squinted toward Rachel, managing to see her on the opposite roof. Flat, he pulled himself along the ladder, its moist rungs easing his way, helping him to slide.

On the other roof, he stood and swung the ladder toward him. They struggled with it toward a farther gap between buildings, moving lower into the village, closer to the harbor.

When he crossed the next gap after Rachel did, Savage stared behind him. A flash of lightning made him flinch as a head appeared on top of a wall. The head belonged to the Japanese. Savage recalled the glint of a sword! The…! Abruptly the Japanese scrambled upright.

Another man joined him, raising a pistol, aiming at Savage.

The Japanese lost his balance on the rain-slicked roof. But the Japanese had moved so gracefully at the mansion, it didn't seem likely he could ever lose his balance. Nonetheless he fell against the man with the pistol, deflecting his aim. The shot went wild. The man with the pistol toppled backward. With a wail, he plunged off the roof.

The Japanese stared down at him, then charged after Savage and Rachel, his movements once again graceful.

He'll have to stop! Savage thought. He can't get past the two gaps we crossed!

Don't kid yourself. If this is Akira, he'll find a way.

But you know he can't be Akira!

Frantic, Savage picked up the ladder. As Rachel assisted, Savage glanced again toward the Japanese, expecting him to halt when he reached a lane between roofs. Instead the Japanese increased speed and leapt, his nimble body arcing through the rain, his arms outstretched as if gliding. He landed on the opposite roof, bent his knees, rolled to absorb the impact, and in the same smooth motion, sprang to his feet, continuing to race.

Burdened with the ladder, Savage and Rachel struggled toward another lane. But this time, instead of bracing the ladder across the gap, Savage lowered it against a wall. As Rachel scurried down, Savage turned, dismayed to see the Japanese leap across another gap.

Guards shouted nearby. Savage scrambled down the ladder and tugged it away from the wall so the Japanese couldn't use it. The lane sloped down to the right. He and Rachel sprinted along it. Behind him, Savage heard frenzied footsteps, the Japanese charging toward the side of the roof.

He'll dangle from the rim and drop, Savage thought. Maybe he'll hurt himself.

Like hell. He's a cat.

The lane ended. Savage faced another horizontal street, so level he couldn't decide which direction would take them closer to the harbor.

A light from a window reflected off water on the street. Heart pounding, Savage noticed that the water flowed toward the left.

He ran with Rachel in that direction. Shouts echoed behind him. Footsteps charged closer. Flashlights blazed ahead.

An alley on the right led steeper downward, away from the flashlights. The closer he and Rachel came to the harbor, the more the village narrowed, forming a bottleneck toward the sea, Savage knew. He'd reach fewer tangents, fewer risks of making the wrong decision and heading inadvertently upward, away from his objective.

But he had to assume that his pursuers understood where he was going. They'll try to get in front of us.

He prayed that the guards were as baffled by the maze as he was. Amid the curses behind him and the blaze of flashlights on his flanks, he heard a single set of pursuing footsteps.

The Japanese.

As if a nightmare had been dispelled, Savage broke from the village, from its confines and confusion. His way now was clear, across the beach, along the dock. No enemy awaited him. Beside him, Rachel breathed hoarsely, stumbling, on the verge of exhaustion.

“Keep trying,” Savage urged. “It's almost over.”

“God, I hope,” she gasped.

“For what this is worth”-Savage breathed-“I'm proud of you. You did fine.”

His compliment wasn't cynical. She'd obeyed him with Style and strength. But his encouragement-no doubt the only positive words she'd been told in quite a while-did the trick. She mustered her deepest resources and ran so hard she almost passed him.

“I meant what I said,” she gasped. “I'll go with you to hell.”

16

The yacht, one of several, was moored near the end of the dock. Savage's final option. If the boats in various coves had been discovered, if the fishing trawler had been forced to retreat due to hazardous, weather, if the helicopter couldn't take off from nearby Delos and pick them up at the rendezvous site, the last possibility was a yacht that a member of his team had left in the Mykonos harbor.

Savage sprang aboard, released the ropes that secured it to posts, raised the hatch above the engine, and grabbed the ignition key taped beneath the deck. He slid the key into the switch on the vessel's controls, swelled with triumph when the engine rumbled, pushed the accelerator, and felt a satisfying surge as the yacht sped away from the dock.

“Thank you!” Rachel hugged him.

“Get down on the deck!”

She instantly complied.

As the yacht churned away from the dock, raising waves dwarfed by the greater waves of the storm, Savage scowled behind him. The force of the sea made the yacht thrust up and down, but despite his confused perspective, Savage saw a man rush along the dock.

The Japanese. Beneath a light at the end of the dock, his features remained as melancholy as Akira's.

He showed other emotions as well. Confusion. Desperation.

Anger.

Most of all, fear.

That didn't make sense. But there wasn't any doubt. The Oriental's strongest emotion was fear.

“Savage?” The voice was strained, obscured by the gusting storm.

“Akira?” Savage's yell broke, strangled by waves that splashed his face, filling his mouth, making him cough.

On the dock, other guards rushed beside the Japanese. They aimed pistols toward the yacht but didn't dare fire, aware of the risk of hitting their client's wife. Their faces were rainswept portraits of desperation.

The Japanese shouted, “But I saw you…!”

The storm erased his next frantic words.

“Saw me?” Savage yelled. “I saw you!”

Savage couldn't allow himself to be distracted. He had to complete his mission and urged the yacht from the harbor.

“… die!” the Japanese screamed.

Rachel peered up from the deck. “You know that man?”

Savage's hands cramped around the yacht's controls. His pounding heart made him sick.

He felt dizzy. In the village, he'd predicted that the Japanese would leap down from the wall like a cat.

