Free The Fifth Profession by David Morrell

his assignment was really to be a companion to the boy while the parents abandoned him in favor of the local casinos. In theory, anyone could have served that function, but it turned out the businessman made frequent racial slurs against the local population, so Savage assumed that the supposed potential kidnappers had a skin color darker than his employer's. In that case,
why,
he'd wondered, had the businessman chosen the Bahamas at all? Why not Las Vegas? Probably because the Bahamas sounded more impressive when you told your friends you'd spent two weeks there.
    Savage had disapproved but hadn't shown it. His job, after all, wasn't to like his client, but instead to provide security, and besides, despite his aversion to his employer, he enjoyed the boy's companionship extremely. While never allowing himself to be distracted from his duties, he'd taught the boy to windsurf and scuba dive. With the businessman's money, he'd chartered a fishing boat—captained by a Bahamian native, to Savage's rebellious delight—and never baiting a hook had shown the boy the graceful majesty of leaping sailfish and marlin. In short, he'd behaved like the father that the endearing boy's actual father should have been.
    When the boy had flown back to Atlanta with his family, Savage had felt empty. Well, he'd thought, you've got this consolation. Not every job's as pleasant as this one. He'd remained in the Bahamas for three more days. Swimming, jogging, hardening his muscles. A vacation for himself. But then his habitual compulsion to work had taken control. He'd phoned one of his several contacts, a restaurateur in Barcelona, who'd received a call from a jeweler in Brussels, who passed the word that if Savage was available, his agent would be pleased to speak with him.
    2
    Savage's agent, Graham Barker-Smythe, the Englishman who'd trained him, had his home in a renovated carriage house in an elegant brick-paved lane in New York City, a half-block from Washington Square. As Graham liked to say, “At midnight, I can hear the junkies howl.”
    Graham was fifty-eight, overweight from too much champagne and caviar, but in his lean youth, he'd been a member of the British military's elite commando unit, the Special Air Service, and after leaving the military, a protective escort to several prime ministers. Eventually his civil servant's income had been unacceptable compared to the guardian's fees he could earn in the private sector. America had offered the richest opportunities.
    “This was after President Kennedy was shot. Then Martin Luther King. Then
Robert
Kennedy. Assassination was the major fear of anyone in power. Of course, the Secret Service had cornered the market on high-level politicians, so I chose to deal with prominent businessmen. They've got the bucks, and after the terrorists hit in the seventies, I made a bleeding fortune.”
    Despite his twenty years in America, Graham still retained his English accent, though his vocabulary had become an intriguing mixture of American and British expressions.
    “Some of the businessmen I protected”—Graham pursed his lips—“were no more than ruffians in Brooks Brothers suits. An elegant front. No class. Not like the aristocrats I used to work for. But this is what I learned. A protector has to repress his ill opinions about his employer. If you allow disapproval to control you, you'll unconsciously make a mistake that might kill your client.”
    “You're saying a protector should
never
disapprove of a client?”
    “It's a luxury. If we worked only for those of whom we approved, we'd seldom work. Everyone has imperfections. However, I do adhere to minimum standards. I would never help drug dealers, arms merchants, terrorists, mobsters, child molesters, wife beaters, or members of militant hate groups. I would never be able to repress my disgust enough to protect them. But unless you're confronted by unmistakable evil, you don't have a right to judge your client. Of course, you can