The Fifth Profession

by David Morrell

Genres: Thrillers

Synopsis

Savage, a former Navy SEAL and American state-of-the-art security specialist. Akira, Japan's most brilliant executive protector and a master of the samurai arts.

Their mission: the retrieval of Rachel Stone, a beautiful American woman whose ruthless billionaire husband is out to destroy her. But quickly Savage and Akira realize they are trapped in a mission more far-reaching than the protection of one person.

For they are bound together in a common nightmare, a set of horrifying memories, a terrifying past that never happened, but is somehow inexplicably real. Only together can they confront the mystery. Yet when they do, an even more chilling scenario awaits them - one with the power to shatter not only their world but ours as well.

Release date: December 4, 2008

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 448

Sample

PROLOGUE

PLEDGE OF ALLEGIANCE

THE FIFTH PROFESSION

No single historical event marks the origin of Savage's profession. The skill to which he devoted himself has its antecedents prior to fact in the haze of myth. At the start, there were hunters, then farmers, then with something to be gained by barter, prostitutes and politicians. Given some debate about precedence, those are the first four human endeavors.

But as soon as something can be gained, it must also be protected. Hence Savage's—the fifth—profession. Although his craft's inception has not been documented, two incidents illustrate its valiant traditions.

THE COMITATUS

When the Anglo-Saxons invaded Britain four hundred years after Christ, they brought with them a Germanic code of absolute loyalty to a tribal chieftain. In its ultimate interpretation, this code required a chieftain's retainers or comitatus to defend him with their honor unto death. One of the most gripping instances of warriors displaying such total commitment to their lord occurred on the shore of the Blackwater River near the town of Maldon in Essex in 991.

Scandinavian pirates, having raided ports along the eastern coast of Britain, camped on an island that during low tide was linked to the shore by a narrow causeway. The local British chieftain, Birhtnoth, led his faithful comitatus to the causeway and ordered the Vikings not to cross. The enemy defied him.

Swords flashed. Blood soaked the causeway. As the battle intensified, one of Birhtnoth's apprentice soldiers turned cowardly and fled. Others supposed that the retreating figure was Birhtnoth himself and fled as well. Only Birhtnoth and his bodyguards remained.

A javelin struck him. He yanked it out and stabbed his assailant. A Viking ax cut off his sword arm. Helpless, he was slashed to pieces. But although Birhtnoth no longer ruled, his faithful comitatus persisted. To protect his corpse, to avenge his death, they attacked with greater valor. Their deaths were brutal, yet joyous because the comitatus adhered to their code of loyalty.

The original Anglo-Saxon document that describes their heroic defeat concludes in this manner:

Godric often let his spear fly, thrusting his slaughter-shaft toward the Vikings. Bravely he advanced among his brethren, hewed and laid low till he died in the struggle. He was not that Godric who ran from the battle.

Those two Godrics represent the principal conflict in Savage's profession. To protect was the mandate of the comitatus. But at what point, if the cause seemed hopeless, if the chieftain was dead, should a bodyguard protect himself? Whenever Savage debated this moral issue, he remembered Akira and an incident from a quite different culture that illustrated the extreme traditions of the fifth and most noble profession.

THE FORTY-SEVEN RONIN

In Japan, the equivalent of the comitatus were the samurai. These protective warriors came into prominence eleven hundred years after Christ when provincial chieftains, known as daimyo, needed fiercely loyal bodyguards to control their domains. Over the centuries, a central military ruler, called a shogun, exerted power over each daimyo. Nonetheless each daimyo‘s samurai felt bonded to their local lord. In 1701, against this complex background of loyalties, an incident occurred that formed the basis for one of the most famous Japanese legends.

Three daimyo were summoned to the shogun's court in Edo (now called Tokyo) with orders to pledge allegiance. However, these daimyo had little knowledge of court manners. Two of the three sought help from an expert in court etiquette. They bribed him with gifts and were rewarded with advice.

But the remaining daimyo, Lord Asano, was too innocent to bribe the etiquette instructor, Lord Kira. Kira felt insulted and ridiculed Asano in the shogun's presence. Humiliated, Asano had no alternative except to defend his honor. He drew his sword and wounded Kira.

