The Fifth Profession

1

Savage drove from the motel, hoping no one had seen them get into the car.

Again Akira hid on the floor in back, though Rachel sat next to Savage, her auburn hair making it safe for her to show herself. She studied a road map. “The nearest major airport is in Raleigh. That's a hundred and fifty miles west.”

“No, Raleigh won't do,” Savage said. “There'd be so few Japanese flying out of that airport-probably none- Akira would be sure to attract attention.” Reaching a highway, he headed northwest. “Will this route take us around Virginia Beach?”

Rachel checked the map. “No problem. But where are we going?”

“ Washington. Dulles International Airport. We can count on a lot of Japanese flying in and out of there. Akira won't be noticed.”

A few miles later, Savage pulled into a truckstop. He took care to park well away from other vehicles so no one could see into the back of the Taurus. Referring to the directory in a pay phone's booth, he called the toll-free numbers for several airlines. Though it would have been easier to phone from the motel, he didn't want to leave a record of his calls.

“We're in luck,” he said, getting back in the car. “I managed to get three seats on an American Airlines flight.”

“What time does it leave?” Akira asked.

“Tomorrow morning. Ten to eight.”

“But Dulles Airport must be-”

“Four hundred miles away, given the roundabout route we're forced to take to avoid the eastern part of Virginia,” Savage said. “The airport's security inspection takes longer on an overseas flight. All our luggage is carry-on. That'll save time. Even so, to pick up our tickets and guarantee we're on the plane, we need to be at the airport by five A.M. at the latest.”

“Can we do that?” Rachel asked.

Savage glanced at his watch. “Twenty-one hours to drive four hundred miles? Sure. Even if traffic's bad, we'll be in Washington tonight.”

Despite his confident tone, Savage reflexively increased speed. At once he thought better and strictly obeyed the limit. They didn't dare get stopped by a traffic cop. “There's plenty of time.”

“Then we should use it,” Akira said. “You have much to learn.”

“What about?” Savage asked.

“I gather that neither of you has been to Japan.”

Savage and Rachel agreed.

“Yes,” Akira said. “You have much to learn.”

“I've read books about Japan,” Savage said.

“But I can't assume that the books were accurate or that you retain the essentials,” Akira said. “And Rachel apparently knows almost nothing about Japan.”

“True,” Rachel said.

“You must be prepared. Soon you will enter a culture completely alien to you. Behavior you take for granted might be interpreted as rudeness. And what you think of as an insult might be a sign of respect. In the West, I've taught myself to behave as a Westerner, to adjust to your values, to accept your ways of thinking. Perhaps, then, you've concluded that the only differences between Americans and Japanese are the food we prefer to eat and the color of our skin, not to mention our language. The differences are much greater. Profound. If you are to survive the dangers we face, you must learn my ways just as I learned yours. Or try to learn-because I don't have much time to teach you.”

2

The 747 cruised over the glinting Pacific at forty thousand feet. As Savage assessed everything Akira had told him, he wished there'd been a chance for Akira to continue explaining during the long flight. There was so much to know, to absorb. But the only seats available had been widely separated, in three different sections of the plane, and Savage couldn't even see Akira, let alone talk with him.

Not only Akira but Rachel.

Savage felt nervously isolated from her. His instincts as a protector made him squirm at being distanced from his principal. More, despite his professional's need to be objective about a client, he reluctantly admitted that another need had grown within him. Accustomed to fearing for others, he'd never feared for his own safety-till now. Suffering a nightmare in which the dead came back to life, how could he be sure of anything? How could he trust his sense of reality? He had to depend on something. Love gave him hope.

He glanced out his window. Below, for many hours, there'd been nothing but ocean, and he understood why Akira had said that east of Japan there was only west. It was obvious why Japan identified so strongly with the sun. In ancient times, the blazing globe that seemed to rise each day from the infinite expanse of the sea must have exerted a powerful force. The land of the rising sun. The symbol on the nation's flag. As Akira had said, “ Japan is the only country whose tradition maintains its citizens are descendants of gods. One deity in particular. Amaterasu. The goddess of the sun.”

Savage felt pr

1

Making sure they weren't followed, they walked for several miles. By then, the sun was up, the streets bustling, noisy. Crossing intersections, Savage had to keep reminding himself not to check for cars approaching from the left, as he would have in America and most of Europe, but instead to glance toward the right, for here as in England motorists drove on the left side of the street and thus approached from a pedestrian's right.

At first, Savage's impulse had been to hire a taxi, but for the moment he and Rachel had no destination. Even if they did have an immediate destination, their lack of familiarity with the Japanese language made it impossible for them to give directions to a driver. Akira had partially solved that problem by writing his instructions-how to reach the restaurant and his sensei-in both English and Japanese script. Those instructions didn't help their present circumstance, however, and Savage and Rachel felt totally lost.

Still, they had to go somewhere. Wandering wasn't only pointless but fatiguing. Their travel bags became a burden.

“Maybe we should get on a bus,” Rachel said. “At least we'd be able to sit.”

She soon changed her mind. Every bus was crammed, with no possibility of finding a place even to stand.

Savage paused at the entrance to a subway.

“The trains will be as crowded as the buses,” Rachel said.

“That's more than likely, but let's have a look.”

They descended into a claustrophobia-producing maze. Travelers jostled past them, almost too urgent to cast curious glances at the two Caucasians among them. Savage's bag was slammed painfully against his leg. Ahead, he heard the echoing roar of a train. Emerging from a passageway, he faced a deafening, throng-filled cavern. At least, in contrast with New York subways, the terminal was clean and bright. A chart hung on a wall, various colored lines intersecting. Beneath Japanese ideograms, Savage saw English lettering.

“It's a map of the subway system,” Rachel said.

With effort, they deciphered the map and determined that this branch of the subway was called the Chiyoda line. Its green path led to midtown Tokyo, to the east of which was a black path labeled GINZA.

Savage examined the piece of paper Akira had given him. “The restaurant's in the Ginza district. If we take this train and get off at one of the midtown exits, maybe we'll be close to the rendezvous site.”

“Or even more lost than we are.”

“Have faith,” Savage said. “Isn't that what you keep telling me?”

Travelers lined up at a gate to buy tickets from a machine. Savage imitated them, using Japanese currency he'd obtained at the airport. When a train arrived, the waiting crowd surged toward its opening doors, thrusting Savage and Rachel inside. The sway of the speeding train and the crush of passengers pressed Rachel's breasts against him.

Several stops later, they left the subway, climbing congested stairs to the swelling din of midtown Tokyo. Office buildings and department stores towered before them. The swarm of traffic and pedestrians was overwhelming.

“We can't keep carrying these bags,” Rachel said.

They decided to find a hotel, but what they found instead was a massive railway terminal. Inside the busy concourse there were lockers, where they stored their bags, and finally unencumbered, they felt revitalized.

“Only nine o'clock,” Savage said. “We're not supposed to be at the restaurant till noon.”

“Then let's check out the sights.”

Rachel's buoyant mood was forced, Savage sensed, an anxious attempt to distract herself from the traumas of the night before. She managed to seem carefree only until she reached an exit from the station and noticed a vending machine filled with newspapers. Faltering, she pointed. The front page of a newspaper showed a large photograph of the Japanese they'd seen on television in the North Carolina motel.

“Muto Kamichi.” Savage exhaled forcefully, unable to repress the false memory of Kamichi's body being cut in half. At once he corrected himself, using the name the television announcer had called the anti-American politician. “Kunio Shirai.”

The photograph showed the gray-haired Japanese haranguing an excited group of what looked like students.

Why am I supposed to think I saw him die? Savage thought. An eerie chill swept through him. Does he think he saw us die?

“Let's get out of here,” Savage said, “and find someplace that isn't crowded. I need a chance to think.”

2

They headed west from the railway station and reached a large square called Kokyo Gaien. Beyond a moat, the Imperial Palace glinted. As Savage walked with Rachel along a wide gravel path toward the south of the square, he struggled to arrange his thoughts. “It's almost as if Akira and I were manipulated into coming to Japan.”

“I don't see how that's possible. Every step of the way, we made our own choices. From Greece to southern France to America to here,” Rachel said.

“Yet someone anticipated that we'd arrive at Akira's home. The assault team was ready. Someone's thinking ahead of us.”

“But how?”

They came to a street and once again proceeded west. To the left was the Parliament Building, to the right, beyond a moat, the Imperial Gardens, but Savage was too distracted to pay them attention.

He walked for quite a while in troubled silence. “If two men thought they'd seen each other die and then came into contact with each other,” he finally said, “what would they do?”

“That's obvious.” Rachel shrugged. “The same as you and Akira did. They'd be desperate to know what had really happened.”

“And if they discovered that someone they knew had arranged for them to come into contact?”

“They'd go to that person and demand an explanation,” Rachel said.

“Logical and predictable. So we went to Graham and discovered that he'd been murdered. No answers. But we needed answers. Where else could we look for them?”

“Only one choice,” Rachel said. “Where you thought you'd seen each other die. The Medford Gap Mountain Retreat.”

“Which we discovered didn't exist. So is it also predictable that our next choice would have been to find out what else had never happened?” Savage asked. “To go to the Harrisburg hospital where we thought we'd been treated for our injuries and where we each remembered the same doctor?”

“But after that, your theory falls apart,” Rachel said. “Because no one could predict that you'd decide to have X rays taken to find out if you'd really been injured. And for certain, no one could predict that eventually you'd talk to Dr. Santizo in Philadelphia.”

They passed two institutional-looking buildings. A wooded park attracted them. A Japanese sign at the entrance had English beneath it: INNER GARDEN OF THE MEUI SHRINE.

“But a surveillance team could have been waiting at the hospital,” Savage said. “Or more likely at Medford Gap, where we'd be easier to spot when we showed up to search for the Mountain Retreat. In New York, we made sure we hadn't been followed. But after Medford Gap, we were so distracted we might not have realized we had a tail. When we left the car to go into the Harrisburg hospitals, the surveillance team could have planted a homing device on the car and followed us easily after that, all the way to Virginia Beach where they killed Mac to keep him from talking and tried to get you away from us. Now that I think of it, Mac's death didn't only stop us from getting information. We were blamed for his murder. It put more pressure on us to run.”

“And when we saw Kunio Shirai on television, we knew exactly where to run,” Rachel said. “ Japan.” She shook her head. “There's a flaw in the logic, though. How could anyone be sure we'd see a picture of Shirai?”

“Because we'd be forced to check the news to learn what the police were saying about the murders. If not on television, then in magazines or newspapers, we'd eventually have found out about him.”

“… I agree.”

Savage frowned. “But the team that killed Mac works for someone different than the team that tried to kill us last night. One wants us to keep searching. The other wants us to stop.” He gestured, angry, bewildered.

Ahead, a wide path led them through a huge cypress gate, its tall pillars joined near the top by a beam and at the very top by other beams, each beam progressively wider, the entire structure reminding Savage of a massive Japanese ideogram. Trees and shrubs flanked the path and directed Savage's troubled gaze toward a large pagoda, its three stories emphasized by long, low buildings to the right and left: the Meiji Shrine. The pagoda's roof was flat, its sides sloping down, then curving up, creating a link between earth and sky. Savage was struck by the elegance and harmony.

