The Fifth Profession Read online

  “You're asking me to antagonize one of the most powerful men in Greece. What's he worth? Fifty billion? His security will be extensive, costly to breach. Tell me where your sister is. I'll do a risk analysis. A week from now, I'll tell you if I can get her.”

  She stubbed out her cigarette and slowly turned. “Why?”

  “I'm not sure what you mean.”

  “I get the feeling this job's more important to you than the money. Why would you consider accepting my offer?”

  For a chilling instant, Savage had a mental image of steel glinting, of blood spraying. He repressed the memory, avoiding her question. “You told your driver ‘an hour.’ It's just about time. Let's go,” he said. “And when we get back to the car, tell him to take an indirect route to your hotel.”

  6

  Adhering to his own advice, Savage used an indirect route to return to the Acropolis, or rather to an area immediately north of it—to the Plaka, the principal tourist shopping district in Athens. He entered narrow, crowded streets lined with myriad markets and shops. Despite the renewed bitter smog, he detected the aroma of smoking shish kebob, which soon gave way to the fragrance of freshly cut flowers. Loud vendors gesticulated toward handcrafted carpets, leather goods, pottery, copper urns, and silver bracelets. He reached a labyrinth of alleys, paused in an alcove, satisfied himself that he wasn't under surveillance, and proceeded past a tavern to a neighboring shop that sold wineskins.

  Inside, the wineskins hung in bunches from hooks on rafters, their leather smell strong but pleasant. Savage bowed to pass beneath them, approaching an overweight woman behind a counter.

  His knowledge of Greek was limited. He spoke in memorized phrases. “I need a special product. A wineskin of a different type. If your esteemed employer could spare a few moments to see me …”

  “Your name?” the woman asked.

  “Please tell him it's the opposite of gentle.”

  She nodded respectfully and turned to proceed up a stairway. Seconds later, she came back, gesturing for him to ascend.

  Passing an alcove from which a beard-stubbled man with a shotgun studied him, Savage climbed the stairs. At the top, a door was open. Through it, Savage saw a room—bare except for a desk, behind which a muscular man in a black suit poured a clear liqueur into a glass.

  When Savage entered, the man peered up in surprise, as if he hadn't been notified he had a visitor. “Can it be a ghost?” Though Greek, the man spoke English.

  Savage grinned. “I admit I've been a stranger.”

  “An ungrateful wretch, who hasn't seen fit to keep in touch and maintain our friendship.”

  “Business kept me away.”

  “This so-called business must have been truly mythic.”

  “It had importance. But now I make up for my absence.” Savage set the Greek equivalent of ten thousand U.S. dollars onto the desk. Spreading the bills, he covered the pattern of circular stains made by the glass refilled compulsively each day with ouzo. A licorice scent—the aniseed in the ouzo— filled the room.

  The middle-aged Greek noticed Savage's glance toward the liqueur. “May I tempt you?”

  “As you know, I seldom drink.”

  “A character flaw for which I forgive you.”

  The Greek swelled his chest and chuckled deeply. He showed no sign of his alcoholism. Indeed the ouzo, like formaldehyde, seemed to have preserved his body. Clean-shaven, with glinting, superbly cut black hair, he sipped from his glass, set it down, and studied the money. His swarthy skin exuded health.

  Nonetheless he looked troubled as he counted the money. “Too generous, Excessive, You worry me.”

  “I've also arranged for a gift. Within an hour, if you agree to supply the information I need, a messenger will deliver a case of the finest ouzo.”

  “Truly the finest? You know my preference.”

  “I do indeed. But I've taken the liberty of choosing a rarer variety.”

  “How rare?”

  Savage gave a name.

  “Extremely generous.”

  “A tribute to your talent,” Savage said.

  “As you say in your country”—the man sipped from his glass—”you're an officer and a gentleman.”

  “Ex-officer,” Savage corrected him. He wouldn't have volunteered this personal detail if the Greek hadn't known it already. “And you are a trusted informant. How long has it been since I first negotiated for your services?”