To draw a sword in the shogun's presence was a grievous crime. The shogun commanded Asano to atone by disemboweling himself. The daimyo obeyed. Still, his death did not solve the controversy. Now Asano's samurai were bound by the rigorous code of giri, which loosely translated means “the burden of obligation,” to avenge their master's death by destroying the man who'd begun the chain of insults, Lord Kira.

So compulsory was the code of giri that the shogun assumed there'd be more bloodshed. To end the feud, he sent his warriors to surround Asano's castle and demand the surrender of Asano's samurai. Inside the castle Oishi Yoshio, the captain of Asano's samurai, held council with his men. Some favored resisting the shogun's warriors. Others advocated committing ritual suicide as had their lord. But Oishi sensed that the majority felt their obligation had ended with their master's death. As a test, he offered them the option of dividing Asano's wealth among them. Many unworthy warriors eagerly chose this option. Oishi paid them and urged them to leave. Of more than three hundred samurai, only forty-seven remained. With these, Oishi made a pact, each cutting a finger and joining hands, sealing the pact with their blood.

The forty-seven surrendered to the shogun's warriors and claimed to disavow any obligation they felt to giri and their dead lord. They pretended to accept their lot as ronin, masterless samurai, wanderers. Each traveled his separate way.

But the shogun—suspicious—sent spies to follow them, to insure that the feud had ended. To deceive the spies, each ronin bitterly engaged in unworthy conduct. Some became drunkards, others whoremongers. One sold his wife into prostitution. Another killed his father-in-law. Still another arranged for his sister to become a mistress of the hated Lord Kira. Permitting their swords to rust and themselves to be spat upon, all appeared to wallow in dishonor. At last, after two years, the shogun's spies were convinced that the feud had ended. The shogun removed surveillance from the ronin.

In 1703, the forty-seven ronin regrouped and attacked Kira's castle. With long-repressed rage, they slaughtered their enemy's unsuspecting guards, tracked down and beheaded the man they so loathed, then washed the head and made a pilgrimage to Asano's grave, placing the head on the tomb of their now-avenged master.

The chain of obligation had not yet ended. In obeying the burden of giri, the ronin had violated the shogun's command to stop their vendetta. One code of honor conflicted with another. Only one solution was acceptable. The shogun dictated. The ronin obeyed. In triumph, they impaled their bowels with their swords, drawing each blade from left to right, then fiercely upward, in the noble ritual of suicide called seppuku. The tombs of the forty-seven ronin are revered to this day, a Japanese monument.

The comitatus. The forty-seven ronin. Savage and Akira. Codes and obligations. Honor and loyalty. To protect and if duty compelled, to avenge—even at the risk of death. The fifth and most noble profession.

THE LABYRINTH

1

Obeying professional habits, Savage directed the elevator toward the floor below the one he wanted. Of course, an uninvited visitor would have had to stop the elevator at the second-highest floor, no matter what. A computer-coded card, slipped into a slot on the elevator's control panel, was required to command the elevator to rise to the topmost level. Savage had been given such a card but declined to use it. On principle, he hated elevators. Their confinement was dangerous. He never knew what he might find when the doors slid open. Not that he expected trouble on this occasion, but if he made one exception in his customary methods, he'd eventually make others, and when trouble did come along, he wouldn't be primed to respond.

Besides, on this warm afternoon in Athens in September, he was curious about the security arrangements of the person he'd agreed to meet. Although he was used to dealing with the rich and powerful, they were mostly in politics or industry. It wasn't every day he met someone not only associated with both arenas but who'd also been a movie legend.

Savage stepped to one side when the elevator stopped and the doors thunked open. Sensing, judging, he peered out, saw no one, relaxed, and proceeded toward a door whose Greek sign indicated FIRE EXIT. In keeping with that sign, the door's handle moved freely.

Cautious, Savage entered and found himself in a stairwell. His crepe-soled shoes muffled his footsteps on the concrete landing. The twenty-seven lower levels were silent. He turned toward a door on his right, gripped its knob, but couldn't budge it. Good. The door was locked, as it should be. On the opposite side, a push bar would no doubt give access to this stairwell—in case of emergency. But on this side, unauthorized visitors were prevented from going higher. Savage slid two thin metal prongs into the receptacle for the key—one prong for applying leverage, the other for aligning the slots that would free the bolt. After seven seconds, he opened the door, troubled that the lock was so simple. It should have taken him twice as long to pick it.

