The Fifth Profession Read Free Page B

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