Yes. Like a cat, Savage thought. With less than nine lives.

“Know him?” he told Rachel as the yacht fought stormy waves to escape the harbor. “God help me, yes.”

“The wind! I can't hear you!”

“I saw him die six months ago!”

1

Six months ago, Savage had been working in the Bahamas, an uneventful babysitting job that involved making sure the nine-year-old son of a U.S. cosmetics manufacturer didn't get kidnapped while the family was on vacation. Savage's research had made him conclude that, since the family had never been threatened, his assignment was really to be a companion to the boy while the parents abandoned him in favor of the local casinos. In theory, anyone could have served that function, but it turned out the businessman made frequent racial slurs against the local population, so Savage assumed that the supposed potential kidnappers had a skin color darker than his employer's. In that case, why, he'd wondered, had the businessman chosen the Bahamas at all? Why not Las Vegas? Probably because the Bahamas sounded more impressive when you told your friends you'd spent two weeks there.

Savage had disapproved but hadn't shown it. His job, after all, wasn't to like his client, but instead to provide security, and besides, despite his aversion to his employer, he enjoyed the boy's companionship extremely. While never allowing himself to be distracted from his duties, he'd taught the boy to windsurf and scuba dive. With the businessman's money, he'd chartered a fishing boat-captained by a Bahamian native, to Savage's rebellious delight-and never baiting a hook had shown the boy the graceful majesty of leaping sailfish and marlin. In short, he'd behaved like the father that the endearing boy's actual father should have been.

When the boy had flown back to Atlanta with his family, Savage had felt empty. Well, he'd thought, you've got this consolation. Not every job's as pleasant as this one. He'd remained in the Bahamas for three more days. Swimming, jogging, hardening his muscles. A vacation for himself. But then his habitual compulsion to work had taken control. He'd phoned one of his several contacts, a restaurateur in Barcelona, who'd received a call from a jeweler in Brussels, who passed the word that if Savage was available, his agent would be pleased to speak with him.

2

Savage's agent, Graham Barker-Smythe, the Englishman who'd trained him, had his home in a renovated carriage house in an elegant brick-paved lane in New York City, a half-block from Washington Square. As Graham liked to say, “At midnight, I can hear the junkies howl.”

Graham was fifty-eight, overweight from too much champagne and caviar, but in his lean youth, he'd been a member of the British military's elite commando unit, the Special Air Service, and after leaving the military, a protective escort to several prime ministers. Eventually his civil servant's income had been unacceptable compared to the guardian's fees he could earn in the private sector. America had offered the richest opportunities.

“This was after President Kennedy was shot. Then Martin Luther King. Then Robert Kennedy. Assassination was the major fear of anyone in power. Of course, the Secret Service had cornered the market on high-level politicians, so I chose to deal with prominent businessmen. They've got the bucks, and after the terrorists hit in the seventies, I made a bleeding fortune.”

Despite his twenty years in America, Graham still retained his English accent, though his vocabulary had become an intriguing mixture of American and British expressions.

“Some of the businessmen I protected”-Graham pursed his lips-“were no more than ruffians in Brooks Brothers suits. An elegant front. No class. Not like the aristocrats I used to work for. But this is what I learned. A protector has to repress his ill opinions about his employer. If you allow disapproval to control you, you'll unconsciously make a mistake that might kill your client.”

“You're saying a protector should never disapprove of a client?”

“It's a luxury. If we worked only for those of whom we approved, we'd seldom work. Everyone has imperfections. However, I do adhere to minimum standards. I would never help drug dealers, arms merchants, terrorists, mobsters, child molesters, wife beaters, or members of militant hate groups. I would never be able to repress my disgust enough to protect them. But unless you're confronted by unmistakable evil, you don't have a right to judge your client. Of course, you can still turn him down if the fee he offers is insufficient or the job too dangerous. Because we're tolerant doesn't mean we have to be schmucks. Pragmatism. Adapt to circumstances.”

Graham always enjoyed these philosophical discussions and despite his heart doctor's orders, indulged in lighting an enormous cigar, the smoke from which hovered above his bald head. “Did you ever wonder why I accepted you as a pupil?”

“I assumed because of the training I'd received in the SEALs.”

“That training was impressive, no doubt about it. When you came to me, I saw a strong young man accustomed to the stress of lethal conditions. A commendable background. Promising. Unrefined, however. I might even add, crude. Now don't look insulted. I'm about to give you a compliment. I grant that the SEALs are among the best commando units in the world, though my own SAS is of course in a class by itself.” Graham's eyes twinkled. “But the military insists on strict obedience, whereas an executive protector isn't a follower but a leader. Or more exactly, a protector exists in a delicate stasis with his employer, commanding yet obeying, allowing the client to do what he wants but insisting on how he does it. The relationship is known as symbiosis.”

Savage responded dryly, “I'm familiar with the word.”

“Give and take,” Graham said. “A protector requires the skills of a military specialist, agreed. But he also must have the talents of a diplomat. And above all, a mind. The latter-your mind-is what attracted me. You left the SEALs…”

“Because I disagreed with what happened in Grenada.”

“Yes, the U.S. invasion of that tiny Caribbean island. It's been several years since you approached me, but if my memory hasn't failed, the date of the invasion was October twenty-five, nineteen eighty-three.”

“Your memory never fails.”

“As a Briton, I'm instinctively precise. Six thousand U.S. soldiers-coordinated units of Rangers, Marines, SEALs, and Eighty-second Airborne paratroopers-attacked Grenada, their mission to rescue one thousand American medical students held captive by Soviet and Cuban troops.”

“Supposedly held captive.”

“You sound as angry as the day you came to me. You still feel the invasion wasn't justified?”