He crept through, eased the door shut behind him, and warily studied the steps leading upward. There weren't any closed-circuit cameras. The lights were dim, giving him protective shadow while he climbed toward a landing, then turned toward the continuation of the steps. He didn't see a guard. At the top, he frowned when he tried the door—it wasn't locked. Worse, when he opened it, he still didn't see a guard.

On nearly soundless carpeting, he proceeded along a corridor. Glancing at numbers on doors, he followed their diminishing sequence toward the number he'd been given. Just before he reached an intersecting corridor, his nostrils felt pinched by tobacco smoke. With the elevators to his right, he turned left into the corridor and saw them.

Three men were bunched together in front of a door at the far end of the corridor. The first had his hands in his pockets. The second inhaled from a cigarette. The third sipped a cup of coffee.

Amateur hour, Savage thought.

Never compromise your hands.

When the guards noticed Savage, they came to awkward attention. They were built like football players, their suits too tight for their bullish necks and chests. They'd be intimidating to a nonprofessional, but their bulk made them too conspicuous to blend with a crowd, and they looked too muscle-bound to be able to respond instantaneously to a crisis.

Savage slackened his strong features, making them non-threatening. Six feet tall, he slouched his wiry frame so he looked a few inches shorter. As he walked along the corridor, he pretended to be impressed by the guards, who braced their backs in arrogant triumph.

They made a show of examining his ID, which was fake, the name he was using this month. They searched him but didn't use a hand-held metal detector and hence didn't find the small knife beneath his lapel.

“Yeah, you're expected,” the first man said. “Why didn't you use the elevator?”

“The computer card didn't work.” Savage handed it over. “I had to stop on the floor below and take the stairs.”

“But the stairwell doors are locked,” the second man said.

“Someone from the hotel must have left them open.”

“Whoever forgot to lock them, his ass is grass,” the third man said.

“I know what you mean. I can't stand carelessness.”

They nodded, squinted, flexed their shoulders, and escorted him into the suite.

No, Savage thought. The rule is, you never abandon your post.

2

The suite had a sizable living room, tastefully furnished. But what Savage noticed, disapproving, was the wall directly across from him, its thick draperies parted to reveal an enormous floor-to-ceiling window and a spectacular view of the Parthenon on the Acropolis. Though Athens was usually smoggy, a breeze had cleared the air, making the pillared ruins brilliant in the afternoon sun. Savage allowed himself to admire the view but only from where he'd paused just inside the room, for he hated huge windows whose draperies were open: they gave an enemy an unnecessary advantage, inviting easy invasion with telescopes, microwave-beamed listening probes, and most crucial, sniper bullets.

The potential client he'd been summoned to meet wasn't present, so Savage assessed a door on the wall to his left. A closet perhaps, or a washroom or a bedroom. He directed his attention toward a muffled female voice behind a door on the wall to his right, and that door he was sure led to a bedroom. Because he didn't hear a responding voice, he assumed that the woman was using a telephone. She sounded insistent, as if she wouldn't conclude for quite a while.

With disciplined patience, Savage glanced farther right toward the wall beside the door through which he'd entered. He recognized two Monets and three Van Goghs.

His burly escorts looked bored when they realized that their employer wasn't present. No brownie points for them, no audience with their client, no compliments for supposedly doing their job. Disappointed, two of them shuffled their feet, adjusted their ties, and went back to their stations in the hall, no doubt to drink more coffee and smoke more cigarettes. The third closed the door and leaned against it, crossing his arms, trying to look diligent, though the pressure with which he squeezed his chest made it seem that he suffered from heartburn.

As air-conditioning whispered, Savage turned from the paintings toward a glass-enclosed display of Chinese vases.

The remaining bodyguard straightened.

The door on the right swung open.

A woman, a legend, stepped out of a bedroom.

3

Her official biography put her age at forty-five. Nonetheless she looked astonishingly the same as when she'd last appeared in a film a decade earlier. Tall, thin, angular.

Intense blue eyes. An exquisite oval face, its sensuous curves framed by shoulder-length, sun-bleached hair. Smooth, tanned skin. A photographer's dream.

Ten years ago, at a press conference in Los Angeles after she'd won her best actress Academy Award, she'd surprised the world by announcing her retirement. Her marriage one month later—to the monarch of a small but wealthy island-kingdom off the French Riviera—had been equally surprising. When her husband's health had declined, she'd taken over his business affairs, doubling the tourism and casinos that accounted for his island's wealth.

