“And that's all he said?”
“A few more outbursts as he scrambled into his car. The gist was the same. ‘You. How did—? Stay away. Don't let them near me.’ “
Savage brooded, the injection taking effect, the pain in his shoulder replaced by a total lack of sensation: But his mind felt numbed as well, stunned by the morning's events. “So what are we supposed to conclude? That we were right?”
“I don't see any other explanation.” Akira sighed. “He remembers us, just as we remember him.”
“Even though we never really saw each other before,” Savage said. “Like us, he recalls things that never happened.”
“But what things?” Akira demanded. “Because he recognized us, that doesn't mean he saw us killed just as we imagine he was killed! We can't assume that his false memory is the same as ours. For all we know, in his nightmare we were assassins from whom he barely escaped.”
Rachel stepped closer. “That would explain the look of terror you described and his desperation to get away from you.”
“Perhaps.” Savage squinted. “But he might have acted the same way if he suddenly found himself confronted by two men he'd seen die! Preoccupied, exhausted, leaving the demonstration, eager to reach the safety of his limousine, he sees two ghosts and panics. In his place, would you want to stick around and chat, or feel so shocked that your only impulse would be to get away?”
Rachel considered, then gestured. “Probably the latter. But by now, if I thought I'd seen two ghosts, my shock would have changed to bewilderment. I'd want to know why you're still alive, how you survived, what you were doing at my car. And I'd be furious that my guards didn't catch you so I could learn the answers.”
“Good,” Savage said. “Good point.” He raised his eyebrows and turned toward Akira. “So what do you think? Maybe he'll be ready to talk to us.”
“Maybe … There's one way to find out.”
“Right. Let's give him a call.”
As Savage stood, his arm dangled uselessly. He rubbed it, preoccupied, and at once reminded himself that they had yet another problem. “Taro-sensei, your men still haven't come back? There's still no word about their attempt to infiltrate Akira's home and rescue Eko?”
The old man's face seemed more wrinkled, his body apparently shorter, thinner, dwarfed by his loose karate gi. For once, his appearance of frailty was not deceptive. “Almost twelve hours, and they haven't reported.”
“That might not mean a disaster,” Akira said. “Taro-sensei trained us not to attempt a mission unless we were confident of accomplishing our purpose. They might be in position, waiting for their chance to move.”
“But wouldn't they have called to report?” Savage asked.
“Not if their plan required all of them to stay in place, prepared to make a coordinated effort,” Taro said. “We don't know the obstacles they face.”
“I should have gone with them,” Akira said. “They're doing this for me, to get Eko. I ought to be sharing their risk.”
“No,” Taro said. “You must not feel ashamed. They went so that you could be free to contact Shirai. You haven't failed in your duty. You cannot do more than one thing at once.”
Akira's lips trembled. He straightened, his back rigid, bowing deeply. “Arigato, Taro-sensei.”
Taro gestured. It seemed as if he knocked a burden off Akira's shoulders. “Go. Make your call.”
“But not from here,” Savage said. “We mustn't allow Shirai to be able to trace our call to this building.”
“But of course,” Taro said. “I never doubted that you'd follow the correct procedure.” He narrowed his wrinkled eyes. Despite his concern for his absent students, his wizened lips again formed a possible smile. “Your sensei deserves respect.”
“He's dead,” Savage said. “I don't know his part in this, but yes, like you, he deserves respect.” Savage grimaced. “I have a request.”
“My home is yours.”
“My Beretta. I want it back.”
5
Akira chose a pay phone in another ward of Tokyo, making doubly certain that if the call was traced it wouldn't attract Shirai's bodyguards toward Taro's building. The pay phone was located at the rear of a pachinko parlor, a harshly lit huge room crammed with rows of what resembled vertical pinball machines. Pachinko, Savage learned, was one of Japan's most popular entertainments, with over ten thousand parlors and millions of machines throughout the country. Players crowded next to each other. The pervasive clatter of steel balls dropping through the machines made it impossible for anyone except Savage, standing close to the phone, to overhear Akira's conversation.