A voice speaking English startled him. Rachel clutched his arm. Nervous, he pivoted and saw something so unexpected he blinked in confusion.

Americans!

Not a few but several dozen, and though Savage had arrived in Japan only yesterday, he'd become so used to seeing crowds composed exclusively of Orientals that for a moment this throng of awkward Caucasians seemed as foreign to him as he and Rachel felt amid the numerous Japanese they'd been following toward the shrine.

But the voice he'd heard speak English belonged to an attractive female Japanese in her twenties. She wore a burgundy skirt and blazer that resembled a uniform. Holding a clipboard with pages attached, she turned her head as she walked and addressed the Americans following her.

A tourist group, Savage realized.

“The Meiji Shrine is one of the most popular pilgrimage sites in Japan,” the guide explained, her English diction impressive, though the l and r in “pilgrimage” gave her trouble.

She paused where the path led into a courtyard. The group formed a semicircle.

“In eighteen sixty-seven,” she said, “after more than two and a half centuries in which a shogun was absolute ruler of Japan, an emperor again assumed power. The name of His Imperial Highness was Meiji”-she bowed her head-”and the return of authority to the emperor was called the Meiji Restoration, one of the four greatest cultural changes in the history of Japan.”

“What were the other three?” a man in blue-checkered pants interrupted.

The guide answered automatically. “Influences from China in the fifth century, the establishment of the Shogunate in sixteen hundred, and the United States occupation reforms after World War II.”

“… Didn't MacArthur make the emperor admit he wasn't a god?”

The tour guide's smile hardened. “Yes, your esteemed general required His Highness to renounce his divinity.” She smiled even harder, then gestured toward the pagoda. “When Emperor Meiji died in nineteen twelve, this shrine was created in his honor. The original buildings were destroyed in nineteen forty-five. This replica was constructed in nineteen fifty-eight.” She tactfully didn't mention that American bombing raids had been what destroyed the original buildings.

Savage watched her lead the group across the courtyard. About to follow toward the shrine, he glanced reflexively behind him and noticed, his stomach hardening, that some Americans hadn't proceeded with the group. They lingered thirty yards back on the tree-rimmed path.

Savage redirected his gaze toward the shrine. “Come on, let's join the group,” he told Rachel. He tried to sound casual but couldn't conceal the urgency in his voice.

She turned sharply toward him. “What's wrong?”

“Just look straight ahead. Match my pace. Pretend you're so fascinated by what the tour guide's saying, you want to keep up with her.”

“But what's…?”

His heart cramped. “When I tell you, don't look behind us.”

They neared the group. The spacious courtyard was bathed in sunlight. Savage's spine felt cold.

“All right, I won't look behind me,” Rachel said.

“Five men on the path. For a moment, I thought they were tourists. But they're wearing suits, and they seem more interested in the shrubs along the path than they are in the shrine. Except for us. They're very interested in us.”

“Oh, God.”

“I don't know how they found us.” Savage's fingers turned numb as adrenaline forced blood toward his muscles. “We were careful. And that subway was too damned crowded for anyone to keep us in sight.”

“Then maybe they really are tourists. Businessmen with a few hours off, trying to get over jet lag. Maybe they're less interested in the shrine than they thought they'd be and wish they'd gone to a geisha house.”

“No,” Savage said, pulse hammering. They reached the tour group. He had to keep his voice low. “I recognized one of them.”

Rachel flinched. “You're sure?”

“As sure as I am that I saw Akira beheaded and Kamichi cut in half. One of those men was at the Medford Gap Mountain Retreat.”

“But the Medford Gap Mountain Retreat…”

“Doesn't exist. I know that. I'm telling you I remember him being there.” Savage's head throbbed. His mind reeled, assaulted again by jamais vu.

Though he tried to hide it, the distress in his voice made members of the tour group turn and frown at him. A fiftyish woman with blue-tinted hair told him, “Shush.” The Japanese guide hesitated, peering back toward the distraction.

Savage murmured apologies, guiding Rachel around the group, walking anxiously toward the looming shrine. “False memory, yes,” he told Rachel. “But that doesn't change the fact that it's in my head. It feels real to me. Akira and I both remember Kamichi having a conference with three men. One looked Italian, the other Spanish, or maybe Mexican or… The third, though, was American! And I saw him just now behind us on the path!”

“But the conference never happened.”

“I saw him one other time.”

“What?”

“At the hospital. While I convalesced.”

“In Harrisburg ? But you were never in a hospital in Harrisburg. How can you recognize a man you never met?”

“How could Akira and I recognize Kunio Shirai, the man we knew as Kamichi?”

“You never met Kamichi either.”

Savage flooded with terror. He needed all his discipline, the effects of all his years of training and hardship under fire, to keep from panicking. Reality-the shrine before him- seemed to waver. False memory insisted that it alone was true. If what I remember isn't true, Savage thought, how can I be sure that this is?

They entered the shrine. In a glimmering corridor that stretched to the right and left, Savage saw burnished doors emblazened with golden suns. Equipped with hinges in the middle, the doors had been folded open, revealing the precinct of what looked like a temple. Railings prevented him from going farther.

“This way,” Savage said, urging Rachel to the left, disrupting the concentration of Japanese who gazed toward the shrine's interior in reverence of solemn artifacts that symbolized their noble heritage prior to the U.S. occupation, prior to the Second World War.

Judging the corridor ahead, Savage jerked his eyes furtively to the left, through a doorway that led outside. The five Americans, led by the distinguished-looking, expensively dressed man he remembered from the Mountain Retreat and the Harrisburg hospital, hurried with strained long strides across the crowded courtyard, nearing the shrine. The only reason they didn't break into a run, Savage guessed, was that they knew their skin had attracted too much attention to them already. A commotion here would provoke a rapid police response.

The jasmine-scented corridor veered to the right. Struggling to avoid further groups of meditating Japanese, Savage and Rachel zigzagged, turned sideways, twisted, and veered, desperate to reach an exit on the left.

They burst from the shrine into blinding sunlight, faced another wide courtyard, heard indignant Japanese voices behind them, American voices apologizing, and started to run.

“I'm certain,” Savage said. Past the courtyard, another path-lined with trees-beckoned. “The well-dressed man, the one with the mustache, who seems to be their leader? Midfifties? Sandy hair? Eyes like a politician?”

“Yes, from a door in the shrine I got a look at him,” Rachel said, racing.

“In my memory of the Harrisburg hospital, he came to visit me. He said his name was…”

Words that were never spoken made Savage shiver.

Philip Hailey. “As useful a name as any other. Anonymous. Waspishly American.”

“Kamichi and Akira. What happened to their bodies?”

“They were hurried away.”

“The police?”

“Weren't informed.”

”…So much blood.

“That corridor of the hotel has now been remodeled.”

“Who killed them, damn it, and why?”

“The motive for the murders relates to the conference, but the purpose of the conference is not your business. We expect to identify whoever was responsible. Consider the topic closed. My purpose in coming here was to express our sympathy for your suffering and to assure you that everything possible is being done to avenge the atrocity.”

“In other words, stay out of it.”

“Do you have any choice? Think of this money as compensation. We've also paid for your hospital bills. Incentives. Demonstrations of our good faith. In return, we count on your good faith. Don't disappoint us.”

And good old Phil hadn't needed to add, “If you don't cooperate, if you don't keep away from our affairs, we'll mix your ashes with Kamichi's and Akira's.”

Spurred by fear, Savage raced harder. Japanese pilgrims darted to the side, glaring in outrage at this violation of the shrine's peaceful atmosphere. Rachel's low-heeled shoes rapped on the concrete courtyard.

The tree-lined path seemed to widen as Savage charged toward it. Ten yards. Five. Sweating, he surged into its funnel, hearing Rachel exhale beside him.

He also heard shouts. With a frantic glance backward, he saw the five men led by Philip Hailey lunging out of the temple and across the courtyard.

“Forsyth!” Hailey yelled. “Stop!”

Forsyth? Savage tensed with shocked recognition. Forsyth was the alias I used in the hospital! Roger Forsyth! But I was never in that hospital! I never met Philip Hailey! So how could he know-?

“Damn it, Forsyth, stop!”

Again the objects before him seemed to shimmer, as if the path, the trees and bushes along it, weren't real. But the urgent footfalls of the men in the courtyard sounded very real.

Savage strained to run faster. “Rachel, are you okay? Can you keep up?”

“These shoes”-she breathed-”weren't built for a marathon.” She kicked off the shoes and sprinted next to him, her long strides billowing her loose cotton skirt.

“Forsyth!” Hailey yelled. “Doyle! For God's sake, stop!”

Doyle? In Virginia Beach, that's what Mac said my name was! Savage thought. Robert Doyle! And that's who the bartender told the police killed Mac!

Ahead, the path curved toward the right, but just before the curve, another path intersected with it.

Savage slowed. He couldn't know what lay beyond the curve. Perhaps a barrier. Staring desperately to the right, he saw that the intersecting path formed a straight line for quite a distance. It was almost deserted. We'll be in the open- easy targets. He spun toward the left and saw that this side of the intersecting path had several tangents along the way.

Tugging Rachel's hand, he sprinted toward the left as Hailey and his men rushed closer.

“Doyle!”

Savage almost drew the Beretta from beneath his jacket. But so far Hailey and his men hadn't shown any weapons. Despite their evident determination to stop Savage from continuing to search for answers-had they been responsible for the attack on Akira's home last night?-they weren't foolish enough to start shooting and cause the Japanese pilgrims to panic and the shrine's attendants to alert the authorities. Hailey and his men have to kill us in private, quietly, or they'll never get out of the park before the police block off the exits, Savage thought. If there's shooting, every Caucasian in the area, even blocks away, will be questioned.

Racing past bushes, Savage saw another path to his right and twenty yards farther, one on his left. But the path to his left would lead back toward the shrine. For a startling instant, Savage was reminded of the maze in Mykonos through which he and Rachel had fled her husband's men.

A labyrinth. Assessing the path to his right, he saw that it too had many tangents. Thick shrubs and trees flanked them. “Come on!” he told Rachel, veering right.

“Doyle!”

Another intersection. Which way? Savage wondered. To the right-other paths. Straight ahead-a sharp angle that also led right. To the left-nothing. Dead end. A barrier of trees and bushes.

Can't get trapped, Savage thought and almost charged straight ahead before he realized that Hailey would think as he did. Have to keep moving. Can't get cornered.

But why should the trees and bushes be a trap?

Abruptly Savage corrected his direction and dodged to the left, pulling Rachel with him. The path was short. The dead end threatened. Spotting a gap between shrubs, Savage gripped Rachel and urged her through it, stooping, squirming after her. He squeezed past trees, crawled under branches, struggled up a slope, snaked around boulders, and crouched in a thicket, his shoes sinking into a deep, moist, unpleasant mulch. Bushes surrounded them. The park was a perfect blend of artifice and chaos, the meticulously tended paths in contrast with the formlessness of nature. A wilderness in downtown Tokyo.