“For sure, there'd been trouble on the island. A coup had deposed the prime minister, but he was pro-Cuban, and the man who replaced him was Marxist. Different shades of red. The coup caused civil unrest. A hundred and forty protesters were shot by local soldiers. And the former prime minister was assassinated. But the American medical students stayed in their compound-none of them was injured. Basically two Communist politicians had fought each other for power. Why Americans were studying medicine on a pro-Cuban island I don't know, but the coup hardly threatened the balance of power in Latin America.”

“What about the Cuban, East German, North Korean, Libyan, Bulgarian, and Soviet technical advisors on the island, many of whom were actually soldiers?”

“An exaggeration of U.S. Intelligence. I saw only local soldiers and Cuban construction workers. Sure, when the invasion began, the Cubans grabbed rifles and fought as if they'd had military training, but what young man in Cuba hasn't had military training?”

“And the ten-thousand-foot airstrip being constructed, capable of accommodating long-range bombers?”

“What I saw was less than half that long, suitable for commercial flights to bring in tourists. The invasion was show business. The U.S. looked impotent when Iran took our embassy personnel hostage in ‘seventy-nine. Reagan defeated Carter because he vowed he'd act decisively if Americans were threatened again. Just after the Grenada coup, an Arab terrorist drove a truckload of explosives into the U.S. Marine barracks in war-ravaged Lebanon. Two hundred and thirty peacekeeping soldiers were killed in the blast. What happened in Lebanon was obscene, but did Reagan retaliate in that region? No, because the Mideast situation's too complicated. So what did he do to save face? He ordered American forces to attack an easy target to rescue supposed American hostages in the Caribbean.”

“But the American public perceives Grenada as a blow for freedom, an important U.S. victory against a Communist threat in the Western Hemisphere.”

“Because reporters were restricted from the invasion. The only reports came from the military. In civilian life, it's called lying. In politics, it's called disinformation.”

“Yes,” Graham said. “Disinformation. Exactly the word I was waiting for. As I said, what attracted me to you was your mind. Your ability to step back from your military conditioning, recognize the truth, and think independently. Why was your reaction so bitter?”

“You know that already. I was part of the first team to hit the island. We parachuted from a transport plane. Other chutes brought us rafts because we had to infiltrate the island from offshore. But the Navy misjudged the weather. The wind was stronger than predicted. At night, the waves were so fierce we couldn't see the rafts. A lot of us-a lot of my friends-drowned before we reached the rafts.”

“Died bravely.”

“Yes.”

“In the service of their country.”

“In the service of a movie-star president who sent us needlessly into combat so he'd look like a hero.”

“So with disgust, you refused to reenlist in the Navy, despite the fifty-thousand-dollar incentive the military offered you. However, a disaffected Navy SEAL, a top-of-the-line ex-commando, could have asked a huge fee from mercenary recruiters.”

“I didn't want to be a mercenary.”

“No. You wanted dignity. You had the wisdom to understand your true vocation, not a soldier but a protector.”

Graham leaned back behind his spacious mahogany desk, puffing his cigar with satisfaction. Though corpulent, he wore impeccably tailored clothes that minimized his bulk: a gray pinstripe suit and vest, a subdued maroon tie, and a subtle blue handkerchief tucked perfectly into the chest pocket of his suitcoat. “The tie and the handkerchief should never match,” he always insisted, instructing Savage about the proper way to dress if a distinguished client had to be escorted to a semiformal occasion. “Wear clothes to match your surroundings, but never choose a suit that's more elegant than your client's.”

Proper dress had been only a small part of what Graham taught Savage about the rules of executive protection. The occupation was far more complex than Savage had imagined when he first came to Graham in the fail of ‘83, though to Savage's credit he had not assumed that his extensive experience with one of the finest military units in the world had been all the preparation he would need. Quite the contrary. Savage's commando training had taught him the value of admitting what he didn't know, of thoroughly preparing himself for a mission. Knowledge is power. Ignorance is death. That was why he'd come to Graham in the first place-to dispel his ignorance and learn from a world-class expert about the refinements of his newly chosen profession.

Weapons: Savage required no instruction in that regard. There wasn't a weapon-firearms, explosives, ballpoint pens, or piano wire-that Savage couldn't use proficiently.

But what about surveillance techniques? Savage's training had been to assault, not follow.

And “bug” detection? Savage's experience with bugs was limited to disease-bearing pests in jungles, not miniature microphones implanted in telephones, lamps, and walls.

And evasive driving? Savage had never evaded an objective. He'd always attacked. And as far as driving was concerned, he and his unit had always been transported to whichever plane or ship would take them to their target. Driving was something he did for fun in a rented Corvette to take him from bar to bar while on leave.

“Fun?” Graham had winced. “I'll cure you of wanting that. And conspicuous vehicles are forbidden. As for bars, you'll drink only in moderation, a distinguished wine while eating, for example, and never when on assignment. Do you smoke?”

Savage did.

“Not anymore. How can you notice a threat to a principal-”

“A what?”

“A principal. In the profession you claim you wish to enter, a client is called a principal. An appropriate word, for your principal is your main-your exclusive-concern. How can you notice a threat to your principal when you're busy fumbling to light a cigarette? You think I contradict myself because I smoke a cigar? I indulge myself now that I've given up protecting in favor of teaching and arranging for my students to find employment. For an agent's fee, of course. But you, how can you protect a principal when your hand is compromised by a cigarette? Yes, I can see you have a great deal to learn.”

“Then teach me.”

“First you must prove you're worthy.”

“How?”

“Why did you choose-?”

“To be a bodyguard?”

“An executive protector. A bodyguard is a thug. A protector is an artist. Why did you choose this profession?”