Though Akira spoke in Japanese, Savage knew what he was saying, both men having agreed on the essence of Akira's remarks.
The first call was to Shirai's political headquarters, but the receptionist claimed that Shirai had not returned there after the demonstration. The next call was to Shirai's corporate office, but again the receptionist claimed that Shirai wasn't present. While Savage and Akira had been at the demonstration, Taro had used his many contacts to obtain the unlisted number for Shirai's home, but yet once more when Akira phoned, he was told that Shirai wasn't available.
Akira set down the phone and explained. “Of course, any of them could be lying. But I left our message. ‘The two men he saw at his car this morning are extremely anxious to speak with him. Please relay that information.’ I said I'd be calling back every fifteen minutes.”
“So now we have to wait again.” Savage's chest ached with frustration. He wanted to move, to do something, to confront his problem and finally solve his nightmare. “Should we go to another pay phone?”
Akira shrugged. “Each call took no longer than forty seconds. Not enough time for anyone to trace it.”
“But all the same,” Savage said.
“Hai. Let's go.”
6
The next calls were made from a pay phone across from a crowded playground in a small wooded park that contrasted starkly with a traffic-jammed overhead highway. The receptionist at Shirai's political headquarters repeated that Shirai had not returned from the demonstration. Persistent, Akira dialed Shirai's corporate office, and after a few remarks, his features became alert, though he permitted no trace of excitement in his voice. Breathing quickly, Savage stepped closer.
Akira pressed the disconnect lever. “Shirai's at his business office. We have an appointment to see him in an hour.”
Savage's pulse quickened. Elated, he started to grin.
Abruptly his mood changed. His grin became a frown.
“What's the matter?” Akira asked.
Traffic blared in the background.
“Just like that?” Savage said. “He didn't explain why he was terrified when he saw us, why he scrambled into his limousine and rushed away in horror? Or why, despite his terror, he's agreeing to see us?”
Akira left the phone and walked with Savage. “He didn't explain because I never had a chance to speak with him. His secretary relayed the message.”
Savage frowned harder. “No.”
“I don't understand,” Akira said. “What's wrong?”
“That's the question, isn't it? That's what I want to know. It doesn't make sense. After the demonstration, Shirai's reaction to us was so extreme I have trouble believing he'd adjust this quickly and agree to meet us right away.”
“But that's exactly what makes it believable,” Akira said. “He was upset. Frightened to the point that he lost control. Whatever he falsely remembers … it may be he thinks he saw us killed, or else he imagines we tried to kill him … whatever the reason, in his place I'd be desperate for answers, the same as we are. I'd want to know how dead men were resurrected, or in the latter scenario, why my protectors turned against me.”
“Desperate. Yes.” Savage kept walking, scanning the crowded street, on guard against possible danger, his protective instincts at a nerve-straining zenith. He'd never felt this vulnerable. “That's why I'm suspicious. If his s
ecretary told him you were going to call back every fifteen minutes, why would he simply instruct her to make an appointment an hour from now? Instead of risking a face-to-face meeting, he should have ordered her to put your call through … so he wouldn't be in danger, so he could speak to you safely from a distance.”
“I take for granted he'll have protectors at the meeting,” Akira said. “He'll guarantee his security.”
“And what about our security? If his guards are the same men who chased us after the demonstration, they might be waiting for us with big grins and blackjacks.” Savage rubbed his throbbing shoulder. The painkiller had dissipated. He felt as if he'd been hit with a baseball bat. “I don't know how much damage I caused to the first man who rushed me, but I know I heard you break another man's hand. They won't be happy.”
“They're professionals. They were doing their job. But an hour from now, they'll have another job, and their emotions shouldn't interfere. Their principal's wishes take precedence.”
