The Fifth Profession (56 page)

They reached a landing and pivoted, following the reverse direction up the next set of stairs.

Savage's voice broke, as if wedged with gravel. “Remind you of anything?”

“The stairs at the Mountain Retreat.”

They cautiously reached the next floor.

And
again
found more bodies.

“It won't end,” Savage said.

“If he's not in this building, we'll search the others,” Akira said. “I don't care how long it takes.”

Savage spun, aiming his pistol right, then left, seeing a corridor on each side that seemed to stretch on forever.

“It must connect with the other buildings,” Akira said.

The silence of death thickened the air. It pressed against Savage's face. He had trouble breathing. “Notice the rooms along the corridor. … Sliding panels, not doors. But …”

“The same arrangement as the Medford Gap Mountain Retreat,” Akira said.

“I know where we'll find him. Kamichi. Shirai.”

“Where?”

“Where he's
always
been! In my nightmare! Where we took him! Even though we didn't!” Savage pointed up the stairs. “Third floor. That's where his room was. And that's where we'll find him. Where he
was.
Where he
will
be.”

They climbed the stairs.

19

And found more bodies. Savage's heart shrank. Blood. The floor was … He couldn't avoid stepping in … Everywhere. Slippery. The soles of his shoes made a squishing sound. Ice seemed to squeeze his chest. With greater foreboding, he stooped to feel each man's wrist. No pulse. He picked up the weapons that lay beside them, smelling the barrels.

“None of them was fired.”

“What?
But …”

Savage nodded. “I can understand the sentries on the grounds being taken by surprise. But …”

“These
guards must have heard the shots from outside.”

“And in the rooms below us and on the stairs. The hit team had to kill all those other men before they could reach these guards.”

“And yet despite the commotion these men didn't have enough warning to fire even one shot?”

“Something's wrong,” Savage said.

Back-to-back, he and Akira aimed tensely along each section of the corridor. They inched toward the right of the staircase, darting nervous glances up the steps as they passed. Savage's shoes made bloody footprints on the floor. They entered the right wing of the corridor, wary of the panels on either side, and stopped at the fifth one on the right, where—

—if it had been a door instead of a panel—

—and if this had been the Medford Gap Mountain Retreat—

—they would have reached Kamichi's room.

“A blast from the past,” Savage said.

“I don't understand.”

Savage realized he'd begun to babble. Trembling, he fought to get control. “Ready?”

“Always.”

“Cover me.” Chest heaving, Savage grabbed the edge of the panel, shoved it sideways, and lunged toward the wall, aiming through the open door.

Akira, who'd surged toward the opposite side of the opening, aimed inside as well—and let out a gasp.

Savage's eyes widened.

Kamichi … Shirai …

The names merged.
The past and present
became identical. With a terrible difference.

Wearing a black karate
gi,
Kamichi-Shirai sat cross-legged at a low table across from them, sipping tea. The fiftyish, gray-haired, slightly overweight, somewhat slack-jowled businessman-politician raised his head and studied them. He didn't flinch at their sudden appearance. He wasn't startled or surprised or confused. He merely nodded, set down his cup, and sighed.

Placing his karate-callused hands on the table, he pushed himself upward and slowly stood.

“At last,” he said.

“But how did—?” Savage stepped forward. “Where—? You should have stayed hidden. We might have been other assassins coming back to—” Numb, Savage faltered. He suddenly realized that Kamichi
(Shirai)
had spoken in English, and with greater shock, he realized something else, that his questions were useless, meaningless. Kamichi
(Shirai)
had never been in danger, had never been forced to hide.

“Oh, Jesus,” Savage said.

“Please accept my humble compliments.” Kamichi bowed. “My utmost respect. You are indeed professionals. You obeyed your code to the limit.”

Savage breathed and sighted along his pistol. “Everything led us here.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“If you'll lower your weapon, I'll tell you,” Kamichi said.

Savage kept aiming. “No, you'll tell me now, or else …”

“You'll shoot me?” Kamichi debated the question and shrugged. “I don't believe so. In that case, you'd never—”

“Tell us!” Akira's grip trembled on his pistol.
“Have we ever met before?”