Canopied by leaves, tickled by ferns, Savage inhaled the mulch's loamy fragrance and drew his Beretta. Rachel's breasts heaved, sweat trickling off her forehead, her eyes wide with apprehension. He motioned for her not to speak. She nodded rapidly, emphatically. Ready with the pistol, he stared down the slope, the woods so thick he couldn't see the path.

The cloying leaves buffered sound. Hurried footsteps, urgent breathing, frustrated curses, seemed to come from far away.

But Savage's hunters couldn't have been more than twenty yards below.

“Which fucking-”

“-way. How do I know where they-”

“-must have gone-”

“-over here. No-”

“-there. They wouldn't-”

“-choose a trap. This other path-”

“-heads toward that other path which-”

“-heads toward the western exit. Damn it, give me the radio. Christ.” The labored voice belonged to Hailey, Savage realized. But with frightening clarity, he remembered the voice not from the shouts that had chased him out of the shrine, instead from the cultivated, threatening, oh-so-confident, imperious aristocrat who'd tried to bribe him in the hospital and implied a death sentence if Savage didn't back off.

False memory. Yes! But it made no difference. I didn't back off, you son of a bitch, Savage thought. And if it's death you want to talk about-Savage clutched the Beretta -let's debate.

Below him, past the dense tangle of trees and shrubs, he heard Hailey say, “Beta, this is Alpha!” Hailey evidently spoke to the radio he'd told one of his men to give him. “We've lost them! Instruct all units! Block all exits from the park!”

In the distance, sirens wailed, the distinctive alternating high-low blares of police cars approaching. Had the disturbance at the shrine been sufficient for attendants to phone the authorities?

“Christ!” Hailey said. “Beta, fall back! Avoid all contact with-!”

The sirens reached a crescendo, their wail diminishing.

“Wait!” Hailey said.

The wails receded, farther, fainter.

“Beta, disregard fallback order! Maintain surveillance on exits! Assume camouflage status! Out!” His tone changed, less loud, as if he addressed the men beside him. “Let's go.”

“Which way?” a man on the path asked.

“How the hell do I know? Split up! Check all the paths! Maybe they've doubled back! One thing we're sure of-they can't get out, and they're bound to attract attention!”

Footsteps scurried from the area, veering down various lanes.

“What if they're in the woods?” a receding voice said.

“Hope to God they're not!” Hailey's voice diminished. “A hundred and eighty acres! We'd need fucking Tonto and Rin Tin Tin to find them!… No, they'll feel trapped! They'll want to get out of here as quick as they can! Before we block off the exits!”

A breeze rustled branches. Birds sang. This section of the park became silent.

Savage exhaled softly, slowly, and lowered his Beretta. When he turned toward Rachel hunkered behind him in the bushes, he saw her open her mouth to speak. Quickly he put a hand to her lips and forcefully shook his head. He pointed toward the unseen path below and shrugged as if to indicate that one of the men might have stayed behind.

She flicked her eyes in acknowledgment. He removed his hand and eased his hips to the ground, straining to be quiet. Sweat trickled down his face. The shadows of trees cooled his brow.

But fear still churned his stomach. How long will they search? he thought. Besides the men who chased us, how many others does Hailey have? Who is he? Why am I a threat to him? How did he find us?

The nagging questions made Savage's temples throb.

Forsyth. He called me Forsyth, then Doyle. But why both names? And why last names? Why didn't he call me Roger or Bob?

Because a first name is used for a friend. But a last name's for someone you hate or…

Yes? Or what? Or control. During SEAL special warfare training, the instructors always chose our last names and always made them sound as if they were calling us shitheads.

But this isn't the SEALs. Hailey looks like a corporate executive or a politician, and for whatever reasons, he sure wants me out of the way.

Savage frowned, suddenly hearing voices on a path. He didn't understand what they were saying, suspected that the bushes muffled their words, then realized that the words were Japanese. The speakers didn't sound frantic or angry but rather seemed entranced by the gardens. He relaxed his tight grip on his handgun.

A further glance toward Rachel forced him to smile. She was tugging at her cotton top, trying to fan the sweat that had trickled onto her breasts. He averted his gaze from the dark stains that emphasized her nipples, pulled his own damp shirt from his chest, flicked a bug off his arm, and pretended disgust. It did the trick. Her blue eyes brightened, tension slowly draining from her.

But at once she seemed to remember something, scrunched her forehead, and pointed toward her Rolex watch. Savage knew what she meant. It was almost eleven o'clock. They were due to be at the restaurant in the Ginza district at noon, ready for Akira's phone call.

If Akira had a chance to phone. Maybe the police hadn't believed his story about defending himself against the three intruders. Maybe they'd taken Akira to headquarters for intensive questioning.

Maybe.

But maybe not. If Akira phoned the restaurant at the scheduled time and Savage and Rachel weren't there, he'd…

Phone again at six P.M. as they'd agreed. That was the point of a backup plan-to allow for contigencies.

But what if we can't get out of here by six? Savage thought. The next contact time was nine in the morning, and if that didn't work, if Savage and Rachel still couldn't get away from Hailey by then…

Akira would assume the worst. He might go to ground. The only chance for contact was the further backup plan of Savage's phoning Akira's home. But Eko didn't speak English. Her sole instructions were to answer “moshi, moshi” -hello-if Akira was safe, and “hai”-a rude tone of “yes”-if Akira was threatened and wanted Savage to run.

Christ, we didn't plan enough, Savage thought. We're professionals, but we're used to protecting others, not ourselves. We need protectors. As it is, trying to defend ourselves, we're too involved, we've got fools for clients, and we screwed up. We assumed that Akira would be the only one in danger. But now…!

Get control, Savage told himself. You're safe for the moment, and even if it's impossible to get to the restaurant by noon, six P.M. is a long way off.

Yes, that's what worries me, he thought. Anything can happen. If Hailey and his men are stubborn-and Savage assumed that they would be-we won't get out of here till dark.

And then?

We can't just walk out. We'll have to go over a wall. And in a city of twelve million Japanese with only a few thousand Americans living here, we'll attract as much attention, we'll be as conspicuous, as Godzilla.

Shit! Savage mustered the strength to subdue his increasing distress and turned yet again to Rachel. Leaves on her skirt. Dust on her cheeks. Dangling strands of auburn hair. Despite all those imperfections, she looked as beautiful… as spirited, angular, sharply featured, and glowing… as only Rachel could look.

I love you, Savage wished he could take the risk of telling her. Instead of violating silence, he leaned close and gently kissed the tip of her nose, tasting her dusty, sweat-salty skin. She closed her eyes, shuddered, reopened her lids, blinked nervously, and stroked his hair.

Remember, Savage told himself. Until this is over, she's your principal, not your lover. And Akira's waiting. Maybe. And Hailey's men are out there. Certainly.

So what are you going to do?

Move!

Savage gripped Rachel's elbows, kissed her…

And turned her, pointing toward the thickets beyond them.

She mouthed silent words. It took him a moment before he realized. What she'd silently told him… a familiar refrain…

Was…

I'll follow you to hell.

They squirmed through the mulch through the forest.

3

The park had frequent low hills. On occasion, thickets gave way to stretches of waist-high ferns, which Savage and Rachel avoided, anxious not to crush the ferns and leave a path in case Hailey's men managed to follow them. Staying among the trees, Savage took his bearings from the passage of the sun, imitating its movement, heading westward. He worried that when they reached a path, a sentry would see them rushing across it, but this section of the park was evidently extremely remote, for they never did reach a path. Though the temperature felt like low sixties, comparable to October weather in New England, he and Rachel sweated from exertion. Their dusty clothes snagged on branches. Rachel's skirt tore. Worse, because she'd been forced to kick off her shoes to be able to outrun Hailey and his men from the shrine, her feet-despite the mulch-became scratched and bloody. Savage took off his shoes and gave her his socks. He'd have let her have the shoes as well, but they were much too big for her and would have added blisters to her scratches. As it was, without socks, he developed blisters. Sometimes, where the mulch was too deep, he carried her. Their progress slowed. By one P.M., they slumped to the ground, exhausted.

“This park's enormous,” Rachel said. “And the Japanese claim they've run out of space. Not that I'm complaining.” She massaged her feet. “Hailey would have caught us by now if it weren't for…” She cocked her head. “Do I hear traffic?”

Savage focused his attention. The dense trees around them buffered sound, but beyond, it did seem… A rush of energy made him stand. “I'll check.” He made his way through the mulch and trees, smiled at what he saw, and quickly came back. “There's a wall about fifty yards ahead. We've reached a street.”

“Thank God.” At once she looked troubled. “But now what? Hailey's men are probably still looking for us. They'll assume there's a chance we'll go over a wall.”

“Whoever Hailey is, his reinforcements have to be limited. They'd need to be widely spaced to watch every section of the wall around the park. But you're right-as soon as one of them saw us, he'd radio for the others to converge. With your feet hurt, we couldn't outrun them.” Savage thought about it. “Let's follow the wall.”

With no basis for choosing one direction instead of another, he arbitrarily decided on north. The wall was high enough to conceal them, low enough for them to climb over if they needed to. As they moved along it, weaving past bushes, Rachel limping, Savage imagined Akira's unease if he'd been able to call the restaurant at noon. Failing to make contact, what would Akira fear had gone wrong? How would he react? What would he do until the next scheduled call at six?

The wall angled east, then north again. After sixty yards, Savage heard Japanese voices, tensed, crouched, peered beneath low concealing branches, and saw an east-west path. Traffic was louder. To the left, a gap in the wall formed an exit from the park, cars and pedestrians swarming past beyond it.

Savage scanned the exhaust-hazed street and squirmed backward through shrubs until he and Rachel could talk without being overheard. Overhanging boughs cloaked them with shadows.

“I didn't see any Americans,” he said. “Not that it matters. They wouldn't be in the open. For all we know, they're directly behind the wall at each side of the exit. Or in a van across the street. Or…”

“In other words, nothing's changed. We still can't get out of here.”

Savage hesitated. “Yes.”

“Then what do we-?”

“Wait for dark.”

Rachel's eyes widened. “Then we'll miss Akira's next call at the restaurant.”

“If we try to leave now, the odds are against us. Hailey's men… We'd be stopped. We'd never reach the restaurant,” Savage said. “I don't know why Hailey wants us so bad, but I'd sooner depend on Akira's patience than on Hailey's losing patience.”

“I feel so… Is this the way you normally live?”

“Normally? If you can call it that.”

“I've been with you for less than two weeks, and already I feel like I've been through several wars. How do you stand it?”

“Right now, after having fallen in love with you”-Savage swallowed-“I'm beginning to wonder. What I wish, what makes me want to keep going, is…”

“Tell me.”

“It's foolish to think about. A beach near Cancun. I'd like to take off your swimsuit. I'd like to make love in the surf in the moonlight.”