She ruled as she had acted, with what film reviewers had called a style of “fire and ice.” Intense yet controlled. Passionate but in charge. In her love scenes, she'd always played the dominant role. The sequence in which she finally seduced the charismatic jewel thief whose attentions she'd persistently discouraged remained a classic depiction of sexual tension. She knew what she wanted, but she took it only when her desires didn't put her at risk, and her pleasure seemed based on giving more than she took, on condescending to grant the jewel thief a night he'd never forget.

So, too, her island subjects courted her attention. In response, she waved but kept a distance until at unexpected moments her generosity—to the sick, the homeless, the bereaved—was overwhelming. It seemed that compassion to her was a weakness, a fire that threatened to melt her icy control. But when politically advantageous, emotion could be permitted, indeed allowed in excessive amounts. As long as it didn't jeopardize her. As long as it made her subjects love her.

She smiled, approaching Savage. Radiant. A movie in real life. For his part, Savage admired her artful entrance, knowing that she knew exactly the impression she created.

She was dressed in black handcrafted sandals, burgundy pleated slacks, a robin's-egg-colored silk blouse (its three top buttons open to reveal the tan on the top of her breasts, its light blue no doubt chosen to emphasize the deeper blue of her eyes), a Cartier watch, and a diamond pendant with matching earrings (their glint further emphasizing her eyes as well as her sun-bleached hair).

She paused before Savage, then studied the remaining bodyguard, her gaze dismissive. “Thank you.”

The burly man left, reluctant not to hear the conversation.

“I apologize for keeping you waiting,” she said, stepping nearer, permitting Savage to inhale her subtle perfume. Her voice was husky, her handshake firm.

“Five minutes? No need to apologize.” Savage shrugged. “In my profession, I'm used to waiting a great deal longer. Besides, I had time to admire your collection.” He gestured toward the glass-enclosed display of vases. “At least, I assume it's your collection. I doubt any hotel, even the Georges Roi II, provides its clients with priceless artworks.”

“I take them with me when I travel. A touch of home. Do you appreciate Chinese ceramics?”

“Appreciate? Yes, though I don't know anything about them. However, I do enjoy beauty, Your Highness. Including—if you'll forgive the compliment—yourself. It's an honor to meet you.”

“As royalty, or because I'm a former film personality?”

“Former actress.”

A flick of the eyes, a nod of the head. “You're very kind. Perhaps you'd feel more comfortable if we dispensed with formalities. Please call me by my former name. Joyce Stone.”

Savage imitated her gracious nod. “Miss Stone.”

“Your eyes are green.”

“That's not so remarkable,” Savage said.

“On the contrary. Quite remarkable. A chameleon's color. Your eyes blend with your clothes. Gray jacket. Blue shirt. An inattentive observer would describe your eyes as—”

“Grayish blue but not green. You're perceptive.”

“And you understand the tricks of light. You're adaptable.”

“It's useful in my work.” Savage turned toward the paintings. “Superb. If I'm not mistaken, the Van Gogh Cypresses were recently purchased at a Sotheby auction. An unknown buyer paid an impressive amount.”

“Do you recall how much?”

“Fifteen million dollars.”

“And now you know the mysterious buyer.”

“Miss Stone, I deal with privileged information. I'd be out of business tomorrow if I didn't keep a secret. Your remarks to me are confession. I'm like a priest.”

“Confession? I hope that doesn't mean I can't offer you a drink.”

“As long as I'm not working for you.”

“But I assumed that's why you're here.”

“To discuss your problem,” Savage said. “I haven't been hired yet.”

“With your credentials? I've already decided to hire you.”

“Forgive me, Miss Stone, but I accepted your invitation to find out if I wanted you to hire me.”

The sensuous woman studied him. “My, my.” Her intense gaze persisted. “People are usually eager to work for me.”

“I meant no offense.”

“Of course not.” She stepped toward a sofa.

“But if you wouldn't mind, Miss Stone.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“I'd prefer that you used this chair over here. That sofa's too close to the window.”

“Window?”

“Or else let me close the draperies.”

“Ah, yes, now I understand.” She sounded amused. “Since I enjoy the sunlight, I'll sit where you suggest. Tell me, are you always this protective of people you haven't decided to work for?”

“A force of habit.”

