The Fifth Profession

by David Morrell

  Dr. Hamilton obeyed.

  “Perfect. If you wouldn't mind, I'd like another minute of privacy,” Savage said.

  Dr. Hamilton left.

  Pulse hammering, Savage listened as the phone rang on the other end.

  We count on your good faith. Don't disappoint us, Philip Hailey had said.

  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.

  Through the phone, Savage heard the beep of an answering machine. No announcement preceded it. A tape recorder would now be engaged.

  “This is Savage. I'm in a hospital in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. Get out here fast.”

  18

  The number Savage had called wasn't at Graham's home in Manhattan, was instead at an answering service. Graham employed the service because a client sometimes felt it imprudent to contact him directly. Indeed there were various clients whose enemies were so powerful that Graham refused to deal with those clients on anything but an indirect basis, lest the enemies discover which protection agency had acted against them and decide to seek revenge. Once each day, Graham selected a pay phone and called the number reserved for him at the answering service. He held a remote control against the mouthpiece, pressed buttons, and broadcast a sequence of tones that activated the tape machine, causing it to play back all the messages it had recorded. No one could trace the messages to him.

  If Savage had been able to move, he'd have used a pay phone in the hospital's lobby to call Graham not at the answering service but his home. But Savage couldn't use his arms. He'd been forced to ask Dr. Hamilton to place the call, and he didn't dare compromise Graham's security by telling the doctor Graham's private number.

  Time. What if Graham had already called his answering service today? What if, before Graham checked his messages again, Philip Hailey had second thoughts about relying on Savage's silence? What if Graham was out of the country and it took him several days to get here? Time.

  Sweating from pain, Savage craved more Demerol, but he had to stay alert: Philip Hailey might send a representative who brought death in lieu of chocolates and roses. Besides, what difference did it make if Savage was alert? He'd still be paralyzed by the casts on his arms and legs. He wouldn't be able to defend himself.

  I can't just give up! I can't just lie here, hoping I won't be killed!

  Savage had never been to Harrisburg. He had no contacts there. But Philadelphia was less than a hundred miles away.

  When Dr. Hamilton reentered the room to see if Savage had completed his call, Savage asked him to press more numbers on the phone.

  “You want to talk to another friend?”

  “I suddenly feel social.”

  After the doctor placed the phone beneath Savage's chin and gave him further privacy, Savage waited anxiously for someone to answer on the other end.

  A voice growled, “Hello.”

  “Tony?”

  “Depends.”

  “A blast from the past, good buddy. I saved your life on Grenada.”

  “Savage?”

  “I need your help, my friend. Protection. I think I'm in serious shit.”

  “Protection? Since when did you ever need—?”

  “Since now. If you're available—”

  “For you? If I was screwing Raquel Welch, I'd tell her I had even more pressing business.” Tony chortled at his joke.

  “When do you want me?”

  “Five minutes ago.”

  “That bad?”

  “Maybe worse.” Savage paused, fingering the stuffed envelope that Philip Hailey had shoved beneath his right hand. “I've got what feels like fifteen thousand dollars for your effort.”

  “Forget it, man. I'd be dead if not for you. I pay my debts. I'll help you for nothing.”

  “It's not a favor, Tony. This is business. You might have to earn every dollar. Bring a friend. And don't come without equipment.”

  “Equipment's no problem. But friends are in short supply.”

  “Aren't they always? Get here.”

  19

  Three hours—nervous hours—later, Tony and another Italian came into the room. They both had beard stubble and muscular chests. “Nice, Savage. Love your plaster. You look like I did after Grenada. What happened? Who—?”

  “No questions. Watch the door. The blond-haired doctor's okay. The nurses keep changing. Check them. Anyone else …”

  “I get the idea.”

  Safe, Savage finally permitted Dr. Hamilton—who frowned toward Savage's escorts—to give him more Demerol. He drifted and sank, blessedly released from pain. But even with his bodyguards, and even unconscious, he wasn't free from terror. Akira's severed head rolled toward him and blinked.

