“These shoes make all the difference.” Rachel sighed. “It feels so good not to be limping.”

“Not to mention we don't look like we slept in a ditch.” Savage wore khaki slacks, a yellow shirt, and tan windbreaker. The combination made his chameleon green eyes seem tinged with brown. He'd combed his hair in the changing room, as had Rachel. “A few smudges on our faces. All in all, though, not bad. In fact, you look lovely.”

“ Blarney, but I never turn down a compliment. The bonus is, now that we've changed clothes, it'll be harder for witnesses at the park to identify us if the police decide to pick us up.”

Savage studied her with admiration. “You are catching on.”

“Given the right teacher and the proper motivation- fear-I learn damned fast.” She wrinkled her brow. “That van at the park. It seemed to veer out of traffic and aim toward the alley, toward us.”

“Hailey must have had vehicles circling the park, so his men could radio to them if we were spotted. Our bad luck that the van was nearby.”

”Our bad luck? The unlucky ones were in the van,” Rachel said. “The windshield starred as the van headed toward us. Did I see bullet holes?”

Savage pursed his lips and nodded. “Someone was determined to stop Hailey's men from catching us.”

“But who, and how did they know where we'd be?”

“For that matter, how were Hailey's men able to follow us through the subway? We were careful. I kept checking behind us while we walked from the railway station. But then all at once they showed up at the park. It's like they're thinking the same as us or even ahead of us.”

“You said earlier…” Rachel brooded. “A lot of what we've done is predictable, given the problems we need to solve. But that park had nothing to do with our problems. We just happened to go there.”

“Yes,” Savage said. “We've been intercepted too many times. I don't understand how they keep doing it.”

“My God”-Rachel turned-“I just thought of something. We've been assuming that Hailey's the one who wants to stop us.”

“Right.”

“But what if we've got it turned around? What if Hailey wants to protect us? What if the team in the van belonged to whoever wants to kill us, and it was Hailey's men who shot out the windshield, so we'd keep searching?”

For a moment, Savage had trouble understanding, the twist in assumptions bewildering. Abruptly he felt pressure behind his ears. Something seemed to snap in his brain. His vision paled, his mind attacked by unsettling contradictions. Nothing seemed sure. Everything was false. Jamais vu fought with reality. But something had to be true! There had to be a solution! He couldn't bear…

No! Three weeks ago, his single burden had been to prove himself again. Now?

Total confusion!

He wavered.

Rachel grabbed his arm. Her eyes wide, she steadied him. “You turned pale.”

“I think… For a moment there… I'm… all right now… No… Feel dizzy.”

“I feel a little off balance myself. We haven't eaten since yesterday.” She pointed. “Here. This restaurant. We need to sit down, rest, get something in our stomachs, and try to clear our heads.”

Now instead of Savage guiding Rachel, she guided him.

And he felt so helpless he didn't resist.

7

The waitress-wearing white makeup, a kimono, and sandals-presented them with a menu. When Savage opened it, he again felt disoriented. The items on the menu weren't printed horizontally, as in the West, but vertically, the contrast reinforcing his sense that everything was inverted, his mind off balance. Mercifully, English script appeared beside Japanese ideograms. Still, Savage was so unfamiliar with un-Americanized Japanese food that all he could do was point toward a column on the left, the restaurant's recommendation for a dinner for two.

“Sake?” the waitress asked with a bow.

Savage shook his throbbing head. Alcohol was the last thing he needed.

“Tea?” he asked, doubting he'd communicate.

“Hai. Tea,” she said with a smile and left, her short steps emphasized by her tight kimono, which in addition emphasized her hips and thighs.

In the background, at the restaurant's frenetic cocktail lounge, a Japanese country-western singer delivered a flawless version of Hank Williams's “I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry.”

Savage wondered if the singer understood the words or had expertly memorized them.

The midnight train is…

“If we're in trouble and we thought only Akira would be in trouble…” Savage shook his head.

“I know. I hate to imagine what's happened to him today.” Rachel reached across the table. “But there's nothing we can do to help him, not right now. I told you, rest. The food will be here soon. You've got to try to relax.”

“You realize how turned around this is?”

“Me taking care of you?” Rachel asked. “I love it.”

“I don't like feeling…”

“Out of control? You'll have plenty of chance to exert control. To do what you do best. And soon. But thank heaven, not right now.”

Can't you hear the whippoorwill…?

The restaurant was filled with cigarette smoke and the permeating aroma of sauces. Savage and Rachel sat on cushions at a low table with a cavity beneath it that allowed them to dangle their legs, an architectural concession to long-legged foreigners who wanted to sit according to Japanese tradition but without discomfort.

“Kamichi… Shirai… We've got to meet him,” Savage said. “Akira and I have to learn if he saw us die as we saw him die.”

“In his place, if I were leading demonstrations against U.S. Air Force bases, I'd have protection that even you couldn't breach,” Rachel said. “It won't be easy to meet him. And since you're American, I doubt you can simply call him up and arrange an appointment.”

“Oh, we'll talk to him, all right,” Savage said. “Bet on it.”

The waitress brought warm, damp napkins. Then their meal arrived: a clear soup with bits of onions and mushrooms, seasoned with grated ginger; yams in a mixture of soy sauce and sweet wine; rice with curry sauce; and boiled fish with teriyaki vegetables. The various sauces accented each other superbly. Savage hadn't realized how hungry he was. Though the portions were more than ample, he ate everything, so ravenous he was hampered only slightly by his awkwardness with chopsticks.

But throughout, he kept thinking about Akira and how in the eighteen hours they'd been separated so much had changed that their arrangements for getting in touch with each other no longer seemed adequate.

“I can't wait till nine tomorrow morning,” Savage said. He gulped the last of his tea, left a generous tip with payment for the bill, and stood. “I saw a pay phone in the lobby.”

“What are you-?”

“Calling Akira.”

The phone was in a corner away from the restaurant's entrance and the coatcheck area. Partially sheltered by a screen that depicted brilliant sunflowers, Savage put coins in the phone and dialed the number Akira had given him.

The phone rang four times.

Savage waited, his fingers cramping around the phone. A fifth ring.

A woman suddenly answered. Eko. Savage couldn't fail to recognize her voice.

“Hai.” In response to her curt tone, Savage's knees weakened. He'd just heard the signal that Akira was in trouble, that Savage was supposed to leave Japan as quickly as possible.

Heart racing, he desperately wanted to question her, to find out what had happened. But Akira had emphasized-Eko didn't speak English.

I can't just break contact! Savage thought. I have to think of a way to communicate! There's got to be a-!

He heard a rattle on the phone. Another voice spoke abruptly. A man's voice. In Japanese.