“And what if Shirai's wishes are the same as theirs? To get us out of the way,” Savage asked.
“I'm convinced”—Akira paused—”that Shirai wants information.”
“You mean that we want information and we're prepared to trust the man we saw killed.”
“What is it Rachel likes to say? Her favorite quotation?” Akira asked.
“ ‘Abraham believed by virtue of the absurd.’ “
“In other words, faith is a mystery. Sometimes, if we're confused enough, we have to trust,” Akira said.
“Graham would have called me a fool. Trust? That goes against everything I was taught. And if Taro heard you talking this way, he'd be appalled.”
Akira hesitated. Shaking his head, he chuckled. “My sensei would insist on retraining me.”
“We don't need retraining. What we need to do is step back and be objective, to pretend we're protecting someone else.”
“Oh, in that case,” Akira said.
“Right. Let's pretend we've got someone else, not ourselves, for clients.”
“All of a sudden security, not answers, has priority,” Akira said.
“So let's do what we know how to do, what we do best.”
Akira's voice reminded Savage of the ominous polished hiss of a sword being drawn from a scabbard. “Inspect the danger zone.”
7
Shirai's corporate building, one of few multileveled structures in earthquake-prone Japan, was made of gleaming glass and steel but with resilient defensive innovations of design, Savage assumed, that made it impervious to assault. The equivalent of an executive protector's code. He studied the glinting edifice from an intersection two blocks away, slowly approaching from the south, nervously aware that no matter how many chameleon tactics he used, he'd still be conspicuous. A gaijin.
At the same time, he knew that Akira approached and, with equal caution, assessed the potential trap from two blocks in the opposite direction. In case of a threat, they'd agreed to retreat to a fallback position. Indeed they had several fallback positions … to allow for contingencies. The care with which they'd planned their surveillance made Savage feel proud. For the first time since he'd arrived in Japan, he felt in charge, in control, like Graham's disciple, not like a victim.
A block from Shirai's towering building, Savage stopped. As traffic and pedestrians passed, he noticed that in addition to the large main entrance to the building, there was a slightly less large side-entrance. The streets were so congested that parking wasn't permitted, though vehicles with a legitimate purpose were allowed to stop briefly, for example a delivery van outside the front entrance. Below the ideograms on the van, a drawing of a floral arrangement made clear the purpose of the delivery. At the side entrance, a truck was parked, a bored looking man in a cap and coveralls leaning against a front fender, reading a newspaper, occasionally glancing at his watch, then toward the side entrance, sighing, shaking his head, as if waiting for his partner to come out. All seemingly natural.
Except that Savage's neck prickled when he noticed that instead of thick, heavy workman's boots, the driver wore shiny, stylish loafers.
Shit, he thought and turned to stroll tensely southward, in the direction from which he'd come. A prudent distance away, he crossed the busy street, proceeded east for several blocks, then swung around a corner and headed north toward Shirai's building to assess its rear and eventually the side he hadn't been able to see from his initial position.
This time, at the back, a dark limousine with opaque windows was parked near the entrance. And at the side, Savage saw a truck with a telephone symbol.
He clenched his fists. Determined to do this properly, he made a second circuitous inspection of the building, then retreated toward the rendezvous site.
8
A long line of ticket holders filed into the movie theater. On the clamorous sidewalk, Savage pretended to study a poster for a U.S. action film. It amazed him that a country with one of the lowest violent-crime rates in the world would be fascinated by a muscular, bare-chested American aiming a rocket launcher.
Akira appeared beside him, his voice low. “All the entrances are being watched.”
Savage kept studying the poster. “At least Shirai didn't insult our intelligence by keeping the same vehicles in place. The second time I circled the building, there were different trucks, vans, and limousines.”
“But we have to assume that several men are hidden inside each vehicle.”