  Again Savage woke up screaming. Fear pierced his grogginess, making him aware of four things. Tony and his lookalike surged upright. His IV tube had been removed. So had his catheter. And outside his room, an English-accented, indignant voice said, “You want me to stub out a Cuban cigar?”

  Graham! At last!

  The bald, portly, well-dressed mentor entered the room.

  “Oh, my,” he said, surveying Savage's injuries.

  “Yes,” Savage said. “It didn't go well.”

  “Your companions are—?”

  “Reliable.”

  “I came as fast as I could.”

  “I'm sure,” Savage said. “Now get me out of here faster.”

  20

  The cottage, south of Annapolis, stood on a wooded bluff with a magnificent view of Chesapeake Bay. Savage's bed was next to a window, and with his head propped up, he could see the wind-swept, white-capped waves. He loved to watch the sailboats, more of them as April turned into May. Imprisoned by his casts, he fantasized about standing on the tilted deck of one of those boats, his hands on the wheel, his hair blown by the wind. He imagined the salty taste of spray and the raucous cries of sea gulls. Abruptly he'd remember Akira's head rolling toward him. The sailboats would disappear, replaced by a grotesque memory of toppling bodies and spouting blood. Savage's casts would again imprison him.

  He had two bodyguards and felt troubled by the irony of being a protector in need of protection. The guards weren't Tony and his companion. Because Savage had needed to use a hospital phone to summon them, there'd be a record of the number he'd called. An enemy could easily learn that number and possibly trace the two men to Savage and this cottage. Graham had arranged for other men to keep watch. At the same time, Graham had changed his answering service, for the hospital would have a record of the number Savage had used to call him.

  In addition, Graham had hired a trusted doctor, who checked Savage once a day, and an equally trusted nurse, who remained in constant attendance. Every Friday, Savage was placed in the back of a van and driven to a nearby radiologist to determine if his fractured and broken bones were healing without complication.

  Graham came to visit every Saturday. He brought bluepoint oysters or beluga caviar or Maine lobsters. Though he persisted in smoking cigars, he thoughtfully opened a window so the warm May breeze remained sweet.

  “This cottage, the staff, they must be costing you a fortune,” Savage said.

  Graham sipped a glass of chilled Dom Perignon and took another puff on his cigar. “You're worth it. You're the best protector I've ever trained. My expenses are insignificant, a minor investment compared to the agent's fee I'll continue to earn from you. Then, too, it's a matter of loyalty. Teacher to student. Friend to friend. I might even say equal to equal. You've never disappointed me. I don't intent to disappoint you.”

  “… I might decide to retire.”

  Graham choked on his Dom Perignon. “You'll ruin a perfect afternoon.”

  “When these casts come off, there's no guarantee I'll be the man I was. Suppose I'm slower. Or crippled. Or”—Savage hesitated— “don't have the nerve to risk myself anymore.”

  “That's a future problem.”

  “I w
onder. When I saw Kamichi's body cut in half …”

  “You must have seen worse in the SEALs.”

  “Yes, friends so blown apart I couldn't recognize them. But we were committed to confronting an enemy. If possible, we defended each other. But that wasn't our ultimate purpose.”

  “To defend? I understand. For the first time, you failed to save a principal.”

  “If I'd been more alert …”

  “’If is a word that gamblers use. The fact is, you were overwhelmed by greater force. Even the best protector sometimes fails.”

  “But I had an obligation.”

  “And the proof of your commitment is your shattered body. I see the evidence. You did your best.”

  “Still, Kamichi's dead.” Savage's voice dropped. “So is Akira.”

  “Why should your principal's escort matter to you? His obligation was the same as yours. The moment he pledged himself to Kamichi, he accepted every consequence.”

  “Why should Akira matter?” Savage brooded. “I guess I felt a kinship.”

  “Perfectly natural. Honor him. But don't leave your profession because of him.”

  “I'll have to think about it.”