“An intriguing habit, Mr. … I'm afraid I've forgotten your name.”

Savage doubted that. She seemed the type who remembered everything. “It doesn't matter. The name I provided isn't mine. I normally use a pseudonym.”

“Then how should I introduce you?”

“You don't. If we reach an agreement, never draw attention to me.”

“In public. But what if I have to summon you in private?”

“Savage.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“A nickname. The way I'm identified in my business.”

“And did you acquire it when you were in the SEALs?” Savage hid his surprise.

“Your former unit's name is an acronym, correct? Sea, air, and land. The U.S. Navy commandos.”

Savage subdued an impulse to frown.

“I told you I found your credentials impressive,” she said. “Your use of pseudonyms makes clear you cherish your privacy. But with persistence, I did learn several details about your background. In case I alarm you, let me emphasize that nothing I was told in any way jeopardized your anonymity. Still, rumors travel. The help you gave a certain member of the British Parliament—against IRA terrorists, I believe—is widely respected. He asked me to thank you again for saving his life. An Italian financier is similarly grateful for your skillful return of his kidnapped son. A West German industrialist feels that his corporation would have gone bankrupt if you hadn't discovered the rival who was stealing his formulas.”

Savage kept silent.

“No need to be modest,” she said.

“Nor should you. Your sources are excellent.”

“One of the many advantages to marrying royalty. The gratitude of the Italian financier was especially compelling. So I asked him how I might get in touch with you. He gave me the telephone number of—I suppose, in my former life, I'd have used the term—your agent.”

“You didn't learn his name, I hope.”

“I never spoke to him directly, only through intermediaries.”

“Good.”

“Which brings me to my problem.”

“Miss Stone, another force of habit. Don't be specific in this room.”

“No one can overhear us. There aren't any hidden microphones.”

“What makes you sure?”

“My bodyguards checked it this morning.”

“In that case, I repeat …”

“Don't be specific in this room? My bodyguards didn't impress you?”

“They impressed me, all right.”

“But not the proper way?”

“I try not to criticize.”

“Another commendable habit. Very well, then, Savage.” Her smile matched the glint of her diamond earrings. She leaned from her chair and touched his hand. “Would you like to see some ruins?”

4

The black Rolls-Royce veered from traffic to stop in an oval parking lot. Savage and two of the bodyguards got out—the third had remained at the hotel to watch the suite. After the guards assessed the passing crowd, they nodded toward the car's interior.

Joyce Stone stepped smoothly out, flanked by her guards. “Circle the area. We'll be back in an hour,” she told her driver, who eased the Rolls back into traffic.

She turned, amused, toward Savage. “You keep surprising me.”

“Oh?”

“Back at the hotel, you objected to my sitting near a window, but you haven't said a word about my going out in public.”

“Being famous doesn't mean you have to be a hermit. As long as you don't advertise your schedule, an accomplished driver can make it difficult for someone to follow you.” Savage gestured toward the swarm of traffic. “Especially in Athens. Besides, you know how to dress to match your surroundings. To echo a compliment you gave me, you're adaptable.”

“It's a trick I learned when I was an actress. One of the hardest roles … to look average.”

She'd changed before they left the hotel. Now in place of her designer slacks and blouse, she wore faded jeans and a loose gray turtleneck sweater. Her diamonds were gone. Her watch was a Timex. Her shoes were dusty Reeboks. Her distinctive sun-bleached hair had been tucked beneath a floppy straw hat. Sunglasses hid her intense blue eyes.

Though pedestrians had paused to study the Rolls, they'd shown little interest in the woman who got out.

“You're playing the part successfully,” Savage said. “At the moment, a producer wouldn't hire you, even for a walk-on.”

She curtsied mockingly.

“I do have one suggestion,” he said.

“Somehow I knew you would have.”

“Stop using the Rolls.”

“But it gives me pleasure.”

“You can't always have what you want. Save the Rolls for special occasions. Buy a high-performance but neutral-looking car. Of course, it would have to be modified.”

“Of course.”

“Reinforced windows. Clouded glass in the rear. Bullet-proof paneling.”

“Of course.”

“Don't humor me, Miss Stone.”

“I'm not. It's just that I enjoy a man who enjoys his work.”

“Enjoy? I don't do this for fun. My work saves lives.”

“And you've never failed?”