“Don't stop. Describe the feel of the waves.”

“I can't. What I mean is, I don't dare.”

“Make love to me?”

“Don't dare distract myself,” Savage said. “My love for you could make me so careless it kills you.”

“At the moment… How long did you say we had to wait?”

“Till dark.”

“Then there's plenty of time. When I close my eyes, I can hear the surf.”

She reached for him.

And she was right. When he closed his eyes, as they tenderly, languidly embraced, Savage could hear the surf.

4

Rachel slept while Savage watched over her. The shadows thickened. Near sunset, she wakened, beautiful despite puffy aftersleep.

“Now it's your turn,” she said.

“No, I have to…”

“Sleep,” she said. “You're no good to me if you're exhausted.” Her blue eyes twinkled.

“But suppose Hailey's men…”

Rachel gently removed the Beretta from his hand, and Savage-recalling last night-was well aware that she could use it. At the same time, he was also aware of the trauma she repressed. Her hand shook on the pistol's grip. With determination, she held the gun firmly.

“You're sure?” he asked.

“How else will we get to Cancun?”

“If something makes you afraid…”

“I'll wake you. Provided there's time and the target isn't obvious.”

Savage squinted.

“You're thinking I'll lose control again… shoot… keep shooting… and maybe for no reason.”

“No,” Savage said. “I'm thinking you don't deserve to belong in my world.”

“To hell with your world. I want to belong with you. Put your head down,” she said.

He resisted.

“Do it,” she said. “On my lap. If you're tired, you'll make mistakes. Don't fight me. There. Yes, there. That's right. Oh, yes. That feels so good.” She shivered. “Right there.”

“It's after six. We've missed Akira's next call. He'll…”

“Be nervous, yes, but he'll call again at nine tomorrow.”

“Unless he has problems in the meantime. We should never have separated.”

“There wasn't an option,” Rachel said. “The way you talk about him… the bond between you… it almost makes me jealous.”

Savage chuckled. “Remember where my head is.”

“Just close your eyes and keep it there.”

“I doubt I'll sleep.”

“You might if you think about that beach near Cancun. Imagine the rhythm of the waves on the shore. Even if you don't sleep, relaxing will do you good. R and R. Is that what you call it? So you're ready for what we'll be facing.”

“As soon as it's dark…”

“I'll wake you,” Rachel said. “That's a promise. Believe me, I want to get out of here.”

5

Rachel's teeth chattered-less from fear than cold, Savage sensed. In the dark, as the temperature kept dropping, he draped his jacket around her shoulders and guided her farther along the wall. He'd decided that trying to leave through a path from the park was possibly more dangerous during the night than in daylight. Hailey's hidden men would have a safer chance of killing them and escaping under cover of the neon confusion of Tokyo 's nightlife.

Reversing their earlier direction, Savage led Rachel southward, reached a western jog in the wall, and followed its angle. Unseen branches tugged at his shirt and threatened his eyes. If not for the halo of dense traffic opposite the wall, he couldn't have found his way. Horns blared. Engines roared.

“Enough,” Savage said. “Hailey's pissing me off. This spot's as good as any. If we go much farther, we'll circle the park. Screw it. Let's go.”

Savage raised his arms to grip the top of the wall, pulled himself up so his eyes showed just above the wall, and warily studied the street below him. Headlights surged past. A Japanese man and woman strolled beneath him along a sidewalk. Otherwise there were few pedestrians.

Savage dropped back onto the ground. “I didn't see anything to make me change my mind. Are you ready?”

“As I'll ever be.” She mustered resolve. “… Better give me a boost.”

Savage put his arms around her legs and lifted, feeling her skirt and thighs against his cheek. A moment later, she squirmed upward out of his grasp. As soon as she reached the crest, inching over, he hurriedly climbed after her. Together, they dangled from the opposite side. Heart pounding, Savage landed first and helped her down so her stockinged feet wouldn't be injured if her full weight struck the concrete.

Checking both ways along the sidewalk, Savage barked, “Quickly. Cross the street.”

A man had appeared from shadows a hundred yards to his left. Headlights revealed the man's face. A Caucasian. He blurted something to a radio in his hand and raced toward Savage and Rachel, fumbling for an object beneath his suitcoat.

“Do it!” Savage said. “Cross the street!”

“But…!”

The blazing cars formed a constantly moving barrier.

“We can't stay here!” To Savage's right, opposite the Caucasian running toward them, another Caucasian appeared, racing to flank them.

“We'll be…!”

“Now!” Savage said. He grabbed Rachel's hand, saw a slight break in traffic, and darted off the sidewalk.

Headlights streaked toward them. Brakes squealed. Savage kept running. He still gripped Rachel's hand, although she no longer needed urging.

In the next lane, another speeding car made Rachel curse. She surged in front of him.

Horns shrilled. The stench of exhaust flared Savage's nostrils. His stride lengthened.

They reached the street's divider. Wind from rushing cars flapped Rachel's skirt. Breathing hard, Savage glanced behind him and saw the two Caucasians rushing along the sidewalk. Assessing traffic, they searched for a break between cars so they could sprint across the street.

Savage waved at drivers in the opposite lanes, warning them that he and Rachel were about to race across. A Toyota slowed. Savage took the chance and bolted, Rachel charging next to him. They dodged another car and reached the far sidewalk.

Storefronts gleamed. Pedestrians gaped. An alley beckoned. As Savage ducked into it, he glanced again behind him, seeing the two Caucasians bolt from the sidewalk. At the same time, he sensed an object looming toward him. Pivoting, startled, he saw a van veer out of traffic. It aimed toward the alley.

He turned to run, but not before the van's windshield starred. Holes stitched it, glass imploding. Bullet holes.

The van hit the curb. With a jolt, it heaved above the sidewalk, walloped down, veered, kept surging, and smashed through a storefront to the left of the alley.

Metal scraped. Glass shattered. Despite the explosive impact, Savage thought he heard screams from within the van. For certain, he heard pedestrians scream. And shouts from the men across the street.

Several cars skidded to a stop.

Rachel trembled, frozen with shock.

“Run!” Savage said.

He tugged her.

The compulsion of fear canceled her stunned paralysis. She raced past garbage cans along the dark alley.

But what if the alley's a trap? Savage suddenly thought.

Suppose Hailey's men are in here.

No! They can't be everywhere!

Who shot at the van? Who was driving the van?

Dismay racked Savage's mind. Confusion threatened his sanity.

Someone wants to stop us. Someone else wants us to search.

Who? Why?

What the hell are we going to do?

They reached the next street. An approaching taxi made Savage's chest contract. He flagged it down, shoved Rachel inside, and scrambled after her, saying, “ Ginza,” hoping the driver would understand that they wanted to go to that district.

The driver, wearing a cap and white gloves, frowned at the disheveled appearance of his harried Caucasian passengers. He seemed uncertain whether he wanted Savage and Rachel to be his customers. But Savage held up several thousand-yen bills.

The driver nodded, pulled away, expertly merging with speeding traffic.

Savage heard the increasing wail of sirens-with no doubt where they were headed. Straining not to show his tension, he could only hope that the driver wouldn't decide that his passengers had something to do with the sirens.

The taxi turned a corner. Police cars swiftly approached in an opposite lane, their sirens louder, flashers blazing.

Then the cruisers were gone, and though the taxi's driver glanced after them, he didn't stop. Savage touched Rachel's hand. Her fingers trembled.

6

Amid dense traffic that somehow kept flowing, they finally reached the Ginza district. Akira had explained that Ginza meant “silver place” and referred to the fact that several hundred years ago the national mint had been located here. Since then, the area had developed into Tokyo 's major shopping center, with seemingly endless stores, bars, and restaurants.

The closest equivalent Savage could imagine was New York 's Times Square before the junkies, hookers, and porno shops had contaminated its glamour. Neon. Savage had never seen so much of it. Everywhere he looked, brilliant lights turned the night into day. An awesome combination of electrified colors. Some constantly blazed. Others pulsed or flashed messages in a row along buildings like a massive radiant ticker tape. The glare of congested headlights added to the spectacle. Well-dressed pedestrians crowded the exciting streets.

Savage had no intention of showing the driver Akira's note, which in Japanese provided directions to the restaurant where Akira was supposed to call. The authorities might question all taxi drivers who'd picked up Caucasians, and Savage wanted to keep the rendezvous site beyond suspicion. Besides, he and Rachel weren't due there again until Akira's next scheduled call at nine tomorrow morning.

But Savage had other motives that compelled him to reach this district. For one thing, the comparatively few Caucasians in the city tended toward the Ginza 's glittering nightlife, and he and Rachel needed desperately to blend in. For another, they needed fresh clothes, but having been followed so expertly, they didn't dare return to the railway station, where they'd left their travel bags in a locker. A surveillance team might be waiting, on the chance that Savage and Rachel would retrace their steps and attempt to retrieve their belongings.

“Arigato,” Savage told the taxi driver, pointing toward the curb. The white-gloved man pulled over, counted the money Savage gave him, and nodded with satisfaction. With a flick of a front-seat lever, he opened the door in back. Savage and Rachel got out.

As the taxi drove away, Savage became more aware of the blazing lights around him. The din of traffic and music from bars overwhelmed him. Exhaust fumes assaulted his lungs. Pungent cooking odors drifted from restaurants.

Wanting to rush, he and Rachel were forced to match the pace of the crowd so they wouldn't attract attention. But despite their efforts to look calm, they did attract attention. Japanese pedestrians kept staring at them. Because Caucasians are unusual, even in the Ginza district? Savage wondered. Or because our faces are dirty, our clothes torn? Rachel's limp and the socks on her feet didn't help.

Savage led her toward gleaming storefronts. “We've got to find-”

He halted abruptly before an electronics shop, stunned by the image on television sets in the window. No sound came through the glass. Not that it mattered. The words that matched the startling scenes would have been incomprehensible to him, the text in Japanese.

But he didn't need an interpreter to make him understand the dismaying significance of what he watched. Heart sinking, again he saw a ghost. Muto Kamichi… Kunio Shirai… the man he'd seen sliced in half at the nonexistent Medford Gap Mountain Retreat… harangued thousands of Japanese protestors holding up anti-American signs outside the gates of a U.S. Air Force base. American soldiers stood nervously on guard beyond the fence.

The news report was similar to the TV footage Savage had watched three days ago in America and the photographs he'd seen this morning on the front page of newspapers in vending machines at Central Station.

With two important differences. The earlier protests had been outside U.S. civilian buildings, and the demonstrators -numerous to begin with-had increased dramatically not only in size but intensity.

The grim-eyed faces of American officials appeared on the array of television screens. Savage recognized the U.S. secretary of state, haggard, his brow furrowed, being interviewed by Dan Rather. The image shifted to the President's press secretary tensely answering questions from reporters.

At once, Kamichi-Shirai-was back on the screens, inciting the protestors. Whatever his name, the gray-haired, slack-jowled, slightly overweight, midfiftyish man who resembled a weary executive projected an unexpected charisma when he stepped in front of a crowd. His commanding eyes and powerful gestures transformed him into a spellbinding zealot. With every jab of his karate-callused hands, the crowd reacted with greater fervor, their expressions distorted with outrage.

