David Morrell - The Fifth Profession

“Beautiful.”

“You're very kind.” Rachel continued to grasp his hand. “But there might be photographers on board. If you enjoyed my films…”

“I worshiped them.”

“Then please don't destroy their memory.” Rachel gave his hand a squeeze and released it.

The official stepped back. “Obviously you're not smuggling ancient artifacts. By all means, instruct your driver to proceed aboard.”

“Thank you.” Rachel rewarded him with a gracious smile.

Savage drove toward the ferry. “You're a better actress than your sister,” he murmured. “Very very good.”

“Hey, I always envied my sister,” she said, her lips barely moving. “She always did better. But now when I'm scared, I've got the guts to prove I'm better.”

“You'll get no argument.” Savage parked the car on the ferry. “Now we wait for Akira.”

But twenty minutes later, Akira still hadn't joined them as the ferry left the dock.

“Stay in the car,” Savage told Rachel.

Shoulders tensing, he got out and scanned the shadowy spaces between the rows of cars. The hold stank of oil and exhaust fumes. The other vehicles were deserted, their passengers having climbed to the upper decks to sleep or to buy refreshments and admire the moonlit water and the lights along the coast. The hold's metal floor vibrated from the muted rumble of the ferry's engines.

Still no sign of Akira.

“I've changed my mind,” Savage said. “Get out. Stand next to me. If anything happens, run. There'll be security guards upstairs. Stay close to them.”

Rachel hurried toward him. “Is something wrong?”

“I'm not sure yet.” Savage kept scanning the hold. “But Akira should have joined us by now.”

“Unless he's being extra-cautious checking the passengers.”

“Maybe… Or else he found trouble.”

Despite the surrounding cars, Savage's spine tensed from feeling exposed.

He made it a rule never to try to cross an international border with a firearm. True, the checkpoints in many countries had lax procedures, and handguns made mostly from plastic didn't register on an X-ray machine, especially when disassembled. But Savage's weapon had been an all-metal.357 Magnum revolver, and it couldn't be taken apart, except for its cylinder. More, though Greece and Italy had attempted a conciliatory attitude toward terrorists, the fanatics had taken advantage of their hosts’ goodwill and committed further atrocities. Greece and Italy had strengthened security at their borders. Accordingly, Savage and Akira had dropped their handguns down a sewer before they reached the ferry depot.

But now Savage dearly wished he hadn't done so. Footsteps echoed on metal. A man emerged down a stairway. Savage hoped it would be Akira.

No! The man was Caucasian!

Savage felt as if arms crushed his chest. Abruptly he exhaled.

The man wore a uniform. A member of the ferry's crew, he studied the cars in the hold, then focused on Savage and Rachel. “I'm sorry, sir. No passengers are permitted down here.”

“Right. My wife forgot her purse. We had to come back for it.”

The crewman waited until Savage and Rachel passed him. As the man walked across the hold, Savage concentrated on the top of the stairs.

“There's supposed to be safety in numbers, isn't there?” Rachel said, trying to sound confident, not succeeding. “So let's join the crowd.”

“And find Akira. Just remember,” Savage said, “your husband's men don't know what I look like. And they're searching for a woman whose hair is auburn, not blond.”

“But I can't disguise these bruises.”

“If you lean on the railing, prop your chin in your hands, and study the water, in the dark no one will notice your face. Ready?”

She trembled for a second, then nodded. “Just hold my hand.”

The ferry was large, capable of transporting six hundred passengers. Above the hold, a B and an A deck contained cabins and rows of reclining seats. Savage had rented one of the cabins, but until he discovered what had happened to Akira, he couldn't risk using it and being trapped.

Continuing to climb the stairs, approaching the main deck, he heard numerous voices, a babble of accents and languages. A sea breeze cooled his clammy forehead. He squeezed Rachel's shaky hand and stepped through a hatch. At once a swarm of passengers passed him, bumping, jostling.

Rachel flinched.

Savage put an arm around her, guiding her away from lights toward the night-shrouded railing. The moment she leaned on her elbows, resting her face in her hands, he pivoted toward the crowd.

Where was Akira?

The ferry had a promenade area that rimmed a mid-deck restaurant and a bar. Through windows, Savage saw passengers clustered at tables.

Akira.

Where the hell was Akira?

Five minutes. Ten. Savage's stomach writhed. But though desperate to search, he didn't dare abandon Rachel, not even in the cabin he'd rented.

From the mass of Caucasians, an Oriental proceeded along the deck.

Akira!

“Two of them,” he whispered, approaching.

Savage glanced toward the restaurant, then turned toward the sea, apparently oblivious to the Japanese who passed him.

“Lead them around once again,” Savage murmured.

When he turned from the railing, Akira had disappeared into the crowd.

Two men followed, their suitcoats too small for their muscular chests, their expressions grim.

Savage wondered if they were decoys intended to make their quarry realize he was being followed while other members of the surveillance team watched Akira's reaction. That was possible. But the two men weren't clumsy, and Akira wasn't the target. Rachel was, and as long as Akira ignored the men behind him, they couldn't be sure they'd found the Japanese they were looking for. So unless they captured Akira and questioned him, they'd have to wait to see if Akira rendezvoused with a Caucasian man and woman. Then, regardless of Rachel's change in hair color, they'd know they'd found their targets.

So what do we do? Savage wondered. Play hide-and-seek all over the ferry?

Pulse speeding, he scanned the crowd, alert for anyone who showed interest in Rachel and him. When Akira strolled past the second time and the same two men followed at a careful distance, Savage concluded that they were alone.

But that still didn't solve the problem.

Jesus, how do we deal with them?

The simplest method would be to let Akira keep leading them around until the promenade was deserted, the passengers asleep. Then Savage could try to stalk the stalkers, incapacitate them, and throw them over the side.

But was the surveillance pair under orders to use the ferry's sea-to-shore telephones to call their superiors and make reports at regular intervals, even if they'd found nothing? In the SEALs, that was basic strategy. If a team failed to check in at its scheduled time, their commander would first conclude that the team had logistical problems and been forced to rash toward a safe location. If the team persisted in not reporting, the commander would then conclude that the team had been captured or else been killed.

Maybe preventing these men from checking in would tell Papadropolis where to focus his search.

As Savage analyzed the problem, a corollary disturbed him. Suppose they'd already made their report? What if they'd told their superiors that they'd spotted a Japanese who might be Akira? In that case, Papadropolis would order additional men to board the ferry tomorrow morning when it made its first stop farther up the Greek coast at Igoumenitsa.

Too many unknowns.

But the present situation couldn't be allowed to continue.