  “Thinking's a hazard. Concentrate on healing yourself. Anticipate next Friday. The day after, when I visit again, I'll have the pleasure of seeing your arms and legs without casts.”

  “Yes. And then, God help me, the real pain begins.”

  21

  If Savage had injured only a leg or an arm, he could have Kept active, could have exercised the rest of his limbs. But with so much of his body disabled, he continued to be helpless after his casts were removed. His arms and legs had shriveled, their once-hard muscles flabby. He didn't have the strength to raise his limbs. To try to bend them was agony. Frustration made him despair.

  For an hour each morning and afternoon, the nurse turned his arms and legs, then lifted them slowly till Savage cringed. His elbows and knees felt wooden. But how could wood transmit so much pain?

  When Graham came to visit, he shook his head in commiseration. “I've brought a present.”

  “Two rubber balls?”

  “Keep squeezing them. They'll build up the muscles in your forearms.” Graham clamped a board to the foot of the bed. “Press your feet against it. It'll strengthen your calves and your thighs.”

  Savage sweated from the effort, every exhale a gasp.

  “Patience,” Graham said.

  Through the open window, Savage heard voices. A crash.

  “Jesus. What's—?”

  “Nothing to become alarmed about. Just another present. I've hired a crew to install a hot tub outside. The men don't know you're here. Even if they did, they've often worked for me. I trust them. The tub has a whirlpool accessory. After your daily exercise, the swirl of hot water will soothe your aching muscles.”

  Savage—still brooding about Kamichi and Akira—recalled that the Japanese were fond of soaking themselves in almost scalding water. “Thanks, Graham.”

  “Not to mention, water therapy is good for regaining the use of your limbs.”

  “You're manipulative as always.”

  “Just keep squeezing your balls.” Savage laughed.

  “Good,” Graham said. “You've still got a sense of humor.”

  “Except that there's very little to laugh about.”

  “You're referring to your pain, or to Kamichi and Akira?”

  “Both.”

  “I hope you're not still thinking about retiring.”

  “Who attacked them, Graham? Why? You've always said that a protector's obligation to a client doesn't end if the client's killed.”

  “But the man who calls himself Philip Hailey has relieved you of that obligation. He promised that his investigators were about to determine who'd ordered Kamichi's death. He guaranteed that your principal would be avenged. More, he implied that you'd interfere if you involved yourself.”

  “But suppose Hailey isn't successful?”

  “The shame becomes his. Your sole concern should be to get well. Rest. Sleep. I hope your dreams are peaceful.”

  “Not fucking likely.”

  22

  Slowly, with torturous discipline, Savage learned to bend his knees and elbows. After days of agony, he was able to raise his legs and arms and even sit. His first attempts to walk with crutches ended pathetically, the nurse catching him as he fell.

  He asked a guard to bolt a pair of gymnast's rings to the ceiling and strained his hands upward to reach them, struggling to pull his body off the bed. The increasing strength in his arms gave him better control of his crutches. Eventually his legs felt like flesh instead of wood. He swelled with pride the night he didn't have to summon his nurse to help him hobble to the bathroom and relieve himself.

  Always, at the end of each day, he blessed Graham for the gift of the hot tub. Soaking in its swirling steaming water, he concentrated to free his mind of every care, seeking an inner peaceful stillness. But the memory of Kamichi and Akira intruded, and shame spread through him, also anger toward the men who'd killed his principal. The pain he'd endured since the attack at the mountain retreat seemed an insufficient penance for his failure to fulfill his pledge of protection. He resolved to punish his body to the maximum, to increase his pain and work even harder.

  Graham visited again, easing his hefty frame into a deck chair beside the hot tub, putting on Rayban sunglasses, his three-piece suit incongruous in this rural setting. “So your father belonged to the CIA.”

  Savage jerked his head toward Graham. “I never told you that.”

  “Correct. The first time we met, you avoided questions about him. But surely you didn't think I'd leave it at that. I had to do a security check before I accepted you as a student.”

  “For the first time, Graham, you've pissed me off.”