“This new demonstration must have happened today while Hailey's men trapped us in the park,” Savage said. He turned toward Rachel. Her pallor made him frown. “Are you all right?”

She shrugged, impatient, as if the blood that soaked her socks hardly mattered. “What's going on? What caused this?”

“Some incident we don't know about?” Savage shook his head. “I think Kamichi”-he quickly added-“Shirai doesn't need an incident. I think the point is America… America in Japan.”

“But America and Japan are friends!”

“Not if you believe those demonstrators.” Savage sensed movement behind him and nervously pivoted. Japanese pedestrians crowded toward the television screens.

“Let's get out of here,” he said. “I'm awfully self-conscious.”

They squirmed through the thickening crowd. Savage's veins chilled. His contracting muscles stopped aching only when he reached the comparative openness of the normally congested sidewalk.

“But all of a sudden,” Rachel said. “Why? The demonstrations are larger, more dangerous.”

“Catalyzed by Kamichi.”

“Shirai.”

“I can't get used to calling him that,” Savage said. “The man I drove to Pennsylvania.”

“To a hotel that doesn't exist.”

“In my reality, I drove him there. To me, the hotel does exist. But all right”-Savage's mind whirled, seized by jamais vu-“let's call him Shirai. He's the cause of the demonstrations. I don't know why. I can't imagine the source of his power. But he, Akira, and I are somehow connected.”

A sudden thought made Savage face her. “The former emperor, Hirohito, died in January of ‘eighty-nine.”

Rachel kept walking. “Yes? And?”

“After Japan 's defeat in World War Two, MacArthur insisted on a new Japanese constitution. Even before that, when Japan surrendered in ‘forty-five, America insisted that Hirohito go on the radio and not only announce the unconditional surrender but renounce his divinity and publicly tell his people that he was human, not a god.”

“I remember reading about it,” Rachel said. “The announcement shocked Japan.”

“And helped MacArthur reconstruct the country. But one of the strictest articles in the new constitution was that church and state had to be separated. By law, religion and politics were totally severed.”

“What's that got to do with Hirohito's death?”

“His funeral. In violation of the constitution, but with no objection from America, political and religious rites were combined. Because of Japan 's economic power, every important nation sent its highest representatives. A Who's Who of international government. And all of them stood passively under wooden shelters in a pouring rain while a Japanese honor guard escorted Hirohito's coffin into a shrine, where behind a screen Shinto rites, traditional Japanese religious funereal rites, were performed. And no outsider said, ‘Wait a minute. This is illegal. This is how the Pacific War got started.’ “

“They respected a great man's death,” Rachel said.

“Or they almost shit their pants in fear that if they objected to the Shinto rites, Japan would get so angry it would cut off their credit. Hell, Japan finances most of America 's budget deficit. No country would dare object if Japan reverted to its former constitution. As long as Japan has the money-and the power-its government can do what it wants.”

“That's where your argument falls apart,” Rachel said. “ Japan 's government is responsible.”

“While moderates rule it. But what if Kamichi-Shirai- takes command? Suppose the old ways come back and a radical party assumes control! Did you know that Japan – supposed to be nonmilitary-spends more on defense than any NATO country except America? And they're suspicious of South Korea! And China 's always worried them! And…!”

Savage realized he was talking too loud. Japanese pedestrians frowned at him.

Rachel kept limping.

“Come on. We've got to do something about your feet.”

A brightly lit sportswear shop attracted Savage's gaze. He and Rachel stepped inside. There were almost no customers. When two clerks-a young man and woman-bowed in greeting, they looked puzzled by Rachel's stockinged feet.

Savage and Rachel bowed quickly in return and proceeded through the store. In addition to athletic clothes, there were jeans, T-shirts, and nylon jackets. Rachel made a stack in her arms and looked questioningly at the female clerk, who seemed to understand that Rachel wanted to know if there was a changing room.

The clerk pointed toward a cubicle in the back, where a drape functioned as a door. Adding thick white running socks and a pair of Reeboks to her pile, Rachel disappeared behind the drape.

In the meantime, Savage chose a pair of brown socks to replace the pair he'd given Rachel. His pants were filthy, his shirt soiled with sweat. He picked up replacements. As soon as Rachel came out of the cubicle, wearing stone-washed jeans, a burgundy top, and a blue nylon jacket that matched the cobalt of her eyes, Savage went in to change, glancing periodically through a corner of the drape to make sure no one who looked threatening entered the store while Rachel was unprotected. Eight minutes later, they paid and left the store, carrying their dirty clothes in a bag, which they dumped in a trash container a few blocks away.

“These shoes make all the difference.” Rachel sighed. “It feels so good not to be limping.”

“Not to mention we don't look like we slept in a ditch.” Savage wore khaki slacks, a yellow shirt, and tan windbreaker. The combination made his chameleon green eyes seem tinged with brown. He'd combed his hair in the changing room, as had Rachel. “A few smudges on our faces. All in all, though, not bad. In fact, you look lovely.”

“ Blarney, but I never turn down a compliment. The bonus is, now that we've changed clothes, it'll be harder for witnesses at the park to identify us if the police decide to pick us up.”

Savage studied her with admiration. “You are catching on.”

“Given the right teacher and the proper motivation- fear-I learn damned fast.” She wrinkled her brow. “That van at the park. It seemed to veer out of traffic and aim toward the alley, toward us.”

“Hailey must have had vehicles circling the park, so his men could radio to them if we were spotted. Our bad luck that the van was nearby.”

”Our bad luck? The unlucky ones were in the van,” Rachel said. “The windshield starred as the van headed toward us. Did I see bullet holes?”

Savage pursed his lips and nodded. “Someone was determined to stop Hailey's men from catching us.”

“But who, and how did they know where we'd be?”

“For that matter, how were Hailey's men able to follow us through the subway? We were careful. I kept checking behind us while we walked from the railway station. But then all at once they showed up at the park. It's like they're thinking the same as us or even ahead of us.”

“You said earlier…” Rachel brooded. “A lot of what we've done is predictable, given the problems we need to solve. But that park had nothing to do with our problems. We just happened to go there.”

“Yes,” Savage said. “We've been intercepted too many times. I don't understand how they keep doing it.”

“My God”-Rachel turned-“I just thought of something. We've been assuming that Hailey's the one who wants to stop us.”

“Right.”

“But what if we've got it turned around? What if Hailey wants to protect us? What if the team in the van belonged to whoever wants to kill us, and it was Hailey's men who shot out the windshield, so we'd keep searching?”

For a moment, Savage had trouble understanding, the twist in assumptions bewildering. Abruptly he felt pressure behind his ears. Something seemed to snap in his brain. His vision paled, his mind attacked by unsettling contradictions. Nothing seemed sure. Everything was false. Jamais vu fought with reality. But something had to be true! There had to be a solution! He couldn't bear…

No! Three weeks ago, his single burden had been to prove himself again. Now?

Total confusion!

He wavered.

Rachel grabbed his arm. Her eyes wide, she steadied him. “You turned pale.”

“I think… For a moment there… I'm… all right now… No… Feel dizzy.”

“I feel a little off balance myself. We haven't eaten since yesterday.” She pointed. “Here. This restaurant. We need to sit down, rest, get something in our stomachs, and try to clear our heads.”

Now instead of Savage guiding Rachel, she guided him.

And he felt so helpless he didn't resist.

7

The waitress-wearing white makeup, a kimono, and sandals-presented them with a menu. When Savage opened it, he again felt disoriented. The items on the menu weren't printed horizontally, as in the West, but vertically, the contrast reinforcing his sense that everything was inverted, his mind off balance. Mercifully, English script appeared beside Japanese ideograms. Still, Savage was so unfamiliar with un-Americanized Japanese food that all he could do was point toward a column on the left, the restaurant's recommendation for a dinner for two.

“Sake?” the waitress asked with a bow.

Savage shook his throbbing head. Alcohol was the last thing he needed.

“Tea?” he asked, doubting he'd communicate.

“Hai. Tea,” she said with a smile and left, her short steps emphasized by her tight kimono, which in addition emphasized her hips and thighs.

In the background, at the restaurant's frenetic cocktail lounge, a Japanese country-western singer delivered a flawless version of Hank Williams's “I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry.”

Savage wondered if the singer understood the words or had expertly memorized them.

The midnight train is…

“If we're in trouble and we thought only Akira would be in trouble…” Savage shook his head.

“I know. I hate to imagine what's happened to him today.” Rachel reached across the table. “But there's nothing we can do to help him, not right now. I told you, rest. The food will be here soon. You've got to try to relax.”

“You realize how turned around this is?”

“Me taking care of you?” Rachel asked. “I love it.”

“I don't like feeling…”

“Out of control? You'll have plenty of chance to exert control. To do what you do best. And soon. But thank heaven, not right now.”

Can't you hear the whippoorwill…?

The restaurant was filled with cigarette smoke and the permeating aroma of sauces. Savage and Rachel sat on cushions at a low table with a cavity beneath it that allowed them to dangle their legs, an architectural concession to long-legged foreigners who wanted to sit according to Japanese tradition but without discomfort.

“Kamichi… Shirai… We've got to meet him,” Savage said. “Akira and I have to learn if he saw us die as we saw him die.”

“In his place, if I were leading demonstrations against U.S. Air Force bases, I'd have protection that even you couldn't breach,” Rachel said. “It won't be easy to meet him. And since you're American, I doubt you can simply call him up and arrange an appointment.”

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

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

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

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

“What are you-?”

“Calling Akira.”

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

The phone rang four times.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With equal abruptness, the voice switched to English.

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

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

Madness.

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

So lonesome I could die.

8

“Who was it?” Rachel asked.

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

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

“The police?”

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

“Willingly.”

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

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

He exhaled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

9

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The building was dark.

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

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

It was steel.

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

He tried the doorknob. It turned.

“Apparently no one cares if strangers go in,” Savage said. He couldn't subdue the puzzlement in his voice. “Stay close.”

“Hey, if I was any closer, I'd be in your underwear.” Savage almost grinned.

But her joke didn't ease his tension. He pushed the heavy door open and frowned at a dimly lit corridor. “Quickly,” he said, tugging Rachel in before their silhouettes made them easy targets.

As quickly, he shut the door behind them and noticed that there wasn't a lock on this side either. More puzzled, he scanned the corridor.

It ended ten feet before him.

No doors on either side. A staircase led up.

“What kind of-?” Rachel started to ask.

But Savage put a finger to his lips, and she became silent.

He knew what she'd meant to say, though, and nodded with understanding. He'd never seen a warehouse or an apartment building with a layout like this. No sign on the wall to give directions or indicate where they were. No mailboxes with names and buzzers. No further door with a security system that prevented access to the core of the building.

The stairway was concrete. As Savage and Rachel ascended warily, their shoes scraped faintly, echoing.