Savage hesitated. Caught by surprise, he felt a rush of torturous memories. The flash of a sword. The gush of blood. “Yes,” he said. “Once.”

“Your honesty amazes me.”

“And only once. That's why I'm so meticulous, why I'll never fail again. But if my truthfulness gives you doubts about me …”

“On the contrary. My third movie was a failure. I could have ignored it, but I admitted it. And learned from it. I won the Oscar because I tried harder, although it took me seven more films.”

“A movie isn't life.”

“Or death? You should have seen the reviews of that third movie. I was buried.” “So will we all.”

“Be buried? Don't be depressing, Savage.”

“Did no one tell you the facts of life?”

“Sex? I learned that early. Death? That's why a man like you exists. To postpone it as long as possible.”

“Yes, death,” Savage said. “The enemy.”

5

They followed a tour group toward the western slope of the Acropolis, the traditional approach to the ruins since the other ridges were far too steep for convenient walkways. Past fir trees, they reached an ancient stone entrance, known as the Beulé Gate.

“Have you been here before?”

“Several times,” Savage said.

“So have I. Still, I wonder if you come for the same reason I do.”

Savage waited for her to explain.

“Ruins teach us a lesson. Nothing—wealth, fame, power—nothing is permanent.”

“ ‘Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair.’ “

She turned to him, impressed. “That's from Shelley's ‘Ozymandias.’ “

“I went to a thorough prep school.”

“But you don't give the name of the school. Anonymous as usual. Do you remember the rest of the poem?”

Savage shrugged.

”… Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,

The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Shelley understood precision. If he'd been Japanese, he'd have written great haikus.”

“A bodyguard quoting poetry?”

“I'm not exactly a bodyguard, Miss Stone. I do more than run interference.”

“What are you then?”

“An executive protector. You know, except for the sand, the ruins Shelley describes remind me of …”

Savage gestured toward the steps they climbed. The marble had been eroded by time, by use, by various invaders, and worst of all, by automobile exhaust.

They passed through a monument called the Propylaea, its precious decaying walkway protected by a wooden floor. Five gateways of columns grew wider and taller, leading them to a path that split right and left.

After the cloying heat of summer, September's moderate temperature brought the start of the tourist season. Sightseers jostled past them, some out of breath from the climb, others taking photographs of monuments on either side, the Precinct of Brauronia and the less impressive House of Arrhephoroi.

“Tell your guards to walk behind us,” Savage said. “I'll watch ahead.”

Turning right, they proceeded to the vast rectangular Parthenon. In 1687, a conflict between invaders had resulted in a Venetian bomb's igniting a Turkish gunpowder magazine in the Parthenon, which in ancient times had been a temple devoted to the Greek goddess of purity, Athena. The explosion had destroyed a considerable part of the monument, toppling pillars and much of the roof. Restoration was still in progress. Scaffolding obscured the magnificence of surviving Doric columns. Guardrails kept visitors from further eroding the interior.

Savage turned from the tourists, approaching the precipitous southern ridge of the Acropolis. He leaned against a fallen pillar. Athens sprawled below him. The earlier breeze had died. Despite a brilliant clear sky, smog had begun to gather.

“We can talk here without being overheard,” Savage said. “Miss Stone, the reason I'm not sure I want to work for you—”

“But you haven't heard why I need you.”

“—is that an executive protector is both a servant and a master. You control your life—where you go and what you do—but your protector insists on how you get there and under what terms you do it. A delicate balance. But you've got a reputation for being willful. I'm not sure you're prepared to take orders from someone you employ.”

Sighing, she sat beside him. “If that's your problem, then there isn't a problem.”

“I don't understand.”

“The trouble isn't mine. It's my sister's.”

“Explain.”

“Do you know about her?”

“Rachel Stone. Ten years your junior. Thirty-five. Married a New England senator campaigning to be president. Widowed because of an unknown assassin's bullet. Her association with politics and a movie-legend sister made her glamorous. A Greek shipping magnate courted her. They married last year.”

“I give you credit. You do your homework.”

“No less than you.”

“Their marriage is like the Parthenon. A ruin.” Joyce Stone rummaged through her burlap purse. Finding a pack of cigarettes, she fumbled with a lighter.

“You're not a gentleman,” she snapped.

“Because I won't light your cigarette? I just explained, when it comes to protection, you're the servant and I'm the master.”

“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 no