  The Greek concentrated. “Six years of delight. My former wives and many children thank you for your frequent patronage.”

  “And they'll thank me even more when I triple the money I placed on your desk.”

  “I knew it. I sensed. When I woke up this morning, I announced to myself that today would be a special occasion.”

  “But not without risks.”

  The Greek set down his glass. “Every day brings a risk.”

  “Are you ready for the challenge?”

  “As soon as I fortify myself.” The Greek downed the rest of his glass.

  “A name,” Savage said.

  “As the greatest English bard said, what's in—“

  “A name? I don't think you'll like it.” Savage pulled a bottle of the best-of-the-best, hard-to-find ouzo from beneath the back of his jacket.

  The Greek grinned. “That name I like. And the other?”

  “Stavros Papadropolis.”

  The Greek slammed down his glass. “Holy mother of fuck.” He swiftly poured more ouzo and gulped it. “What lunacy prompts you to risk investigating him?”

  Savage glanced around the almost bare room. “I assume you've been cautious as usual. Your vice hasn't made you neglect your daily cleaning chores, I hope.”

  The Greek looked hurt. “The day you see furniture in this room, apart from my chair and desk, you'll know I'm unworthy of trust.”

  Savage nodded. Not only did the Greek keep his furniture to a minimum. As well, the floor had no rug. There weren't any pictures on the walls. There wasn't even a telephone. The room's austerity made it difficult for someone to conceal a microphone. Nonetheless, each morning, the Greek used two different types of sophisticated electronic scanning devices. With one, he checked every inch of the room for radio signals and microwaves to determine if a “bug” was transmitting sounds from the room. However, that type of scanning device could detect only an active, permanently broadcasting microphone.

  To discover a passive microphone—which stayed dormant if there weren't any sounds in the room, or which could be turned off by remote control if an eavesdropper suspected a sweep was occurring—the second scanner had to be used. It was called a nonlinear junction detector. Through an attachment that resembled the head of a portable vacuum cleaner, it beamed microwaves that located the diodes in the circuits of hidden tape recorders and transmitters. Though this second device required more time to be employed effectively, the Greek always activated it, even on those rare occasions when the first device revealed a microphone—because a skillful eavesdropper always left both active and passive monitors, in case a less skillful searcher would feel that his efforts had been successful and stop if he found only an active microphone.

  With his customary humor, the Greek referred to this daily thorough search for bugs as “fumigating.”

  “Forgive my inquiry,” Savage said. “I meant to be careful, not rude.”

  “If you hadn't asked, I'd have wondered if you were worthy of trust.”

  “You're understanding as always.”

  The Greek sipped his drink and gestured agreeably. “An obligation of friendship.” He pressed his palms on his desk.

  “But you still haven't answered my question. Papadropolis?’

  “I'm interested in his domestic arrangements.”

  “Not his business affairs? Thank Zeus, you had me worried. The wretch has two hundred ships. They earn a modest profit from transporting grain, machinery, and oil. But he accumulated his fortune from smuggling weapons and drugs. Anyone who inquires about
his lucrative contraband becomes fish food in the Aegean.”

  “He may be as protective about his family life,” Savage said.

  “No doubt. A Greek would kill to protect the honor of his family, even if in private he didn't care for them. But business is survival. Its secrets are fiercely kept, whereas family secrets are taken for granted to be unavoidable gossip, as long as no one dares to repeat the gossip in front of the lord of the household.”

  “Then find me some gossip,” Savage said.

  “Specifically?”

  “About Papadropolis and his wife.”

  “I've already heard some specifics.”

  “Learn more,” Savage said. “Where she is and how she's being treated. I want to compare what you tell me with what I've been told.”

  “May I ask your purpose?”

  Savage shook his head. “Ignorance is your protection.”

  “And your protection as well. If I'm unaware of what you intend, I can't reveal it if someone questions me with a force I can't resist.”

  “But that won't happen,” Savage said. “As long as you stay careful.”

