“Yes, few. But sufficient,” Taro said. “The way of the samurai is by definition limited to the most determined. You yourself, as I've been told, committed yourself to the severest branch of America 's armed forces-the SEALs.”

Savage stiffened. He strained not to frown at Akira. What else had Akira revealed about him? Mustering discipline not to look troubled, he replied, “But I wasn't shut off from the world, and the military paid for my instruction. This school… four years of isolation… surely few candidates could afford the financial expense of…”

Taro chuckled. “Indeed. And you warned me. Your question is indelicate. Americans do say what they think.” His good-humored tone barely hid his disapproval. He sobered. “None of my students bears any financial expense in coming here. The only criteria for acceptance are ability and determination. Their equipment, meals, and lodging, everything they require, is given to them.”

“Then how can you afford…?” Savage held his breath, unable to bring himself to complete his further indelicate question.

Taro didn't help but merely studied him.

The silence lengthened.

Akira broke it. “With your permission, Tam-sensei.”

A flick of the eyes signified yes.

“My master is also my agent,” Akira said, “as he is for every student with strength and discipline enough to complete the course. Taro-sensei arranges for my employment, continues to advise me, and receives a portion of everything I earn-for the rest of my life.”

Savage felt jolted. Thoughts raced through his mind. If Taro was Akira's agent…

Taro must have information about Kunio Shirai, the man Savage knew as Muto Kamichi and saw cut in half at the Medford Gap Mountain Retreat.

Akira had said he worked with an American agent when assigned to America. Graham. But Graham had not been the primary agent. Taro was. Taro might have the answers Savage needed.

But Kamichi-Shirai-was never at the Mountain Retreat. No more than we were, Savage thought.

He winced. Lancing, crushing, spinning, and twisting, jamais vu yet again assaulted his mind.

If we never met Kamichi, we couldn't have been hired to protect him! Savage thought. So Taro might know nothing about him.

But someone set this up. Someone arranged for Akira and me to imagine we were hired. Who? When? At what point did jamais vu intersect with reality?

This much was sure, Savage knew. Akira had held back information. In emphasizing that his agent was Graham, he'd deliberately avoided drawing attention to Taro.

Was Akira an enemy? Savage's former terrible suspicion flooded through him, chilling his soul. His sense of reality had been so jeopardized that he feared he couldn't trust anyone.

Even Rachel? No, I've got to trust! If I can't depend on Rachel, nothing matters!

Again he realized the dilemma of trying to protect himself as well as Rachel, in trying to be his own principal. He needed a protector who wasn't involved, and at the moment, that luxury wasn't possible.

“I'm afraid I will be rude,” Savage said. “I know that conversation over tea is supposed to be soothing. But I'm too upset to obey the rules. Akira, what the hell happened since we last saw you?”

11

The question hung in the room. Akira, who'd been sipping tea, gave no indication he'd heard it. He took another sip, closed his eyes, seemed to savor the taste, then set down his cup, and looked at Savage.

“The police arrived quickly.” Akira sounded oddly detached, as if what he described had happened to someoneelse. “One car, then two, then three, as word of the situation's gravity spread. The coroner arrived. Police photographers. A forensic team. Senior police officials. At one point, I counted twenty-two investigators in my home. They listened to my account. They made me repeat it several times. Their questions became more detailed, their expressions more grave. I'd rehearsed my story before they arrived. I'd made necessary adjustments so the crime scene would be consistent with the robbery attempt I described and the murderous reaction of the intruders when they were discovered. But this isn't America, where multiple killings seem an everyday occurrence. Here, violent crime involving handguns is rare. The investigators were grim and methodical. In my favor, although I'd fired and killed with one of the intruders’ pistols, I'd also used a sword in defending my home, and that-as I anticipated-evoked tradition, making me seem heroic.

“As noon approached, I was still being questioned. I anticipated your concern if I didn't phone the restaurant on schedule, so I asked permission to excuse myself and make a call to break an appointment. Imagine my concern when I learned that you weren't at the restaurant to receive my call. I hid my feelings and answered more questions. By midafternoon, the bodies had been removed. Eko mustered strength despite her grief and accompanied Churi's body to the morgue, to make arrangements for his funeral. In the meantime, the investigators decided they wanted me to go with them to headquarters and dictate a formal statement. On the street, the police cars had attracted a swarm of reporters. Without making it seem I had something to hide, I tried not to face their cameras, but at least one man took my picture.”

Akira's voice became somber, and Savage knew why. A protector had to be anonymous. If a photograph was published, Akira's ability to defend a principal would be jeopardized, because an assailant might be able to recognize and attack him before attacking the primary target. In this case, the potential complications were even more serious. A newspaper photo of Akira would draw the attention of his and Savage's hunters and possibly hinder their search.

“It couldn't be helped,” Savage said.

“At headquarters while I dictated my statement, the police checked my background. I'd told them I was a security specialist. Several major corporations I'd worked for gave the police a positive assessment of me. But I sensed that the police checked other sources. Whoever they spoke to, the police soon treated me differently. With deference. I didn't understand their reaction, but I certainly didn't argue when they told me I could leave. But not to go far. They made clear they'd want to talk to me again.”

“And after that?” Rachel asked, self-conscious, her voice strained, the first time she'd spoken in several minutes.

“An enemy wouldn't have had any trouble following the police car that drove me to headquarters,” Akira said. “It turned out the police were so inexplicably deferential that they offered to drive me back to my home. I politely declined, pleading the need to walk and clear my head. Puzzled, I found a side entrance from the building and tried to blend with the crowd on the street. But I soon discovered I had company. Japanese. Skilled, though not skilled enough. For the next two hours, I tried to elude them. Six o'clock loomed quickly. I managed to use a pay phone to call the restaurant on schedule, knowing how distressed you'd be if I didn't report. But again you weren't at the restaurant. Something was obviously wrong! What happened to you?”

“Soon,” Savage said. “Finish your story.”

Akira stared at his teacup. “Seeking shelter in a public place, a bar that wasn't so crowded that I wouldn't see my pursuers coming in, I noticed a news report on a television behind the counter. Kunio Shirai. Another demonstration.” He shook his head in dismay. “But this one was larger, more intense, almost a riot. Outside a U.S. Air Force base. Whatever Shirai's trying to do, he's turned up the pressure dramatically.”

“We saw the same report.” Rachel's forehead was knotted.

“And somehow we're connected with him,” Savage said. “Or with the man we knew as Muto Kamichi, whom we never met.”