“Because reporters were restricted from the invasion. The only reports came from the military. In civilian life, it's called lying. In politics, it's called disinformation.”
“Yes,” Graham said. “Disinformation. Exactly the word I was waiting for. As I said, what attracted me to you was your mind. Your ability to step back from your military conditioning, recognize the truth, and think independently. Why was your reaction so bitter?”
“You know that already. I was part of the first team to hit the island. We parachuted from a transport plane. Other chutes brought us rafts because we had to infiltrate the island from offshore. But the Navy misjudged the weather. The wind was stronger than predicted. At night, the waves were so fierce we couldn't see the rafts. A lot of us-a lot of my friends-drowned before we reached the rafts.”
“Died bravely.”
“Yes.”
“In the service of their country.”
“In the service of a movie-star president who sent us needlessly into combat so he'd look like a hero.”
“So with disgust, you refused to reenlist in the Navy, despite the fifty-thousand-dollar incentive the military offered you. However, a disaffected Navy SEAL, a top-of-the-line ex-commando, could have asked a huge fee from mercenary recruiters.”
“I didn't want to be a mercenary.”
“No. You wanted dignity. You had the wisdom to understand your true vocation, not a soldier but a protector.”
Graham leaned back behind his spacious mahogany desk, puffing his cigar with satisfaction. Though corpulent, he wore impeccably tailored clothes that minimized his bulk: a gray pinstripe suit and vest, a subdued maroon tie, and a subtle blue handkerchief tucked perfectly into the chest pocket of his suitcoat. “The tie and the handkerchief should never match,” he always insisted, instructing Savage about the proper way to dress if a distinguished client had to be escorted to a semiformal occasion. “Wear clothes to match your surroundings, but never choose a suit that's more elegant than your client's.”
Proper dress had been only a small part of what Graham taught Savage about the rules of executive protection. The occupation was far more complex than Savage had imagined when he first came to Graham in the fail of ‘83, though to Savage's credit he had not assumed that his extensive experience with one of the finest military units in the world had been all the preparation he would need. Quite the contrary. Savage's commando training had taught him the value of admitting what he didn't know, of thoroughly preparing himself for a mission. Knowledge is power. Ignorance is death. That was why he'd come to Graham in the first place-to dispel his ignorance and learn from a world-class expert about the refinements of his newly chosen profession.
Weapons: Savage required no instruction in that regard. There wasn't a weapon-firearms, explosives, ballpoint pens, or piano wire-that Savage couldn't use proficiently.
But what about surveillance techniques? Savage's training had been to assault, not follow.
And “bug” detection? Savage's experience with bugs was limited to disease-bearing pests in jungles, not miniature microphones implanted in telephones, lamps, and walls.
And evasive driving? Savage had never evaded an objective. He'd always attacked. And as far as driving was concerned, he and his unit had always been transported to whichever plane or ship would take them to their target. Driving was something he did for fun in a rented Corvette to take him from bar to bar while on leave.
“Fun?” Graham had winced. “I'll cure you of wanting that. And conspicuous vehicles are forbidden. As for bars, you'll drink only in moderation, a distinguished wine while eating, for example, and never when on assignment. Do you smoke?”
Savage did.
“Not anymore. How can you notice a threat to a principal-”
“A what?”
“A principal. In the profession you claim you wish to enter, a client is called a principal. An appropriate word, for your principal is your main-your exclusive-concern. How can you notice a threat to your principal when you're busy fumbling to light a cigarette? You think I contradict myself because I smoke a cigar? I indulge myself now that I've given up protecting in favor of teaching and arranging for my students to find employment. For an agent's fee, of course. But you, how can you protect a principal when your hand is compromised by a cigarette? Yes, I can see you have a great deal to learn.”
“Then teach me.”
“First you must prove you're worthy.”
“How?”
“Why did you choose-?”
“To be a bodyguard?”
“An executive protector. A bodyguard is a thug. A protector is an artist. Why did you choose this profession?”
Accustomed to the demeaning shouts of his Navy instructors, Savage hadn't felt angry at Graham's outburst. Instead he'd humbly sorted through his instincts, trying to verbalize his motivation. “To be useful.”
Graham had raised his eyebrows. “Not an inferior response. Elaborate.”
“There's so much pain in the world.”
“Then why not join the Peace Corps?”
Savage had straightened. “Because I'm a soldier.”
“And now you want to become a protector? A member of the comitatus. Ah, I see you're unfamiliar with the term. No matter. You'll soon understand, for I've decided to accept you as a student. Return to me a week from now. Read the Iliad and the Odyssey. We'll discuss its ethics.”
Savage hadn't questioned this seemingly irrelevant assignment. He was used to obeying, yes. But he sensed that Graham's command was not a mere test of his discipline but rather the beginning of a new kind of knowledge. A skill that would make his previous training-as superb as it was- seem a minimum requirement for the greater demands of what Graham eventually told him was the fifth and most noble profession.
After the Iliad and the Odyssey, Graham had insisted on discussing other classics that merged military and executive-protection skills. “You see, tradition and attitude are paramount. There are rules and codes. Ethics and yes, aesthetics. In time, I'll teach you tactics. For now, you'll learn a beautiful devotion to your principal, but as well an unrelenting obligation to control him. This relationship is unique. Perfectly balanced. A work of art.”
It was Graham who made Savage read the Anglo-Saxon account of the loyal comitatus who fought to the death to defend their master's corpse from the ravaging Vikings at the battle of Maldon. And it was Graham who introduced Savage to the remarkable Japanese fact-become-legend of the forty-seven ronin who avenged their insulted dead lord by beheading their master's enemy and in victory, obeyed the shogun's command to disembowel themselves.
Codes and obligations.
3
“I have an assignment for you,” Graham said.
“Why so solemn? Is it dangerous?”
“Actually it's fairly routine. Except for one thing.” Graham told him.
“The client's Japanese!” Savage said.
“Why does that make you frown?”
“I've never worked for a Japanese.”
“That intimidates you?”
Savage thought about it. “With most other nationalities, I'm able to take for granted common elements of culture. It makes the job easier. But the Japanese… I don't know enough about them.”
“They've adopted a lot of American ways. Clothes and music and…”
“Because of the U.S. occupation after the war. They wanted to please the victors. But their habit of mind, the way they think, that's unique, and I'm not just talking about the difference between the Orient and the West. Even the Communist Chinese, to give one example, think more like Westerners than the Japanese do.”