  “I'm always careful. Like you, I use intermediaries, and often messengers between intermediaries. I speak directly only to clients and those few assistants with whom I have a bond. You look worried, my friend.”

  “Six months ago, something happened to me. It made me doubly cautious.” Remembering, Savage felt his stomach clench.

  “Commendable. However, I note the lack of detail in your revelation.”

  Savage subdued his temptation to continue revealing. “It's a personal matter. Unimportant.”

  “I'm not convinced of this so-called unimportance, but I do respect your discretion.”

  “Just find out what I need.” Savage walked toward the door. “Papadropolis and his wife. Two days. That's all the time I can give you. When I return, I want to learn everything.”

  7

  The Cyclades are a cluster of small Aegean islands southeast of Athens. Their name derives from the Greek word kyklos or “circle” and refers to the ancient Greek belief that the islands surrounded Delos, the island upon which the sun god of truth, Apollo, was supposedly born. In fact, Delos is not at the center but near the eastern rim of the islands. A few kilometers farther east of it, on the edge of the Cyclades, lies Mykonos, one of Greece's main holiday areas, where tourists worship their own sun god.

  Savage piloted a two-engine, propellor-driven Cessna toward Mykonos, taking care to approach the island on an indirect course, first heading due east from Athens, then easing southward above the Aegean Sea until he flanked the eastern rim of his destination. He radioed the airport at Mykonos to notify the controller that he didn't intend to land. His flight was strictly for practice and pleasure, he explained, and if the controller would warn him which air routes to avoid, Savage would gratefully obey instructions.

  The controller obliged.

  At a distance and height of one-half kilometer, Savage put the Cessna on automatic pilot and began taking pictures. The Bausch and Lomb telephoto lens on his Nikon camera magnified images amazingly. The photographs would be further magnified after he developed them. The main thing, he knew from his training, was to take plenty of pictures, not only of his target but of its surroundings. Details that seemed unimportant at the moment could too often be crucial when he later constructed his plan.

  Yes, plenty of pictures.

  He paused frequently to readjust the Cessna's automatic pilot, then resumed his photographic surveillance. The sky was blue, the weather calm. The Cessna seemed to glide on a silken highway. His hands were rock steady. Except for the minor vibrations of the plane, conditions were perfect for taking clear photographs.

  His initial objective was the town of Mykonos on the western side of the island. The town spread around two small bays, its houses projecting onto a peninsula that separated each harbor. The buildings were shaped like intersecting cubes, each brilliantly white. Here and there, red domes— sometimes blue—identified churches. Windmills lined a jetty.

  But the design of the town, not its beauty, attracted Savage's attention. In antiquity, Mykonos had been a frequent target of pirates. To make their homes easier to protect, the local population had constructed the streets in the form of a labyrinth. Attacking pirates had no difficulty entering the town, but as they pillaged deeper into it, higher up its slopes, they soon discovered that the complex maze of lanes confused their sense of direction. The pirates could see their ship in the harbor below them, but to reach it, they had to test this and that route, all the while encountering ambushes set by the villagers. Eventually, after several defeats, the pirates left Mykonos alone in favor of uncomplicated prey on other islands.

  Yes, a labyrinth, Savage thought. I might be able to use that.

  Continuing to circle the island, all the while taking photographs, he reached a deep gulf to the north … perhaps a pickup site? … then studied a forbidding cape to the east … to be attempted only in an emergency … and finally reached his primary goal: Papadropolis's compound above Anna Bay on the southeastern side of the island.

  Since he'd met with his Greek informant two days earlier, Savage had been busy and to his wary satisfaction, had learned a great deal. He'd flown to contacts in Zurich and Brussels, the two most dependable European sources of information about black-market armament sales and the security systems of the men who smuggled the weapons.

  Through seemingly casual conversations—and generous gifts to “friends” to whom Savage pretended delight when he learned that the rumors weren't true about their having been killed—he discovered what he'd already guessed. Papadropolis was controlled by his arrogance. The Greek billionaire was too consumed with power to hire protectors who had sufficient professional integrity to insist on giving orders to their employer.

