The Fifth Profession

by David Morrell

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

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

  “Because I disagreed with what happened in Grenada.”

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

  “Your memory never fails.”

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

  “Supposedly held captive.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Died bravely.”

  “Yes.”

  “In the service of their country.”

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

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

  “I didn't want to be a mercenary.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Savage did.

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

  “A what?”

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

  “Then teach me.”

  “First you must prove you're worthy.”

  “How?”

  “Why did you choose—?”

  “To be a bodyguard?”

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

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

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

  “
There's so much pain in the world.”

  “Then why not join the Peace Corps?”

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

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

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

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

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

  Codes and obligations.

  3

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

  “Why so solemn? Is it dangerous?”

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

  “The client's Japanese!” Savage said.

  “Why does that make you frown?”

  “I've never worked for a Japanese.”

  “That intimidates you?”

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

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

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

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

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

  “And are you prepared?”

  “I'll have to think about it.”

  “You're afraid?”

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

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

  “Amae.”

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

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

  “Yes? And so? I'm puzzled.”

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

  “I still don't—”

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

  “My compliments.”

  “What?”

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

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

  “I still don't—”

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

  “It's a dilemma. No doubt. I agree.”

  “But you still recommend I accept this assignment?”

  “For purposes of education.”

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

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

  “Does the fee he offers make the effort—”

  “The challenge?”

  “—worthwhile?”

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

  “For?”

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

  4

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

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

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

  “Muto Kamichi.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “For a driver?
He's overpaying.”

  “He insists on the best.”

  “The escort?”

  “His name is Akira.”

  “Only one word?”

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

  “That's fine. But is he effective?”

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

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

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

  5

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

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

  Still no sign of a threat.

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

  Exuberant hugs of reunion. Kisses of affection.

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

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