David Morrell - The Fifth Profession

“I promised that.”

“And you survived. But Akira and I have our own kind of hell, and we need to understand why it happened. Believe me, you'd interfere. Enjoy your sister's pool… And think of two men trying to solve a nightmare.”

“Hold still for a minute.”

“Why?”

Rachel leaned toward him, gripping the sides of his face.

Savage squirmed.

“No,” Rachel said, “hold still.”

“But…”

“Quiet.” Rachel kissed him. Her lips barely touched his, making them tingle. She gradually increased pressure, her mouth fully on him. Her tongue probed, sliding, darting. “

Savage didn't resist, but despite his erection, he didn't encourage her, either.

She slowly pulled away.

“Rachel, you're beautiful.”

Rachel looked proud.

Savage traced a finger along her cheek.

She shivered.

“I can't,” Savage said, “betray the rules. I'll take you to your sister. Then Akira and I will go to New York.”

She jerked away from him. “I can't wait to see my sister.”

They landed outside Nice shortly after four P.M. Savage had phoned Joyce Stone before he, Akira, and Rachel had flown from Corfu. Now, as they entered the airport's customs-immigration area, a slender man wearing an impeccably tailored gray suit stepped past other arriving passengers toward them. He had an identification pin in his lapel, though Savage didn't know what the pin's striped colors signified. A uniformed guard walked behind him.

“Monsieur Savage?” the distinguished-looking man asked.

“Yes.”

“Would the three of you come with us, please?”

Akira showed no sign of tension, except for a brief frown toward Savage, who nodded reassuringly and held Rachel's hand.

They entered a room to the side. The guard shut the door. The distinguished-looking man sat behind a desk.

“Monsieur, as you're aware, visitors to France are required to present not only a passport but an immigration visa.”

“Yes. I'm sure you'll find these in order.” Savage placed his passport and visa on the table. Before the assignment, knowing he'd have to take Rachel to France, he'd instructed Joyce Stone to obtain visas for the two of them.

The official glanced through the documents.

“And this is Miss Stone's passport,” Savage said. Because Rachel had been forced to use her sister's passport instead of her own, and because her sister had become a French citizen, it wasn't necessary to present her immigration visa.

The official examined the passport. “Excellent.” He didn't seem at all impressed that he was theoretically talking to a woman of fame and power.

Savage gestured toward Akira. “My friend has his passport, but I'm afraid he neglected to obtain a visa.”

“Yes, so an influential acquaintance of yours has explained to me. However, while you were en route, that oversight was corrected.” The official placed a visa on the table and held out his hand for Akira's passport.

After flipping through it, he stamped all the documents and returned them. “Have you anything to declare to customs?”

“Nothing.”

“Please come with me.”

They left the office, passed crowded immigration and customs checkpoints, and reached an exit from the airport.

“Enjoy your stay,” the man said.

“We appreciate your cooperation,” Savage said.

The official shrugged. “Your influential acquaintance was most insistent. Charmingly so, of course. When possible, I'm pleased to accommodate her wishes. She instructed me to tell you she's arranged for your transportation. Through that door.”

Curious, Savage stepped outside, followed by Rachel and Akira. In brilliant sunshine, on a street with a grass divider, a parking lot, and a background of palm trees, what he saw at the curb appalled him.

Joyce Stone-ignoring Savage's advice in Athens to use an inconspicuous car-had sent a Rolls-Royce. And behind the steering wheel sat one of the burly escorts that Savage had met at Joyce Stone's hotel suite near the Acropolis.

“I don't like this,” Akira said.

Rachel tensed. “Why?”

“This isn't the way it's done,” Savage said. “All that's missing is a sign on the side of the car. ‘Important people inside.’ We might as well put up a target.”

The burly driver got out of the car, squared his shoulders, and grinned at Savage. “So you actually made it. Hey, when I heard, I was sure impressed.”

Savage felt more dismayed. “You were told? You knew we'd be your passengers?”

“The boss has been biting her nails for the last three days. She couldn't wait to tell me.” The man kept grinning.

“Shit.”

“Hey, everything's cool,” the man said.

“No,” Akira said, “it isn't.”

The man stopped grinning. “Who the hell are you?”

Akira ignored him, turning to Savage. “Should we get another car?”

“What's wrong with this one?” the burly man said.

“You wouldn't understand.”

“Come on, it's fully loaded.”

“At the moment, stereo and air-conditioning aren't our priorities,” Akira said.

“No, I mean fully loaded.”

The stream of passing cars and pedestrians leaving the airport made Savage uneasy. It took him a moment to register what the man had said. “Loaded?”

“A shotgun under each front fender. Automatic. Double-ought buck. Flash-bang ejectors under each side. Smoke canisters in the rear. Bulletproof. Armored fuel tank. But just in case, if the fuel tank gets hit by a rocket grenade, a steel plate flips up in the trunk and keeps the flames from spreading inside. Just what I said. Fucking loaded. With all this terrorist stuff, the boss believes in precautions.”

Akira frowned at Savage. “It's possible.”

“Except the car's so damned ostentatious,” Savage said.

“But perhaps not here in southern France. I saw five equally vulgar cars drive past while we talked.”

“You've got a point. I'm tempted,” Savage said.

“Vulgar?” the burly man said. “This car isn't vulgar. It's a dream.”

“That depends on what kind of dreams you have,” Savage said.

Rachel fidgeted. “I don't like standing out here.”

“Okay,” Savage said. “We use it.” He shielded Rachel while he opened the rear door and she quickly got in. “Akira, sit beside her.” He pivoted toward the burly escort. “I drive.”

“But…”

“Sit in the passenger seat, or walk.”

The man's feelings looked hurt. “You'll have to promise I'm not responsible.”

“That's a given.”

“What?”

“You're not responsible. Get in the car.” As Savage scrambled behind the steering wheel, the man scurried next to him, slamming his door.

“Controls,” Savage said. “Where are they?”

“It's just an automatic.”

“I mean the flash-bangs, the smoke, the shotguns.”

“Lift the console to the right of the gearshift.”

Savage saw clearly marked buttons. He twisted the ignition key and hurried from the airport.

Despite the airport's name, Savage's destination wasn't eastward toward Nice. Instead he drove west on N 98, a coastal road that curved along the Côte d'Azur and would lead him toward Antibes, Cap d'Antibes, and a few kilometers later, Cannes. Among the islands off that glamorous city was Joyce Stone's equally glamorous principality, which she ruled in the name of her infirm husband.

“Yeah,” the burly man said, “just stay on this road until-”

“I've been in southern France before.”

A year and a half ago, Savage had escorted an American film producer to the festival at Cannes. At that time, terrorists had threatened to attack what they called “the purveyors of imperialistic racist oppression.” Given the tense political climate, Savage had approved of his principal's choice to use a hotel in one of the nearby villages instead of Cannes. While the principal slept, he'd be safely away from the site of the threatened violence. Preparing for that assignment, Savage had arrived a few days early and scouted both Cannes and the surrounding area, learning traffic patterns, major and minor streets, in case he had to rush his principal away from an incident.