  Savage had also learned that Papadropolis was fascinated by gadgets and technology. Just as the shipping magnate had a passion for computers and video games, so he'd hired an expert in security systems to construct a web of intrusion-warning obstacles around his various European estates.

  All Savage cared about was the Mykonos estate. The moment he learned who'd designed its defenses, he knew—in the same way an art historian would have recognized a Renaissance style—what barriers he faced.

  His longtime and trusted Greek informant had verified what Joyce Stone had claimed. The movie legend's sister was being held captive on her billionaire husband's lavish summer estate on Mykonos.

  You want to divorce me, bitch? No woman ever walked away from me. I'd be a joke. An ungrateful wife has only one use. On your back. I'll teach you.

  But summer had become September. The start of the tourist season in Athens was the end of the tourist season on Mykonos—because of lowering temperatures. To force her to spend an autumn and perhaps a winter on the island was Papadropolis's idea of a further insult.

  Savage lowered his camera, switched off the automatic pilot, and gripped the Cessna's controls. For six months, since the disaster he'd almost described to his Greek informant, he'd been in seclusion, convalescing. His arms, legs, head, and back still ached from the injuries he'd sustained. Nightmarish memories persisted in haunting him.

  But the past could not be changed, he strained to remind himself. The present was all that mattered.

  And his work.

  He had to get back to his work.

  To prove himself to himself.

  He veered from Mykonos, heading north above the legendary wine-dark Aegean, patting his camera. It was good to be on an assignment again.

  He felt as if he'd returned from the dead.

  8

  Savage rose from the waves and crept toward the shore. His black wetsuit blended with the night. He crouched behind boulders, stared at the murky cliff above him, and turned toward the sea. The speedboat's pilot, a British mercenary whom Savage often employed, had been told to hurry from the area as soon as Savage dropped into the water a half-kilometer from
the island. The pilot hadn't used any lights. In the dark, with no moon and approaching storm clouds obscuring the stars, a sentry couldn't have seen the boat. Amid the din of waves crashing onto rocks, a sentry couldn't have heard it either, though Savage had taken the precaution of placing a sound-absorbent housing over the speedboat's motor.

  Satisfied that he'd reached here undetected … unless the guards had night scopes … Savage pulled at the strong nylon cord cinched around his waist. He felt resistance, pulled harder, and soon withdrew a small rubber raft from the water. Behind a rock that shielded him from the spray of the waves, he unzipped the raft's waterproof compartment and took out a bulging knapsack. His wetsuit had kept the frigid water from draining his body heat and giving him hypothermia as he swam with the raft toward shore.

  Now he shivered, peeling off the wetsuit. Naked, he hurriedly reached into the knapsack to put on black woolen clothes. He'd chosen wool because its hollow fibers had superior insulating ability, even when wet. His socks and cap were made of the same dark material. He slipped into sturdy ankle-high shoes with cross-ridged soles and tied them firmly. Warm again, he applied black camouflage grease to his face, then protected his hands with dark woolen gloves that were thin enough to allow his fingers to be flexible.

  What remained in the knapsack were the various tools he would need, each wrapped in cloth to prevent their metal from clanking together. He secured the knapsack's straps around his shoulders and tightened its belt. The knapsack was heavy, but not as heavy as the equipment he'd been accustomed to carrying when he was in the SEALs, and his strong back accepted the burden comfortably. He placed his wetsuit, snorkel, goggles, and fins into the raft's compartment, zipped it shut, and tied the raft securely to a rock. He didn't know if he'd be forced to return to this site, but he wanted to have the raft here in case he needed it. Papadropolis's guards wouldn't notice it until the morning, and by then, if Savage hadn't returned, their discovery of the raft wouldn't matter.

  He approached the cliff. A breeze gained strength, the storm clouds now completely obscuring the sky. The air smelled of imminent rain. Good, Savage thought. His plan depended on a storm. That was why he'd chosen tonight to infiltrate Papadropolis's estate. All the weather forecasters had agreed—around midnight, the first rains of autumn would arrive.