“Oh, absolutely,” Savage said. He pivoted to face the street, to make sure he hadn't been seen and followed from Shirai's building. “The question is, are they merely a precaution or does Shirai want us picked up and eliminated?”
Akira spread his hands. “Are you prepared to risk stepping into the building to find out?”
“I've lost my faith,” Savage said.
“As have I.”
“ ‘Abraham believed by virtue of the absurd?’ No way,” Savage said.
“Then what should we do?”
“Phone Shirai's office,” Savage said. “Tell his secretary we're sorry but we've been detained. Ask to speak to him.”
“It won't do any good. Given the trap he seems to have arranged, he'll refuse and keep attempting to entice us into the building.”
“That's my assumption,” Savage said. “But it's worth the attempt. Assuming he does refuse, try to reschedule the meeting for later today. My guess is he'll agree.”
“No doubt. But that only postpones the problem. It doesn't solve it,” Akira said. “We still need to talk to him, and we don't dare go into that building.”
“So we arrange to meet him somewhere else, somewhere he doesn't expect,” Savage said. “While I circled the building, I had an idea. But it won't work unless we keep Shirai in his office until we're ready to make our move. So we keep calling him, postponing the meeting, and in the meantime we phone Taro.”
“Why?”
“To ask if a few more students can graduate early.”
9
Static crackled. In the rented Toyota, Savage straightened, muscles rigid. Frustrated by his unfamiliarity with the Japanese language, he hoped that the garbled male voice that squawked from the two-way radio wasn't so distorted by poor reception that Akira found it as intelligible as he did.
Steering with effort through rush-hour traffic, continuing to drive north, east, south, and west in a square two blocks adjacent to Shirai's building, Akira picked up the walkie-talkie. He spoke briefly in Japanese, nodded to the staticky answer, and said something further.
His face hardened when he heard the reply. “Hai. Arigato.“ Setting down the walkie-talkie, Akira gripped both karate-callused hands on the steering wheel and veered toward a sudden opening in the lane beside him. He veered yet again, this time around a corner, struggling through traffic, approaching Shirai's building.
Though Savage felt swollen with questions, he made a deliberate professional effort not to interrupt Akira's concentration.
Akira broke S
avage's frustration. “They've seen him.”
“Ah.” Savage leaned back. But his tension wasn't relieved. He imagined Taro's students, expertly trained in camouflage, blending with pedestrians, keeping a wary surveillance on every side of Shirai's building. Akira had described Shirai's car and provided the information on the license plate that he'd memorized as the car sped away from this morning's demonstration. Taro in turn had supplied his students with magazine photographs of their quarry. The students had previously seen Shirai on television reports about his radically conservative politics, his belief in the Force of Amaterasu, and his insistence that Japan return to the cultural quarantine of the Tokugawa Shogunate. They'd known precisely whom to watch for. “So Shirai's limousine finally came out of the underground garage?”
Akira steered urgently, slipping into another break in traffic, too busy to answer.
“The trouble is,” Savage said, “Shirai's limousine … whether we like to admit it, this is still an act of faith … Shirai might not be in the car.”
“He is. There's no doubt,” Akira said. His eyes assessed traffic. His hands responded, veering the Toyota.
“No doubt?”
“He was seen,” Akira said.
“What? How? That's not possible. The rear windows are shielded, and we couldn't get any of Taro's students into the underground garage to see who stepped into the car.”
“But Shirai was seen stepping into the car. Not in the underground garage.”
“Then how … ?”
“Two minutes ago,” Akira said, “the limousine appeared at the northern exit from the building. Shortly after, guards emerged on the sidewalk and formed a cordon. Shirai came out, passed through the guards, and got into the limousine. They're driving west.”
The walkie-talkie crackled again. Akira picked it up, listened to another static-distorted Japanese voice, said, “Hai,“ and returned the walkie-talkie beside him. “They're still headed west. An escort car filled with guards is before and behind the limousine.”
The Fifth Profession Page 40