The next floor was also dimly lit, the corridor short, without doors, a further staircase leading upward.

Again they climbed, Savage's nervousness increasing. Why weren't Akira's instructions complete? he thought. How the hell can I find where someone lives when there aren't any doors or names on-?

At once he realized that Akira's instructions were complete.

The absence of doors eliminated the possibility of making a mistake. There was only one continuing direction- upward-and after an identically barren third floor and fourth floor, there was only one destination: the fifth floor.

Where the staircase ended.

Like the others, this corridor was short.

But at its end, a steel door beckoned.

Savage hesitated, his hand on the pistol beneath his jacket. The door seemed larger the closer he came. Again, as with the door through which he and Rachel had entered the building, Savage couldn't find a doorbell or an intercom, and this door too had no lock.

Rachel's eyes narrowed, communicating bewilderment and apprehension.

Savage squeezed her arm to reassure her, then reached for the doorknob. Pulse hammering, he changed his mind and decided that this door-seemingly unprotected-looked too much like the entrance to someone's apartment for him to just walk in.

Holding his breath, he raised his knuckles and rapped.

The steel door responded with muted thunks.

Savage knocked again, this time harder.

Now the steel door reverberated, a hollow echo beyond it.

Five seconds. Ten seconds.

Fifteen. Nothing.

No one's home, Savage thought. Or there's no apartment beyond the door, or Akira's sensei is too asleep to hear me, or…

Akira's sensei would be the best. No professional sleeps that deeply.

Screw it.

Savage turned the doorknob, pushed the door open, and entered.

Though Rachel clutched the back of his jacket, Savage ignored her, finding himself confronted by muted lights in a massive chamber.

No, not muted lights. The recessed bulbs beneath ledges that framed the ceiling glowed so dimly that “muted” wouldn't describe them. Twilight. False dawn. Even those descriptions weren't adequate. The illumination was vaguer than candles but just sufficient to reveal an enormous dojo, countless tatami mats on the floor, with subtly reflecting polished cypress wood on the beams and panels of the burnished walls and ceiling.

Like moonglow.

With deep dark spaces between each isolated, recessed, barely perceptible light.

Savage felt overwhelmed, awestruck, as if he entered a temple. The dojo, though in semidarkness, exuded an aura. Of sanctity. Of solemnity.

It was redolent of the sweat and pain… the discipline and humility… the mysticism of the Oriental martial arts. Mind and body, soul and sinew, combined as one. A sacred place. And as Savage inhaled its holy fragrance, stepping forward, metal slid against polished metal.

Not a scrape, not a grating sound, not a rasp, but a smooth, oiled, slippery hiss that made Savage's scalp prickle.

Not one hiss, but many. All around him. The dark walls seem to come alive, to swell and give birth. Gleaming objects appeared, reflecting the dim, widely separated bulbs that rimmed the ceiling. Long, curved, glinting blades apparently hung in midair. Then the walls gave birth again, shadows emerging, assuming the shapes of men dressed totally in black, with hoods and masks that covered their faces. They'd been perfectly camouflaged against the walls, and each gripped a sword he'd drawn from a scabbard.

Where Savage stood a third of the way into the dojo, he pivoted and saw that he was flanked on every side. His spine froze. He drew his Beretta.

Rachel moaned.

Glancing toward the open door, Savage frantically wondered how he could concentrate on fighting to get Rachel out and at the same time not be distracted by the need to keep Rachel from getting hurt. The Beretta held fifteen rounds. But there were certainly more than fifteen opponents. The shots would be deafening, however, the muzzle flashes a distraction. The swordsmen might hesitate for a couple of seconds, enough time for us to get through the door and start scrambling down the stairs! he thought.

But while he thought, the door was slammed shut. Swordsmen stepped in front of it. Savage's stomach sank. In desperation, he aimed toward the men who blocked the door.

Lights blazed, searing, blinding, the murky dojo suddenly as bright as the sun. Savage jerked a hand toward his eyes, frantic to shield them from the stabbing rays. In that instant, his only warning was a swift, subtle brush of air, an unseen swordsman lunging toward him. The Beretta was yanked from Savage's grasp. Powerful fingers paralyzed nerves in his hand, preventing him from firing. Distraught, Savage blinked, fighting to focus his eyes, to erase the white-hot image of multiple suns temporarily imprinted on his vision.

At last his pupils adjusted to the glare. He lowered his hand, his chest cramping, cold despite the heat of the lights, and studied his captors. He understood now that their masks had not only helped to camouflage them in the shadows but that the eyeslits in the masks had guarded the swordsmen's vision from the sudden disorienting glare.

Rachel moaned again, but Savage was forced to ignore her distress, to focus his attention, every instinct, on his captors. Without a weapon, he couldn't hope to fight them with any chance of escaping. He and Rachel would be sliced to pieces!

But the man who yanked the pistol away could have cut me in half while I was Blinded, Savage thought. Instead he stepped back to the wall, his sword raised like the others. Does that mean they're not sure what to do with us, whether to kill us or-?

As if on command-but without any perceptible signal passing among them-they abruptly stepped forward. The dojo seemed to shrink. Then they lowered their swords, tips aimed toward Savage and Rachel, and the dojo shrank even more.

Another step forward, each of the numerous footfalls almost silent on the tatami mats, just a faint sibilance as if the woven reeds exhaled from the weight upon them.

Savage pivoted slowly, tensely, judging the room, searching for exits, for the slightest sign of weakness on any flank. But even if I do see a possible exit, a corridor, anything, he thought, there's no way I can get Rachel past those swords without a weapon!

The masked, hooded figures stepped forward yet again, blades pointing, gleaming, their presence more constricting, and as Savage kept pivoting, his eyes narrowed fiercely toward the wall opposite the one through which he and Rachel had entered. At the same time, another undetectable signal seemed to pass eerily around the room, and the swordsmen stopped their relentless advance. The dojo-virtually silent to begin with-became as silent as the dead.

Except for Rachel's repeated moans.

The swordsmen who'd proceeded from the wall at the far end of the dojo shifted to the right and left, leaving a gap through which a man who'd been hidden behind them stepped forward. He too gripped a sword and was dressed in black, complete with a hood and mask. Unlike the others, he was short, gaunt as opposed to lithe, his tentative footsteps suggesting fragility. He pulled off his hood and removed his mask, revealing the almost bald skull and wrinkled features of an elderly Japanese, his gray mustache and dark-yet-glowing eyes the only features that prevented his face from looking mummified.

But Savage had the nerve-tingling impression that the tentative footsteps were actually the product of stealth, that his fragility was deceptive, that this old man could be more adept and dangerous than any of the others.

Scowling at Savage and Rachel, the old man gestured with his sword as if he intended to slash.

He suddenly darted, each stride as fast as an eyeblink.

But he didn't slash toward Savage.

Rachel!

Savage lunged in front of her, prepared to sweep with his arms, hoping to deflect the blade, to duck under it, and chop the brittle-looking bones of the old man's throat. He didn't stop to consider what the blade would do to him if he failed. He didn't matter. Rachel did!

Savage's gesture was reflexive, his instincts making it impossible for him to do anything else but fulfill his profession's mandate-to protect.

In a blur he braced himself, straining to prepare for the greater blur of the old man's lunge, the flashing edge of the speeding blade so fast that Savage could barely see it. He parried with his arm, though he knew before he began, knew in his soul, his attempt was futile.

But I can't just give up!

I can't let the sword hit Rachel!

He imagined the blade flicking through his forearm, the stub of his hand and wrist flipping through the air, his arteries pulsing crimson. But he didn't flinch as he misjudged the old man's timing and parried too soon, his arm exposed as his soul had predicted.

He stared defiantly, and the blade stopped with startling abruptness, as if an invisible force had blocked it. The sword's polished, gleaming edge hovered rigidly against the sleeve of Savage's jacket. With fear-intensified vision, everything magnified before him, and he saw severed threads on his sleeve.

Jesus.

Savage exhaled, adrenaline flooding through him, volcanic heat erupting upward toward his chest.

The old man squinted at him, jerked his chin down, a curt nod, and barked an incomprehensible question.

But not to Savage, instead to someone behind him, though how Savage knew this he wasn't sure-because the old man's searing eyes, as searing as the spotlights, never wavered from Savage's defiant gaze.

“Hai,” someone answered in the background, and Savage's heart swelled, for he recognized the voice.

“Akira?” Savage had never spoken anyone's name more intensely or with greater confusion.

“Hai,” Akira answered again and appeared through the gap in the swordsmen. Like them he wore black clothing, almost like pajamas but the material rugged. un like them, he had no hood and mask. His handsome rectangular face, seeming all the more rectangular because his short black hair was combed straight from left to right, the part in his hair severe, had a somberness that made Savage frown. The melancholy in Akira's eyes had become more deep, more brooding, more profound.

“What's going on?” Savage asked.

Akira pursed his lips, his cheek muscles hardening. When he opened his mouth to respond, however, the old man interrupted, barking another incomprehensible question to Akira.

Akira replied, with equal unintelligibility.

The old man and Akira exchanged two further remarks, quick intense bursts that Savage found impossible to interpret, not just the words but the emotion that charged them.

“Hai.” This time the old man, not Akira, used that ambiguous affirmative. He jerked his chin down again, another curt nod, and raised his sword from the severed threads on Savage's sleeve.

The blade gleamed, nearly impossible to track, as with impressive speed the old man slid the sword into a scabbard tucked under a knotted black belt made of canvas. The blade hissed in to the hilt.

Akira came forward, his expression controlled except for his melancholy, his public self severely in charge of his private self. Stopping beside the old man, he bowed to Savage and Rachel.

All day, Savage had felt hollow, incomplete without Akira, but he hadn't realized how much he felt incomplete until now, at last rejoined with his friend. In America, Savage would have given in to impulse and reached for Akira's hand, perhaps in less public circumstances have clasped his shoulders to show affection. But he resisted his Western urge. Because Akira was obviously behaving according to the expectations of those around him, Savage conformed to Japanese protocol and bowed in return, as did Rachel.

“It's good to see you again,” Savage said, trying to imply strong emotion without embarrassing Akira in front of the others by displaying it. “And to find that you're safe.”

“And I, you.” Akira swallowed, hestitating. “I wondered if we'd ever meet again.”

“Because Eko gave me the signal to run?”

“That,” Akira said. “… And other reasons.”

The cryptic remark invited questions, but Savage restrained them. He needed to learn what had happened to Akira and to tell Akira what had happened to them, but other immediate questions insisted.

“You still haven't answered me.” Savage gestured toward the swordsmen. “What's going on?”

The old man barked again in Japanese, his voice deep and raspy.

“Permit me to introduce my sensei,” Akira said. “Sawakawa Taro.”

Savage bowed, repeating the name, adding the obligatory term of respect. “Taro-sensei.“ He expected another curt nod in response, surprised when the old man braced his shoulders and imitated Savage's bow.

“He's impressed by your bravery,” Akira explained.

“Because we came in here?” Savage shrugged in self-deprecation. “Considering what almost happened, I was stupid, not brave.”