Accustomed to the demeaning shouts of his Navy instructors, Savage hadn't felt angry at Graham's outburst. Instead he'd humbly sorted through his instincts, trying to verbalize his motivation. “To be useful.”

Graham had raised his eyebrows. “Not an inferior response. Elaborate.”

“There's so much pain in the world.”

“Then why not join the Peace Corps?”

Savage had straightened. “Because I'm a soldier.”

“And now you want to become a protector? A member of the comitatus. Ah, I see you're unfamiliar with the term. No matter. You'll soon understand, for I've decided to accept you as a student. Return to me a week from now. Read the Iliad and the Odyssey. We'll discuss its ethics.”

Savage hadn't questioned this seemingly irrelevant assignment. He was used to obeying, yes. But he sensed that Graham's command was not a mere test of his discipline but rather the beginning of a new kind of knowledge. A skill that would make his previous training-as superb as it was- seem a minimum requirement for the greater demands of what Graham eventually told him was the fifth and most noble profession.

After the Iliad and the Odyssey, Graham had insisted on discussing other classics that merged military and executive-protection skills. “You see, tradition and attitude are paramount. There are rules and codes. Ethics and yes, aesthetics. In time, I'll teach you tactics. For now, you'll learn a beautiful devotion to your principal, but as well an unrelenting obligation to control him. This relationship is unique. Perfectly balanced. A work of art.”

It was Graham who made Savage read the Anglo-Saxon account of the loyal comitatus who fought to the death to defend their master's corpse from the ravaging Vikings at the battle of Maldon. And it was Graham who introduced Savage to the remarkable Japanese fact-become-legend of the forty-seven ronin who avenged their insulted dead lord by beheading their master's enemy and in victory, obeyed the shogun's command to disembowel themselves.

Codes and obligations.

3

“I have an assignment for you,” Graham said.

“Why so solemn? Is it dangerous?”

“Actually it's fairly routine. Except for one thing.” Graham told him.

“The client's Japanese!” Savage said.

“Why does that make you frown?”

“I've never worked for a Japanese.”

“That intimidates you?”

Savage thought about it. “With most other nationalities, I'm able to take for granted common elements of culture. It makes the job easier. But the Japanese… I don't know enough about them.”

“They've adopted a lot of American ways. Clothes and music and…”

“Because of the U.S. occupation after the war. They wanted to please the victors. But their habit of mind, the way they think, that's unique, and I'm not just talking about the difference between the Orient and the West. Even the Communist Chinese, to give one example, think more like Westerners than the Japanese do.”

“I thought you said you didn't know anything about the Japanese.”

“I said I didn't know enough about them. That doesn't mean I haven't studied them. I knew one day I'd be asked to protect a Japanese. I wanted to be prepared.”

“And are you prepared?”

“I'll have to think about it.”

“You're afraid?”

Savage's pride made him tense. “Of what?”

“That you can be a comitatus but not a samurai?”

“Amae.”

Graham cocked his head. “I'm not familiar with the word.”

“It's Japanese. It means the compulsion to conform to a group.”

“Yes? And so? I'm puzzled.”

“Omote and ura. Public thoughts and private thoughts. A traditional Japanese never reveals what he truly believes. He always says what he thinks the group will accept.”

“I still don't-”

“The Japanese caste system, the absolute command of masters over retainers. In premodern times, the order was shogun to daimyo to samurai to farmer to merchant to untouchables, those who butchered animals or tanned hides. Apart from that hierarchy, the emperor existed with little power but great authority, the descendant of the Japanese gods. That rigid system was supposedly erased by the democratic reforms of the U.S. occupation. But it still persists.”

“My compliments.”

“What?”

“As usual, you've done your research.”

“Keep listening,” Savage said. “How am I supposed to protect a man who wants to conform to a group but won't tell me what he's thinking and who secretly believes he's better than his inferiors, which in this case is me? Add to that, the Japanese habit of avoiding favors because they impose an obligation to repay those favors in greater degree. And add to that, the Japanese habit of feeling mortally insulted whenever an underling assumes authority.”

“I still don't-”

“Everything you've taught me comes down to this-a protector must be both servant and master. A servant because I'm employed to defend. A master because I'm obligated to insist that my employer obey my instructions. A balance, you said. An artistry of give-and-take. Then tell me how I'm supposed to fulfill my obligation to a principal who won't reveal what he's thinking, who can't stand being obligated to an underling, and who won't take orders.”

“It's a dilemma. No doubt. I agree.”

“But you still recommend I accept this assignment?”

“For purposes of education.”

Savage glared at Graham and abruptly laughed. “You are a bastard.”

“Consider it a challenge. A broadening of your skills. You've succeeded so far-commendably. Nonetheless you haven't achieved your full potential. Ignorance is death. To become the best you must learn the most. And the samurai tradition offers the greatest opportunities. I suggest you immerse yourself much further in the culture of your principal.”

“Does the fee he offers make the effort-”

“The challenge?”

“-worthwhile?”

“You won't be disappointed. It more than compensates.”

“For?”

“Giri,” Graham said, surprising Savage by his mentor's knowledge of that essential Japanese word. “The burden of obligation to your master and to anyone who does you a favor. Even if the assignment's uneventful, my friend, you won't be bored.”

4

A dingy drizzle fell from a soot-colored sky. It sprayed off the greasy tarmac, forming a dirty mist that beaded against the dusty windows of LaGuardia Airport.

Savage sat in a crowded American Airlines concourse and watched a DC-10 approach an arrival dock. He periodically scanned the confusion of activity around him, on guard for potential danger, sensing none. Of course, an enemy skilled in surveillance would not allow himself to attract attention, so Savage remained alert.

“What's the principal's name?” he'd asked Graham.