“In a sense.”

“What the hell does
that
mean?” Savage's finger tensed on the trigger.

“Please lower your weapons,” Kamichi said. “We have many things to discuss.” He shook his head. “But I don't feel … conversational? Is that the proper word? … under these threatening conditions.”

“But maybe I don't care,” Savage said. “Maybe if I shot you, my nightmares …”

“No.” Kamichi approached. “They wouldn't end. They'd
persist.
Without answers, you'll always be haunted. Both of you. For the rest of your lives.”

Savage straightened his aim toward Kamichi's approaching chest. “But you'd be dead.”

“Would that give you satisfaction?” Kamichi reached toward Savage's pistol.

“Stop.”

“Would killing me relieve your torment? Think clearly. What are your priorities?” Kamichi grasped Savage's pistol. “You need answers!”

“Yes. But right now what I need is, get your hand off the gun! Before I—!” Savage pried Kamichi's fingers away, stared into Kamichi's dark, unblinking eyes, then lowered the weapon, aware that Akira still aimed his. “So
answer
my question. Have we met before?”

“I prefer to answer another question, one you
haven't
asked.” Kamichi guided Savage toward the corridor. “Your name is …”

Compelled by phantoms, Savage allowed Kamichi to guide him, reassured that Akira backed out of the room, his pistol aimed toward Kamichi's chest.

“Your name … Would you like to know your name?” Kamichi asked as they entered the corridor.

Savage decided to trust the word of the friend and former fellow SEAL he'd seen killed in the alley in Virginia Beach. “I'm Robert Doyle.”

Kamichi looked disappointed. “You learned more than I thought.”

“The alternative was ‘Roger Forsyth,’ but I knew that couldn't be right, because I used that name in my nightmare, and nothing in my nightmare happened.”

“Ah, but you
have
used ‘Roger Forsyth’ on occasion. As a pseudonym.”

“I guessed that as well,” Savage said. “A man I saw in my nightmare—he called himself Philip Hailey—came after me in Tokyo. As he chased me from the Meiji Shrine, he kept calling me Forsyth. When I didn't respond, he called me Doyle. I finally decided that if one name was false, he might use that first, and only when I didn't respond to it would he take the risk of shouting my real name in public,”

“Astute,” Kamichi said.

“So who
is
he?”

“ ‘Philip Hailey’ is not his real name. Like ‘Roger Forsyth,’ it's a pseudonym.”

“I asked,
who is he?”

“Your CIA contact.”

20

“What?”

As Savage gaped from Kamichi's answer, shock was added to shock. He heard the smooth slide of wood. Repeated. Overlapping. Along the corridor, panels opened. Men stepped out, Japanese, wearing suits, holding weapons.

“Please set down your pistols,” Kamichi said.

Akira spoke harshly in Japanese.

Kamichi responded, his tone patient, then turned to Savage. “Your associate insists he'd sooner shoot me.”

“He's not alone,” Savage said, aiming. “If those men come any closer, you're dead.”

“But I thought you wanted answers,” Kamichi said. “Besides, if you kill me, they'll kill you. What purpose will that serve? No, it's better if you cooperate.”

The men took a wary step forward.

Savage lunged behind Kamichi. Temples throbbing, he pressed his back to the wall and his pistol against Kamichi's skull. Akira rushed next to him, pointing his handgun toward the men.

“Hailey's my CIA contact?”
Savage asked.

“You're not aware that you work for the agency?”

“Do I sound as if I am?”

“Good. The deception had its effect,” Kamichi said. “And you?” he asked Akira. “Did
you
become aware that you work for Japanese Intelligence?”

Akira looked stunned.

“Yes,” Kamichi said. “Excellent. The plan remains intact.”

“You son of a bitch, what did you
do
to us?” Savage pressed the pistol harder, wanting to crush Kamichi's skull.

“You answered that question earlier.”

“How?”

“I led you here,” Kamichi said.

“I'm beginning to understand,” Akira said. “Tonight. You were never in danger.”

“True. Can you guess why?”

Akira sounded as if on the verge of vomiting. “The corpses. So many. This place … it was never attacked. Assassins didn't shoot all those men, try to find you, fail, and then flee.
There were no assassins.
Those men …” Disgust choked Akira, cutting off his words.