  “Obviously I didn't have to mention what I'd done. I wouldn't have risked your resentment unless I had a motive.”

  Savage rose from the tub.

  “Wait. I'll hand you your crutches.”

  “Damn it, don't bother.” Savage gripped a railing. His skinny legs wobbled. Taking short, cautious steps, he crossed the deck to a chair next to Graham.

  “Impressive. I didn't know you'd made so much progress.”

  Savage glared at him.

  “I mentioned your father because he pertains to your threat to retire. Nineteen sixty-one. Cuba.”

  “So what?”

  “The Bay of Pigs disaster.”

  “So what?”

  “Your father, working for the CIA, was one of its organizers. But the Kennedy administration had nervous second thoughts. They changed the plan. The invasion—mired in a swamp—became a catastrophe. The White House couldn't acknowledge its mistakes. Someone had to be blamed. A CIA official. A ‘fall guy’ so loyal that he wouldn't object, that he wouldn't place blame where it really belonged.”

  “My father.”

  “Publicly, he was scorned. Privately, he received a bonus for resigning and accepting ridicule.”

  “My wonderful father.” Savage's voice thickened. “How he loved his country. How he honored his obligations. I was only a kid. I didn't understand why he suddenly stayed at home. He'd always been so busy. Away so much. On so many unexplained trips. Understand, when he was at home, he made up for his time away. Ball games. Movies. Pizza. He treated me royally. ‘I love your mother,’ he said, ‘but you're the pride of my life.’ Then everything changed. More and more, with nowhere to go and nothing to accomplish, all he did was drink beer and watch television. Then the beer became bourbon. Then he didn't watch television. Then he shot himself.”

  “I apologize,” Graham said. “Those memories are painful. But I had no choice. I had to remind you.”

  “Had to? Graham, I'm more than pissed off. I'm starting to hate you.”

  “I had a reason.”

  “It better be fucking good.”

  “Your father gave in to defeat. That's not a criticism. No doubt
he weighed his options carefully. But despair insisted. In Japan, suicide is a noble solution to seemingly unendurable problems. But in America, it's considered shameful. I intend no disrespect. Still, years ago, when I learned about your background, I was troubled that your response to your father's suicide was eventually to join the most arduous branch of the U.S. military. The extremely demanding SEALs. I asked myself why. And I concluded … please forgive me … that you were trying to compensate for your father's failure to endure, for his acceptance of defeat.”

  “I've heard enough.”

  “No, you haven't. When I learned about your background, I asked myself, ‘Is this candidate, however talented, worthy of being a protector?’ And I concluded that your determination to succeed, to cancel your father's defeat, was the strongest motive I'd yet encountered. So I accepted you as a student. And now I say to you, recently I feared you'd follow your father's example and kill yourself because of your defeat. I urge you not to despair. Years ago, you told me, ‘There's so much pain in the world.’ Yes. So many victims. They need your help.”

  “What happens if I need help?”

  “I've given it to you. Next Saturday, I hope to find your attitude greatly improved.”

  23

  Savage worked even harder, not to alleviate his despair but to punish himself for the cause of his despair: his failure to protect Kamichi. As well, pain and exhaustion helped him to repress all thoughts about his father.

  But I didn't join the SEALs and eventually become a protector to compensate for him, Savage thought. I did those things to test myself and make my father proud of me, even if he's dead. I wanted to show the bastards who pushed him into a corner that my father taught me character.

  Or maybe that's the same as what Graham meant, that I'm trying to cancel my father's defeat. And like my father, I failed.

  Sit-ups. Five to begin with. Then one more each day. The gymnast's rings above his bed had increased the strength in his arms, making it possible for him to do push-ups, again in gradually increased amounts. Using his crutches, he managed to walk down the grassy slope to Chesapeake Bay. The doctor stopped making visits. The nurse—no longer needed—left Savage in the care of his two guards.

  By then, it was June, and every Saturday, Graham praised Savage's progress. He still made challenging remarks, but Savage had resolved to conceal his depression and give Graham the reassurances he needed to hear.