“Muto Kamichi.”

The Japanese put their family name first, their given name last. The formal term of respect-san instead of “mister” -applied not to the family name but to the given name and came after the given name. Thus the principal would be addressed as Kamichi-san.

“He arrives in New York tomorrow,” Graham had added, “after going through Immigration and Customs in Dallas.”

“The purpose of his visit?” Graham had shrugged.

“Come on. Is he a businessman? A politician? What?” Graham shook his head. “Ura. Those private thoughts you so rightly noted the Japanese cherish. The principal prefers to keep his intentions to himself.”

Savage breathed out sharply. “That's exactly why I'm reluctant to take the job. If I don't know at least the general reason for his visit, how am I supposed to assess the risks he might face? A politician has to fear assassination, but a businessman's biggest worry is being kidnapped. Each risk requires a different defense.”

“Of course. But I've been assured that the threat potential is extremely low,” Graham said. “The principal is bringing his own security. One escort. Clearly if he were worried, he'd bring others. What he wants you to do is be his driver and stand in for his escort when the escort's sleeping. A simple assignment. Five days’ work. Ten thousand dollars in addition to my agent's fee.”

“For a driver? He's overpaying.”

“He insists on the best.”

“The escort?”

“His name is Akira.”

“Only one word?”

“He follows the practice I recommended to you and uses a pseudonym, so an enemy can't trace his public name to his private identity.”

“That's fine. But is he effective?”

“From all reports, extremely. Equivalent to you. Language won't be a problem, by the way. Both of them speak English fluently.”

Savage was only partially reassured. “Is it too much to hope that the principal's willing to confide in me enough to tell me beforehand where I'll be driving?”

“He's not unreasonable. And indeed you will be driving some distance.” Graham looked amused. “He's authorized me to give you this sealed envelope of instructions.”

5

The DC-10 reached the concourse. Its engines stopped shrieking. Friends and relatives hurried toward the arrival door, eager to meet their loved ones.

Savage assessed and dismissed them, studying observers on the sidelines.

Still no sign of a threat.

He moved toward the fringe of the waiting crowd. As usual, it took a frustrating minute for the docking to be completed. At once the empty ramp was filled with surging passengers.

Exuberant hugs of reunion. Kisses of affection.

Savage once again studied his surroundings. Everything seemed normal. He directed his attention toward the exit ramp.

Now came the test. His principal and his escort had flown first class. The extra fare meant not only bigger seats, anxious-to-please attendants, better meals, and unlimited free cocktails (which the escort should decline), but the privilege of entering and leaving the jet before the standard-fare customers.

Early boarding was a plus. Getting quickly through a possible danger in the crowd. But exiting early, facing a crowd and its unstudied risks, was a liability. A professional escort would insist that his principal wait until most passengers left the plane.

Avoid commotion. Maintain maximum order.

So Savage felt encouraged when he saw no Orientals among the Rolex-and-gold-bracelet, dressed-to-impress, first-class travelers, who marched past the crowd, their power briefcases clutched severely, their chins thrust high. Many wore expensive cowboy boots and Stetsons, to be expected since this DC-10 came from Dallas where an earlier 747 from Japan had landed. Evidently the Japanese passengers on the trans-Pacific 747 had either stayed in Dallas or taken connecting flights to cities other than New York.

Savage waited.

More Caucasians. More exuberant reunions.

The surge of passengers became a trickle.

An American Airlines attendant pushed an aged woman in a wheelchair through the arrival door. In theory the DC-10 was empty.

In theory.

Savage glanced behind him. The waiting crowd had dispersed. At the same time, another crowd-impatient-had boarded several departing planes.

This section of the concourse was almost empty. An airport custodian emptied ashtrays. A young couple looked dejected because they'd been too low on a waiting list for openings due to canceled reservations.

No threat.

Savage turned again toward the exit door.

A Japanese man appeared, dressed in dark slacks, a dark turtleneck sweater, a dark windbreaker.

Midthirties. Trim but not slight. No suggestion of muscles, but a definite suggestion of strength. Wiry. Supple. His movements smooth. Graceful. Controlled. Economical. No needless gesture. Like a dancer-who knew martial arts, for the tips and the sides of his hands had calluses typical of someone with karate training. Equally telling, his hands were unencumbered. No briefcase. No carry-on bag. Just a handsome Japanese, five feet ten inches tall, with brown skin, short black hair, strong jaw and cheekbones that framed his rectangular face, and laserlike eyes that assessed every aspect of what he approached.

This would be Akira, and Savage was impressed. On equal terms, an enemy would be foolish to confront this man. Even on terms to the enemy's advantage. Savage was so accustomed to dealing with inferior protectors that he almost smiled at the thought of working with an expert.

Behind Akira, another Japanese emerged from the ramp. Late fifties. Slightly stooped. Carrying a briefcase. Blue suit. Protruding stomach. Streaks of gray in his black hair. Sagging brown cheeks. A weary executive.

But Savage wasn't fooled. The second Japanese could probably straighten his shoulders and tuck in his stomach at will. This man would be Muto Kamichi, Savage's principal, and evidently he too had martial arts training, for like Akira (but unlike any other principal Savage had ever worked for), the tips and sides of Kamichi's hands had calluses.

Savage had been instructed to wear a brown suit and paisley tie to identify him. As Kamichi and Akira approached, he didn't offer to shake hands. The gesture would have compromised his ability to defend. Instead he chose the Japanese custom and bowed slightly.

The two Japanese maintained impassive expressions, but their eyes flickered with surprise that this Westerner was familiar with Japanese etiquette. Savage hadn't intended to obligate them. Still, he suddenly realized that the dictates of their culture forced them to respond, though their bows were less than Savage's, Akira's just a bob of the head as he continued to survey the concourse.

