The Fifth Profession

“That doesn't make sense.”

“It does if you realize I have to keep my hands free in case someone threatens you. Why did you ask to see me?”

“My sister wants a divorce.”

“Then she doesn't need me. What she needs is a lawyer.”

“Her bastard husband won't allow it. She's his prisoner till she changes her mind.”

“Prisoner?”

“She's not in chains, if that's what you're thinking. But she's a prisoner all the same. And she's not being tortured.” She managed to light her cigarette. “Unless you count being raped morning, noon, and night. To remind her of what she'd miss, he says. She needs a true man, he says. What he needs is a bullet through his obscene brain. Do you carry a gun?” she asked, exhaling smoke.

“Seldom.”

“Then what good are you?”

Savage stood from the column. “You've made a mistake, Miss Stone. If you want an assassin-”

“No! I want my sister!”

He eased back onto the column. “You're talking about a retrieval.”

“Whatever you want to call it.”

“If I decide to take the assignment, my fee…”

“I'll pay you a million dollars.”

“You're a poor negotiator. I might have settled for less.”

“But that's what I'm offering.”

“Assuming I accept, I'll want half in an escrow account at the start, the other half when I deliver. Plus expenses.”

“Stay in the best hotels for all I care. Spend as much as you want on meals. A few extra thousand hardly matters.”

“You don't understand. When I say ‘expenses,’ I'm thinking of as much as several hundred thousand.”

“What?”

“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 gri

“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 a

“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 gri

“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 sca