“Died willingly. Bravely. With honor,” Kamichi said. “For their
daimyo
… for their country … their heritage. Above all, for Amaterasu.”

“My God,” Savage said. His mind swirled. The corridor seemed to tilt. “Oh, Jesus, you're crazy!”

The men stepped closer, weapons raised. Savage grabbed the back of Kamichi's suit, tugging him toward the staircase.

Akira aimed rigidly. “Tell your men to stop. I'll kill them.”

“But don't you understand?” Kamichi was disturbingly calm, unnervingly rational. “They're
prepared
to die, to sacrifice their lives for their
daimyo,
for the spirit of their nation, for the land of the gods. They want to fulfill their duty, to join the
kami
of their fellow samurai.”

Savage trembled. Horrified, he realized the scope of Kamichi's madness. He thought of the Jonestown massacre, of followers so devoted to a charismatic zealot that they'd do
anything
for him, even force their children to drink poisoned Kool-Aid and then swallow it themselves.

At once, he shifted perspective, changing his logic, reminding himself that the utterly mad, the hopeless psychotics, convinced themselves that they alone were perfectly sane.

But with equal abruptness, he reminded himself of something more. This wasn't the West but the East. He thought of Mishima disemboweling himself after haranguing Japanese soldiers to return their country to its former imperial greatness, to pursue its god-ordained destiny.

He thought of the legendary forty-seven
ronin,
who waited two years to avenge their insulted dead master and who, after cutting off their enemy's head and setting it on their master's grave, committed
seppuku.
In America, the zealot of Jonestown was considered a monster. In Japan, Mishima was remembered with respect as someone willing to die for his principles. And the forty-seven
ronin
were revered for their absolute loyalty to their
daimyo.

Somehow, though a
gaijin,
Savage could understand, perhaps because his father had blown his brains out.

But that didn't mitigate the horror that continued flooding through him.

“Now I know why their weapons hadn't been fired. They willingly …” Savage shook his head. Appalled yet consumed with respect, he imagined their bravery, their dismaying confidence, their belief in Amaterasu, a conviction more powerful than fear.

He forced himself to keep talking, his throat so tight he felt strangled, his voice hoarse. “They willingly stood at attention. And let themselves be shot. Solemnly gave up their lives … honorably committed a unique form of
seppuku.
So their nation would think that its—
your
—enemies had killed them.”

“For a
gaijin,
you understand our values more than I expected,” Kamichi said.

“Who shot them?” Akira asked.
“You?”

“Their fellow samurai, who in turn were shot by others, until this final group remains,” Kamichi said.

The guards took another step, weapons poised. Savage desperately tugged Kamichi farther along the wall, keeping his pistol against Kamichi's head while Akira aimed at the guards.

“But this conversation
is
beneficial,” Kamichi said, more eerily rational. “I realize now I made a mistake.”

“Damned right,” Savage said. “Those men didn't have to die, not for the sake of your crazy—”

“I mean their weapons,” Kamichi said.

Savage jammed his pistol harder against Kamichi's skull, dreading yet another insane attack on his own fragile sanity.
“Weapons?”

“I thought I'd anticipated every detail,” Kamichi said. “But I understand now that they should have fired toward the trees before they were killed—to litter the ground with additional ejected cartridges, to make their deaths much more dramatic. To emphasize the loyalty and determination with which they strained to the limit to defend me.”

With his pistol thrust against Kamichi's head, Savage almost pulled the trigger.

So tempting.

No,
Graham's ghostly voice whispered.
Avoid emotion. It causes mistakes. A professional must always be objective, rational, in control.

Rational? Savage thought. Like Kamichi? He's so fucking rational he's a lunatic!

But you're not. Endure. Remember your obligation. To me. To yourself. To the fifth profession.

Yes! Savage thought.

He knew too well that he and Akira remained alive only because Kamichi's guards wouldn't dare to attack while their
daimyo
was threatened.

Nonetheless he was tempted, he imagined the pleasure … it would feel so right, so good, so just, so
satisfying
to pull the trigger.