“No,” Akira said. “He means your attempt to protect your principal from his sword.”

“That?” Savage raised his eyebrows. “But you know the rules. It wasn't something I thought about. I just responded to training and did it.”

“Exactly,” Akira said. “For Taro-sensei, bravery means instinctive obedience to duty, regardless of the consequence.”

“And that's all that saved us?”

Akira shook his head. “You were never in danger. Or at least only briefly while you entered. After the door was slammed shut and Taro-sensei recognized you from my description, he knew you weren't a threat.”

“What? You mean…? Those men stalking toward us…? The son of a bitch was testing me?”

Taro's aged voice rasped. “Neither a son of a bitch nor a bastard.”

Savage gaped, skin shrinking in astonishment.

“You disappoint me,” the old man said. Though a foot and a half shorter than Savage, he seemed to tower. “I expected more. Never assume that because a stranger addresses you in his native language he doesn't understand your own.” Taro glared.

Savage's face burned. “I apologize. I was foolish and rude.”

“And more important, careless,” Taro said. “Unprofessional. I was about to compliment whoever trained you. Now…”

“Blame the student, not the teacher,” Savage said. With distress, he remembered Graham's corpse behind the steering wheel of his Cadillac, acrid exhaust fumes filling his garage, while he drove for all eternity. “The fault is mine. Nothing excuses my behavior. I beg your forgiveness, Taro-sensei.

The old man's glare persisted, then slowly dimmed. “Perhaps you redeem yourself… You learned from your instructor to admit mistakes.”

“In this case,” Savage said, “with regard to information about your country, my instructor was Akira. But again blame the student, not the teacher. He warned me to be careful not to give offense. I'll try harder to behave like a Japanese.”

“By all means,” Taro said. “Try. But success will elude your grasp. No outsider, no gaijin, can ever truly understand… and hence behave like… a Japanese.”

“I don't discourage easily.”

Taro's wrinkled lips tightened, possibly in a smile. He addressed Akira in Japanese.

Akira replied.

Taro turned to Savage. “I'm told you're a serious man. What we call ‘sincere,’ a word that should not be confused to mean your strange Western custom of pretending that your public thoughts and private thoughts are identical.” The old man debated. “I may have been hasty. Your offense is forgiven. I invite you to accept my humble hospitality. Perhaps you and your principal would care to enjoy some tea.”

“Yes, very much,” Savage said. “Fear has a habit of making my mouth dry.” He gestured toward Taro's sword and did his best to make his eyes crinkle, trying to sound respectful, humble, and ironic all at once.

“Hai” Taro inflected the word so it seemed a laugh. “Please”-he bowed-”come.”

As Taro led Savage, Rachel, and Akira toward the swordsmen at the rear of the dojo, the old man motioned subtly with his hand. Instantly, in unison, the hooded figures sheathed their blades. The combined slippery sound, the high-pitched metallic ssss of polished steel against steel, again made Savage's skin prickle.

“Taro-sensei, a question,” Savage said. “I'm troubled. But please understand, I mean no offense in asking.”

“You have my permission,” the old man said.

“When we entered, after you recognized that we weren't enemies…” Savage hesitated. “I can understand why you wanted to test us. You needed to know how we'd react when apparently threatened, to determine if you could depend on us. Outsiders. Gaijin. But even so…” Savage frowned. “There was no guarantee I wouldn't panic. Suppose I'd lost my nerve and started shooting, even though I didn't have an escape plan and hence would have wasted ammunition that I might have needed later. Many of these men would have died.”

“Your question is wise,” Taro said. “But the test had controls.”

“Oh? In what way? I'm sure these men are superbly Skilled, their swords unbelievably fast, but not as fast as a bullet.”

“If you'd raised your weapon…”

Taro didn't need to complete his sentence. As Savage approached the rear of the dojo, he saw two men concealed behind the row of swordsmen…

And each man held a tautly strung bamboo bow, a fiercely barbed arrow strung, ready at any instant to be fired.

Yes, Savage thought. If I'd seemed about to shoot, I'd never have had a chance to pull the trigger.

In a rush, another question insisted, but he forced himself not to ask. Cold sweat trickled down his back. Would the archers have shot to disable his gun arm?

Or to kill?

10

“Taro-sensei's building is self-sufficient,” Akira explained.

They sat, cross-legged, on cushions at a low cypress table. The small room had latticed paper-thin walls with exquisite pen-and-ink drawings hanging upon them. It reminded Savage of Akira's home.

In an obvious display of deference, Taro dismissed a servant and poured tea into small, thin, beautifully painted ceramic cups, each depicting a colorful scene from nature (a waterfall, a blossoming cherry tree) with a minimum of brush strokes.

Akira continued explaining. “The fifth floor, of course, is the dojo. On the other floors, there are dormitories, a shrine, a library, a cooking and eating area, a shooting range… everything that Taro-sensei's students need to attempt to perfect their spirits, minds, and bodies, to make them as one.”

Akira paused to pick up his cup, placing his left hand under it, using his right hand to support the cup on one side. He sipped the tea and savored it. “Perfect, Tam-sensei.”

Savage watched Akira carefully and imitated the way he gripped the cup. Prior to their leaving America, Akira had explained the protocol of the tea ceremony. Its sanctified tradition dated as far back as the fourteenth century. Influenced by Zen Buddhism, the ritualistic sharing of tea was intended to produce a condition of purity, tranquillity, and harmony known in Japanese as wabi. When strictly performed, the ceremony took several hours and incorporated a minimum of three locations and servings, accompanied by various foods. The tea-master prepared each serving, adding tea to hot water and whipping it with a bamboo whisk. Conversation was limited to gentle, soothing topics. The participants felt freed from time and the turmoil of the outside world.

On this occasion, the ceremony had been starkly abbreviated. Of necessity. But respect for the ritual still applied. Noting the solemnity of Akira and his sensei, Savage quelled his urgent questions and raised the gleaming cup to his lips, inhaling the fragrance of the steaming tea, sipping the clear, delicately flavored liquid. “My spirit feels comforted, Taro sensei.” Savage bowed.

“This quenches the thirst in my soul,” Rachel added. “Arigato, Taro-sensei.”

Taro chuckled. “My not-inadequate student”-he indicated Akira-”taught you well.”

Akira's brown face became tinged with a blushing red. He lowered his eyes in humility.

“It's rare to meet a civilized gaijin.” Taro smiled and lowered his cup. “Akira mentioned a library in this building. Most sensei would never allow their students to read. Thought interferes with action. Words contaminate reflex. But ignorance is itself an enemy. Facts can be a weapon. I would never permit my students to read works of fantasy. Novels”-he gestured with disparagement-“though poetry is another matter, and I encourage my students to expand their spirits by composing haiku and studying such classic examples as those by the incomparable Matsuo Basho. But books of information are mostly what my students read. History, in particular that of Japan and America. Manuals of weaponry, both ancient and modern. The principles of locks, intrusion detectors, electronic surveillance equipment, and various other tools of their craft. Also languages. I require each of my students to be skilled in three, apart from Japanese. And one of those languages must be English.”

Savage glanced surreptitiously at Akira, at last understanding how his counterpart had acquired so impressive a fluency in English. But why the emphasis on English? Savage wondered. Because English was pervasive throughout the world? Or because of America 's victory in World War Two? Why did Akira's expression become more melancholy as Taro emphasized that his students had to be expert in America 's history and language?

Taro stopped talking and sipped his tea.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Savage pursed his lips and nodded.

Taro inhaled softly.

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

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

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

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

Taro nodded in permission.

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

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

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

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

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

Taro didn't help but merely studied him.

The silence lengthened.

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

A flick of the eyes signified yes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

11

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

“The police arrived quickly.” Akira sounded oddly detached, as if what he described had happened to someoneelse. “One car, then two, then three, as word of the situation's gravity spread. The coroner arrived. Police photographers. A forensic team. Senior police officials. At one point, I counted twenty-two investigators in my home. They listened to my account. They made me repeat it several times. Their questions became more detailed, their expressions more grave. I'd rehearsed my story before they arrived. I'd made necessary adjustments so the crime scene would be consistent with the robbery attempt I described and the murderous reaction of the intruders when they were discovered. But this isn't America, where multiple killings seem an everyday occurrence. Here, violent crime involving handguns is rare. The investigators were grim and methodical. In my favor, although I'd fired and killed with one of the intruders’ pistols, I'd also used a sword in defending my home, and that-as I anticipated-evoked tradition, making me seem heroic.

“As noon approached, I was still being questioned. I anticipated your concern if I didn't phone the restaurant on schedule, so I asked permission to excuse myself and make a call to break an appointment. Imagine my concern when I learned that you weren't at the restaurant to receive my call. I hid my feelings and answered more questions. By midafternoon, the bodies had been removed. Eko mustered strength despite her grief and accompanied Churi's body to the morgue, to make arrangements for his funeral. In the meantime, the investigators decided they wanted me to go with them to headquarters and dictate a formal statement. On the street, the police cars had attracted a swarm of reporters. Without making it seem I had something to hide, I tried not to face their cameras, but at least one man took my picture.”

Akira's voice became somber, and Savage knew why. A protector had to be anonymous. If a photograph was published, Akira's ability to defend a principal would be jeopardized, because an assailant might be able to recognize and attack him before attacking the primary target. In this case, the potential complications were even more serious. A newspaper photo of Akira would draw the attention of his and Savage's hunters and possibly hinder their search.

“It couldn't be helped,” Savage said.

“At headquarters while I dictated my statement, the police checked my background. I'd told them I was a security specialist. Several major corporations I'd worked for gave the police a positive assessment of me. But I sensed that the police checked other sources. Whoever they spoke to, the police soon treated me differently. With deference. I didn't understand their reaction, but I certainly didn't argue when they told me I could leave. But not to go far. They made clear they'd want to talk to me again.”

“And after that?” Rachel asked, self-conscious, her voice strained, the first time she'd spoken in several minutes.

“An enemy wouldn't have had any trouble following the police car that drove me to headquarters,” Akira said. “It turned out the police were so inexplicably deferential that they offered to drive me back to my home. I politely declined, pleading the need to walk and clear my head. Puzzled, I found a side entrance from the building and tried to blend with the crowd on the street. But I soon discovered I had company. Japanese. Skilled, though not skilled enough. For the next two hours, I tried to elude them. Six o'clock loomed quickly. I managed to use a pay phone to call the restaurant on schedule, knowing how distressed you'd be if I didn't report. But again you weren't at the restaurant. Something was obviously wrong! What happened to you?”

“Soon,” Savage said. “Finish your story.”

Akira stared at his teacup. “Seeking shelter in a public place, a bar that wasn't so crowded that I wouldn't see my pursuers coming in, I noticed a news report on a television behind the counter. Kunio Shirai. Another demonstration.” He shook his head in dismay. “But this one was larger, more intense, almost a riot. Outside a U.S. Air Force base. Whatever Shirai's trying to do, he's turned up the pressure dramatically.”

“We saw the same report.” Rachel's forehead was knotted.