Savage gestured politely for them to follow. Proceeding down the concourse, he watched travelers ahead while Kamichi stayed behind him, and Akira followed, no doubt glancing frequently around.

The moment Savage had seen his principal, he'd raised his right hand to the outside of his suitcoat pocket and pressed a button on a battery-powered transmitter. A radio signal had been sent to a receiver in a vehicle that one of Savage's associates had parked in the airport's ramp. As soon as the associate heard the beep, he'd drive from the ramp to rendezvous with Savage.

The group reached the end of the concourse and descended stairs toward the commotion of the baggage area. Weary ex-passengers hefted suitcases off a conveyor belt, impatient to get outside and into taxis.

Savage assessed the harried crowd but didn't go near its risky confusion. Instead he gestured again, this time toward a sliding door. Kamichi and Akira went with him, unconcerned about their luggage.

Good, Savage thought. His initial impression had been accurate. These two understood correct procedure.

They emerged on a busy sidewalk beneath a concrete canopy. Beyond, the drizzle persisted. The temperature, high for April, was sixty degrees. A moist breeze felt tepid.

Savage glanced to the left toward approaching traffic, reassured to see a dark blue Plymouth sedan veering toward the curb. A red-haired man got out, came quickly around to the curb, and opened the rear passenger door. Just before Kamichi got in, he handed the red-haired man several luggage receipts. Savage approved that the principal was experienced enough to perform this menial service rather than requiring Akira to relax surveillance by reaching into his windbreaker pocket to get the receipts.

Savage slid behind the steering wheel, pressed a button that locked all the doors, then fastened his seat belt. Meanwhile the red-haired man went for the luggage. Because Kamichi and Akira had taken a prudent length of time to get off the plane, their suitcases would almost certainly be on the conveyor belt by now. A safe, efficient arrival.

One minute later, the red-haired man finished placing three suitcases in the Plymouth's trunk and shut the lid. Instantly Savage drove from the curb, checking his rearview mirror, noticing his associate walk toward a taxi. Savage had paid him earlier. The man would take for granted that Savage couldn't permit distraction by saying “thanks.”

Savage himself took for granted that since the two Japanese had behaved so knowledgeably about security, they understood why he'd chosen a car that wasn't ostentatious and wouldn't be easy to follow. Not that Savage expected to be followed. As Graham had said, the risk level on this assignment was low. Nonetheless Savage never varied his basic procedure, and the Plymouth-seemingly no different from others-had modifications: bulletproof glass, armor paneling, reinforced suspension, and a supercharged V-8 engine.

As windshield wipers flapped and tires hissed along the wet pavement, Savage steered smoothly through traffic, left the airport complex, and headed west on the Grand Central Parkway. The envelope Graham had given him was in his suitcoat, but he didn't refer to its contents, having memorized his instructions. He couldn't help wondering why Kamichi had rejected Newark's airport in favor of LaGuardia. The drive would have been shorter, less complicated, because although Savage's immediate route was toward Manhattan, his ultimate destination forced him across the northern tip of the island, then west through New Jersey into Pennsylvania. Kamichi's logic, the purpose of the mazelike itinerary, eluded him.

6

At five, the drizzle stopped. Amid the congestion of rush hour traffic, Savage crossed the George Washington Bridge. He asked his principal if he'd care to enjoy some sake, which having been heated was in a thermos, the temperature not ideal but acceptable.

Kamichi declined.

Savage explained that the Plymouth was equipped with a telephone, if Kamichi-san required it.

Again Kamichi declined.

That was the extent of the conversation.

Until twenty miles west on Interstate 80, where Kamichi and Akira exchanged remarks. In Japanese.

Savage was competent in several European languages, a necessity of his work, but Japanese was too difficult for him, its complex system of suffixes and prefixes bewildering. Because Kamichi spoke English, Savage wondered why his principal had chosen to exclude him from this conversation. How could he do his job when he couldn't understand what the man he'd pledged to protect was saying?

Akira leaned forward. “At the next exit, you'll see a restaurant-hotel complex. I believe you call it a Howard Johnson's. Please stop to the left of the swimming pool.”

Savage frowned for two reasons. First, Akira had remarkably specific knowledge of the road ahead. Second, Akira's English diction was perfect. The Japanese language made no distinction between r and J. Akira, though, didn't say “prease” and “Howald Johnson's.” His accent was flawless.

Savage nodded, obeying instructions, steering off the highway. To the left of the swimming pool, where a sign said CLOSED, a balding man in a jogging suit appeared from behind a maintenance building, considered the two Japanese in the Plymouth's rear seat, and held up a briefcase.

The briefcase-metal, with a combination lock-was identical to the briefcase that Kamichi had carried from the plane.

“Please,” Akira said, “take my master's briefcase, leave the car, and exchange one briefcase for the other.”

Savage did what he was told.

Back in the car, he gave the look-alike briefcase to his employer.

“My master thanks you,” Akira said.

Savage bowed his head, puzzled by the exchange of briefcases. “It's my purpose to serve. Arigato.”

“ ‘Thank you’ in response to his ‘thank you’? My master commends your politeness.”

7

Returning to Interstate 80, Savage checked his rearview mirror to see if he was being followed. The vehicles behind him kept shifting position. Good.

It was dark when he crossed the mountain-flanked border from New Jersey into Pennsylvania. Headlights approaching in the opposite lanes allowed him to study the image of his passengers in his rearview mirror.

The gray-haired principal seemed asleep, his slack-jawed face tilted back, his eyes closed, or perhaps he was meditating.

But Akira sat ramrod straight, on guard. Like his master, his face did not reveal his thoughts. His features were stoic, impassive.