“And somehow we're connected with him,” Savage said. “Or with the man we knew as Muto Kamichi, whom we never met.”

“But saw cut in half at the nonexistent Medford Gap Mountain Retreat.” The veins in Akira's temples throbbed. “Madness.” His eyes blazed. “I knew I had only one option-to seek safety with my mentor.” He glanced toward Taro. “I didn't dare return to my home. But I couldn't ignore my responsibility to Eko. On the chance that she'd come back from being with Churi at the morgue and arranging his funeral, I used the phone in the bar to call my home and felt startled when she answered ‘hai,’ the warning signal to run. I quickly asked her, ‘Why?’ ‘Strangers,’ she blurted. ‘Gaijin. Guns.’ Someone yanked the phone from her hand. An American spoke Japanese. ‘We want to help you,’ he said. ‘Come back.’ I slammed down the phone before they could trace the call. Americans with guns? In my home? And they claim they want to help? Not likely! The police would have posted guards to restrict reporters from the crime scene. How did Americans get inside?” Akira glared, his emotions finally showing. “If I could get to Eko and rescue her…”

“We called her as well,” Savage said. “At eleven tonight. She gave us the warning signal before an American grabbed the phone. They need her. They'll question her, but she knows nothing. They'll scare her, but she's valuable as a hostage. I don't think they'll hurt her.”

“ ‘Don't think’ isn't good enough,” Akira snapped. “She's like a mother to me!”

Taro raised his wrinkled hands, motioning for silence. He spoke to Akira in Japanese.

Akira responded. His melancholy tinged with relief, eyes bright, he turned to Savage. “My sensei has vowed to rescue her. His most advanced students will leave a few weeks early. Tonight will be their graduation. And Eko's release.”

I bet, Savage thought. Those guys upstairs looked as if there wasn't any obstacle they couldn't overcome. Whoever's in Akira's house, they won't know what hit them.

Savage bowed to Taro. “For my friend, I thank you.”

Taro frowned. “You call Akira a friend?”

“We've been through a lot together.”

“But the friendship is impossible,” Taro said.

“Why? Because I'm a gaijin? Call it respect. I like this man.”

Taro smiled enigmatically. “And I, as you put it, like you. But we will never be friends.”

“Your loss.” Savage shrugged.

Taro raised his head in confusion.

Akira interrupted, speaking solemnly to Taro.

Taro nodded. “Yes. An irreverent attempt to be humorous. So American. Amusing. But another reason that we'll never be friends.”

“Then let's put it this way. I'm a fellow protector. A good one. And I ask for professional courtesy.” Savage didn't give Taro a chance to react. Pivoting quickly toward Akira, he asked, “And then you came here?”

“Where I waited in case my enemies arrived. I couldn't imagine why you hadn't gone to the restaurant as we agreed. I feared that you still wouldn't be there when I called again in the morning.”

“Just as we feared for you after Eko gave us the warning signal.”

“What happened?“

Savage focused his thoughts, trying as best he could to restrain emotion, to summarize objectively what they'd been through: the chase at the Meiji Shrine, the escape from the gardens, the attack on the street.

“But we don't know if Hailey's men were in the van or if they shot at the van.” Rachel's voice dropped, plummeting toward despair. “More questions. The answers keep getting farther away.”

“And maybe that's the point,” Akira said. “To keep us confused. Off balance.”

“The obstacle race and the scavenger hunt,” Savage said.

Akira looked puzzled.

“That was Graham's view of life. It fits. While we search, we try to elude whoever wants to stop us.”

“But we don't know which group is which,” Akira said. He repeated a word he'd used earlier: “Madness.”

“I may be able to help you,” Taro said. “With regard to Kunio Shirai.”

It took a moment before Savage registered what Taro had said. Chest contracting, he stared in surprise at the deceptively frail old man.

“Before I explain, I sense,” he told Savage, “that you need to be assured. I have no acquaintance with the name by which you knew him… or falsely remember that you knew him… in America. Jamais vu, I believe you call it.”

Savage frowned. Straightened. Tensed.

“No need to be alarmed. My excellent student”-Taro gestured toward Akira-”earlier described to me the impossible events at the nonexistent Mountain Retreat. You saw each other die. You saw a man called Muto Kamichi, whom you've learned to call Kunio Shirai, cut in half. But none of it happened. Jamais vu. Indeed. As good a description as any. I'm a Buddhist. I believe that the world is illusory. But I also believe that earthquakes, tidal waves, and volcanic eruptions are real. So I force myself to distinguish between illusion and truth. Kunio Shirai is real. But at no time did I arrange for my excellent student to accompany him-under any name-to America. I've never met the man. I've never dealt with him through intermediaries. I beg you to accept my word on this.”

Savage squinted, felt his shoulders relax, and nodded. Trapped in a sickening, wavering assault on his consciousness, he repeated to himself Rachel's favorite quotation. Abraham believed by virtue of the absurd.

“Very well,” Taro said and turned to Akira. “A great deal has happened in the six months since I last saw you. In Japan. Or at least in the undercurrents of Japan.” The old man's eyes changed, their pupils expanding, as if he concentrated on an object far away. “In secret, a small force has been gaining power. Even longer ago than six months. It began in January of nineteen eighty-nine. With the death of our esteemed emperor, Hirohito, and with the forbidden Shinto rites involved in his funeral.”

Savage felt Rachel flinch beside him and recalled their conversation in the Ginza district about this same subject.

Taro's eyes abruptly contracted as he shifted his attention from the imaginary distant object and steadied them, laserlike, on Savage. “Religion and politics. The postwar constitution demanded their separation, insisting that never again would God's will be used to control this nation's government. But words on a document imposed by a gaijin victor don't cancel tradition or suppress a nation's soul. In private, the old ways are bound to persist. In pockets. Among absolute patriots, one of whom is Kunio Shirai. His ancestors descend from the zenith of Japanese culture, the beginning of the Tokugawa Shogunate in sixteen hundred. Wealthy, determined, disgusted by our present corrupt condition, he wants the ancient ways to return. Others share his vision. Powerful others. They believe in the gods. They believe that Japan is the land of the gods, that every Japanese is descended from gods. They believe in Amaterasu.”

12

The name, eerily evocative, made Savage tingle. He strained to remember when he'd heard it before-and suddenly recalled that Akira had mentioned it on the way to Dulles Airport while he tried to teach Savage and Rachel about Japan prior to flying here.

“Amaterasu.” Savage nodded. “Yes, the goddess of the sun. The ancestress of every emperor. The ultimate mother of every Japanese from the beginning of time.”

Taro cocked his ancient head; he clearly hadn't expected Savage to recognize the name. “Few gaijin would… I compliment you on your knowledge of our culture.”

“The credit belongs to Akira. He's as excellent a teacher as he was your student… Amaterasu? What about her?”

The old man spoke with reverence. “She symbolizes the greatness of Japan, our purity and dignity before our glorious ways were contaminated. Kunio Shirai has chosen her as the image of his purpose, the source of his inspiration. In public, he calls his movement the Traditional Japanese Party. In private, however, he and his staunchest followers refer to their group as the Force of Amaterasu.”

Savage straightened sharply. “What are we talking about? Imperialism? Is Shirai trying to recreate what happened in the nineteen thirties? A mix of religion, patriotism, and might to justify trying to dominate the Pacific Rim and…?”

“No,” Taro said. “The opposite. He wants Japan to become secluded.”

The statement was so astonishing that Savage leaned forward, trying to repress the force in his voice. “That goes against everything that…”

“ Japan has accomplished since the end of the American occupation.” Taro gestured in agreement. “The economic miracle. Japan has become the most financially powerful nation on earth. What it failed to do militarily in the thirties and forties, it achieved industrially in the seventies and eighties. It subdues other countries economically. We bombed Hawaii in nineteen forty-one but failed to capture it. Now we're buying it. And huge chunks of mainland America and other nations as well. But at a cost beyond money, a terrible penalty, the increasing destruction of our culture.”

“I still don't…” Savage squeezed his thighs, frustrated. “What does Shirai want?”

“I mentioned that his ancestors date back to sixteen hundred, the beginning of the Tokugawa Shogunate. Did Akira explain what happened then?” Taro asked.

“Only briefly. There was too much to know, too little time for him to… You tell me.”

“I hope you appreciate the value of history.”

“I was trained to believe it's imperative to learn from mistakes, if that's what you mean,” Savage said.

“Not only mistakes but successes.” Taro braced his shoulders. Despite his frail body, he seemed to grow in stature. His eyes again assumed a faraway gaze. “History… During the middle ages, Japan was inundated by foreign cultures. The Chinese, the Koreans, the Portuguese, the English, the Spanish, the Dutch. To be sure, not all of these influences were bad. The Chinese gave us Buddhism and Confucianism, for example, as well as a system of writing and an administrative system. On the negative side, the Portuguese introduced firearms, which quickly spread throughout Japan and almost destroyed bushido, the ancient noble Way of the warrior and the sword. The Spaniards introduced Christianity, which attempted to displace the gods, to deny that Japanese were divinely descended from Amaterasu.

“In sixteen hundred, Tokugawa Iyeyasu defeated various Japanese warlords and gained control of Japan. He and his descendants returned Japan to the Japanese. One by one, he banned foreigners. The English, the Spanish, the Portuguese… all were expelled. The only exception was a small Dutch trading post on a southwestern island near Nagasaki. Christianity was exterminated. Travel to foreign countries was forbidden. Ships capable of reaching the Asian mainland were destroyed. Only small fishing boats, their designs restricting them to hugging the coast, were allowed to be built. And the consequence?” Taro smiled. “For more than two hundred years, Japan was shut off from the rest of the world. We experienced-enjoyed-continuous peace and the greatest blossoming of Japanese culture. Paradise.”

At once the old man's face darkened. “But all of that ended in eighteen fifty-three when your countryman, Commodore Perry, anchored his squadron of American warships in Yokohama Bay. They are still known by their bleak prophetic color. Perry's black ships. He demanded that Japan reopen its borders to foreign trade. Soon the Shogunate fell. The emperor, formerly kept in seclusion in Kyoto, was moved to Edo, which soon changed its name to Tokyo, where the emperor became the figurehead ruler for politicians eager to exercise power. It's called the Meiji Restoration. I believe in the emperor, but because of that restoration, the gaijin contamination resumed… increased… worsened.”

Taro paused, assessing the effect on his audience.

Rachel breathed. “And Kunio Shirai wants to return Japan to the quarantine established in the Tokugawa Shogunate?”

“It's easy to understand his intention,” Taro replied. “As a tribe, we no longer abide by the ancient ways. Our young people disrespect their elders and treat tradition with irreverence. Abominations surround us. Western clothes. Western music. Western food. Hamburgers. Fried chicken. Heavy metal.” Taro pursed his lips in disgust. “Eventually Japan, like a sponge, will absorb the worst of other cultures, and money-not Amaterasu-will be our only god.”

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

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

“You've joined him?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1

“What are they shouting?” Savage asked.

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

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

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

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