Akira's eyes, though, expressed the greatest sadness Savage had ever seen. To someone familiar with Japanese culture, Savage's conclusion might have seemed naive, for the Japanese by nature tended toward melancholy, Savage knew. Stern obligations imposed on them by complex traditional values made the Japanese watchful and reserved, lest they unwittingly insult someone or place themselves in another's debt. In premodern times, he'd read, a Japanese would hesitate to tell a passerby that he'd dropped his wallet-because the passerby would then feel honorbound to supply a reward much greater than the value of the contents of the wallet. Similarly Savage had read ancient accounts in which someone who'd fallen from a boat and thrashed in a river, in danger of drowning, had been ignored by people on shore-because to rescue the victim would be to inflict upon that victim an obligation to repay the rescuer again and again and again, forever in this ephemeral earthly existence, until the rescued victim was granted the gift of rescuing the rescuer or else had the privileged release from obligation by dying as the gods had intended at the river before the rescuer intervened.

Shame and duty controlled the Japanese personality. Devotion to honor compelled them but often also wearied them. Peace could be elusive, fatigue of the spirit inescapable. Ritual suicide-seppuku-was on occasion the only solution.

Savage's research made him realize that these values applied only to uncorrupted, unwesternized Japanese, those who'd refused to adapt to the cultural infection of America's military occupation after the war. But Akira gave the impression of being both uncorruptible and, despite his knowledge of American ways, an unrelenting patriot of the Land of the Gods. Even so, the emotion in his eyes was more than the usual Japanese melancholy. His sadness was seared to the depths of his soul. So dark, so deep, so black, so profound. An expanding wall of repressive ebony. Savage felt it. The Plymouth was filled with it.

8

At eleven, a country road wound through night-shrouded mountains, leading them to a town called Medford Gap. Kamichi and Akira again exhanged comments in Japanese. Akira leaned forward. “At the town's main intersection, please turn left.”

Savage obeyed. Driving from the lights of Medford Gap, he steered up a narrow, winding road and hoped he wouldn't meet another vehicle coming down. There were very few places to park on the shoulder, and the spring thaw had made them muddy.

Dense trees flanked the car. The road angled higher, veering sharply back and forth. The Plymouth's headlights glinted off banks of lingering snow. Ten minutes later, the road became level, its sharp turns now gentle curves. Ahead, above hulking trees, Savage saw a glow. He passed through an open gate, steered around a clump of boulders, and entered an enormous clearing. Fallow gardens flanked him. Spotlights gleamed, revealing paths, benches, and hedges. But what attracted Savage's attention was the eerie building that loomed before him.

At first, he thought it was several buildings, some made of brick, others of stone, others of wood. They varied in height: five stories, three, four. Each had a different style: a town house, a pagoda, a castle, a chalet. Some had straight walls; others were rounded. Chimneys, turrets, gables, and balconies added to the weird architectural confusion.

But as Savage drove closer, he realized that all of these apparently separate designs were joined to form one enormous baffling structure. My God, he thought. How long must it be? A fifth of a mile? It was huge.

None of the sections had doors, except for one in the middle, where the road led to wide wooden steps and a porch upon which a man in a uniform waited. The uniform, with epaulets and gold braids, reminded Savage of the type that bellmen wore at luxury hotels. Abruptly he saw a sign on the porch-MEDFORD GAP MOUNTAIN RETREAT-and understood that this peculiar building was in fact a hotel.

As Savage stopped at the bottom of the stairs, the man in the uniform came down toward the car.

Savage's muscles hardened.

Why the hell weren't my instructions complete? I should have been told where we'd be staying. This place… on a mountaintop, totally isolated, with just Akira and me to protect Kamichi, no explanation of why we came here, no way to control who comes and goes in a building this huge… it's a security nightmare.

Recalling the mysterious exchange of briefcases, Savage turned to Kamichi to tell him that ura, private thoughts, might be wonderful in Japan, but here they gave a protector a royal pain and what the hell was going on?

Akira intervened. “My master appreciates your concern. He grants that your sense of obligation gives you cause to object to these apparently risky arrangements. But you should understand that except for a few other guests, the hotel will be empty. And those guests, too, have escorts. The road will be watched. No incident is expected.”

“I'm not the primary escort,” Savage said. “You are. With respect, though, yes, I'm disturbed. Do you agree with these arrangements?”

Akira bowed his head, darting his profoundly sad eyes toward Kamichi. “I do what my master wills.”

“As must I. But for the record, I don't like it.”

“

1

Savage struggled to control the yacht in the storm. The heavy rain, combined with the night, made it almost impossible for him to see the harbor's exit. Only periodic flashes of lightning guided him. Glancing urgently behind him, he frowned toward the gale-shrouded white buildings of Mykonos and the murky arc light at the end of the village's dock. The guards who'd chased him and Rachel from Papadropolis's estate continued to stare, helpless, enraged, toward the yacht escaping through the turbulent water, afraid of shooting lest they hit their master's wife.

Despite the gloomy distance, one guard in particular attracted Savage's full attention. Handsome, wiry, brown skinned, his eyes the saddest Savage had ever seen. The Japanese.

“Savage?” the man had shouted, racing to a halt at the end of the dock.

“Akira?”

Impossible!

The guards charged back along the dock. The Japanese lingered, glaring toward Savage, then rushed to follow the guards. Darkness enveloped them.

The yacht tilted, shoved by the wind. Waves spewed over the side.

Lying on the deck, Rachel peered up. “You know that man?” A flash of lightning revealed her bruised, swollen face. Her drenched jeans and sweater clung to her angular body.

Savage studied the yacht's illuminated controls. Thunder shook the overhang. He felt sick. But not because of the churning sea. Akira's image haunted him. “Know him? God help me, yes.”

“The wind! I can't hear you!”

“I saw him die six months ago!” A wave thrust his shout down his throat.

“I still can't-!” Rachel crawled toward him, grabbed the console, and struggled to stand. “It sounded like you said-!”

“I don't have time to explain!” Savage shivered, but not from the cold. “I'm not sure I can explain! Go below! Put on dry clothes!”

A huge wave smashed against the yacht, nearly toppling them.

“Secure every hatch down there! Make sure nothing's loose to fly around! Strap yourself into a chair!”

Another wave slammed the yacht.

“But what about you?”

“I can't leave the bridge! Do what I say! Go below!”

He stared through the rain-swept window above the controls.

Straining for a glimpse of something, anything, he felt motion beside him, glanced to the right, and saw Rachel disappearing below.

Rain kept lashing the window. A fierce blaze of lightning suddenly revealed that he'd passed the harbor's exit. Ahead, all he saw was black, angry sea. Thunder rattled the window. Night abruptly cloaked him.

Port and starboard were meaningless bearings. Forward and aft had no significance in the rage of confusion around him. He felt totally disoriented.

Now what? he thought. Where are you going? He checked the console but couldn't find the yacht's navigation charts. He didn't dare leave the controls to search for them and suddenly realized that even if he found them, he couldn't distract himself and study them.

With no other recourse, he had to depend on his research. The nearest island was Delos, he remembered: to the south, where he'd arranged for a helicopter to wait in case his primary evacuation plan had failed and he and Rachel needed an airlift from Mykonos.

Delos was close. Six miles. But the island was also small, only one and a half square miles. He might easily miss it and risk being swamped before he reached the next southern island twenty-five miles away. The alternative was to aim southwest toward an island flanking Delos. That island, Rhineia, was larger than Delos and only a quarter-mile farther. It seemed the wiser choice.

But if I miss it? Unless the weather improves, we'll sink and drown.

He studied the illuminated dial on the compass and swung the wheel, lighting waves, heading southwest through chaos.

The yacht tipped over a crest and plummeted toward a trough. The force of the impact nearly yanked Savage's hands from the wheel and threw him onto the deck. He resisted and straightened, at the same time seeing a light pierce the dark to his right.

A hatch opened. Rachel climbed stairs from the underdeck cabin. She wore a yellow slicker. Presumably she'd obeyed Savage and also put on dry clothes. Ignoring his own risk, he'd worried that the cold rain would drain her body heat and put her in danger of hypothermia. Her shoulder-length auburn hair clung drenched to her cheeks.

“I told you to stay below!”

“Shut up and take this!” She handed him a slicker.

In the glow from the instrument panel, Savage saw the determined blaze in her eyes.

“And put on this dry shirt and sweater! You stubborn…! I know about hypothermia!”

Savage squinted at the clothes and the slicker, then peered up toward her bruised, intense face. “All right, you've got a deal.”

“No argument? What a surprise!”

“Well, I'm surprised. By you. Can you take the wheel? Have you piloted a yacht before?”

“Just watch me.” She grabbed the wheel.

He hesitated, but a bone-deep chill forced him to relinquish his grip. “Keep the compass positioned as is. Our bearing's southwest.”

In a corner beneath the overhang, partly sheltered from the rain and the waves, he rushed to change clothes and at once felt new energy, grateful to be warm and dry. Protected by the slicker, he took the wheel and checked the compass.

Directly on course.

Good. He planned to tell her so, but a wave struck the yacht, cascading over them. Rachel started to fall. Savage gripped her arm, supporting her.

She caught her breath. “What did you mean I surprised you?”

“When I work for the rich, they're usually spoiled. They expect me to be a servant. They don't understand…”

“How much their lives depend on you? Hey, my dignity depends on you. I'd still be back in that prison, begging my husband not to rape me again. If you hadn't rescued me, I'd still be his punching bag.”

As lightning flashed and Savage again saw the swollen bruises on Rachel's face, he shuddered with rage. “I know it doesn't help to hear it, but I'm sorry for what you've been through.”

“Just get me away from him.”

If I can, Savage thought. He stared toward the convulsing sea.

“My husband's men?”

“I doubt they'll chase us blindly in this storm. In their place, I'd wait till it ended, then use helicopters.”

“Where are we going?”

“Delos or Rhineia. Assuming the compass is accurate. Depending on the current.”

“And where do we go after-?”

“Quiet.”

“What?”

“Let me listen.”

“For what? All I hear is thunder.”

“No,” Savage said. “That's not thunder.”

She cocked her head and suddenly moaned. “Oh, Jesus.”

Ahead, something rumbled.

“Waves,” Savage said. “Hitting rocks.”

2

The rumble intensified. Closer and closer. A deafening roar. Savage's hands cramped on the wheel. His eyes ached, straining to penetrate the dark. Assaulted by bomblike concussions, his ears rang. He urged the yacht northward, away from the breakers. But the force of the wind and the waves shoved the yacht sideways, relentlessly toward the continuous boom he struggled to escape.

The yacht listed, pushed by the eastward-heaving current, tilting westward. Water gushed onto the deck.

“I'm afraid we'll go over!” Savage said. “Brace yourself!”

But Rachel darted toward the underdeck cabin.

“No!” he said.

“You don't understand! I saw life vests!”

“What? You should have told me earlier! That's the first thing we should have-!”

Abruptly she emerged from the hatch, handing him a flotation device, strapping on her own.

The yacht tilted sharper, deeper, westward, toward the boom. Water cascaded over the portside gunwale, filling the deck, listing it farther westward.

“Hang on to me!” Savage shouted.

The next wave hit like a roc