The Man Who Fought Alone

  If I hadn’t just spent ten minutes listening to Parker Neill, I probably would’ve laughed in Posten’s face. But “secretive,” “parochial” groups can get pretty bizarre. Especially when they’re racist as well. Just ask the victims of any militia bombing.

  To that extent, at least, Posten might be right. Much as I hated to admit it.

  Fewer people thrust around us now. Events were about to begin, and the crowd had started to settle. Rasmussen’s announcements didn’t produce any added confusion. A breath or two from the AC swirled across my face without cheering me up.

  I took the opportunity to steer Posten toward the nearest wall. When we were clear of the aisles and the stands, I told him, “I’m paying more attention than you think, Mr. Posten. And I do have some experience. That display is safe for now. It won’t be in any real danger until Nakahatchi takes it home with him.”

  To Essential Shotokan, I pointedly didn’t add. To Martial America. A business complex fully insured by Watchdog Insurance.

  Posten dropped his head a beat too late to prevent me from seeing the crestfallen look in his eyes. “That’s what Deborah says,” he muttered. “I say you’re both naïve.”

  But he didn’t hassle me anymore. Ego and worry overwhelmed the poor little snot. He actually neglected to lord it over me. Chewing the inside of his cheek anxiously, he wandered away like he’d forgotten I existed.

  “Have a nice day,” I murmured after him. He was going to give himself an ulcer—if he didn’t taste the joys of infarction first.

  I knew how he felt.

  Worrying myself, I headed for the dais to watch martial artists of every description yell and sweat their way around the rings.

  By now half the floor was in use. Brown belts and soft style kata, men and women. Thanks to Neill’s patience, I found that I could make out at least some of the differences. Not between men and women, but between hard and soft.

  In general, the canvas pajamas did whatever they were doing with a kind of compact efficiency. Whenever they turned or spun, they did it on one spot. Otherwise they moved in straight lines punctuated by direct attacks and hard yells. By comparison, the soft stylists were like their silk, flowing and boastful. They made wide sweeps with their arms and legs, jumped and spun in all directions, crouched and sprang in swirls of bright cloth.

  To my eye, the silk katas were useless as actual fighting. They were dances. They showed off grace, speed, and flexibility, but I couldn’t imagine them hurting anyone. If I were attacked that way, I’d probably laugh too hard to fight back.

  Now I understood the prejudice against soft styles. If the silk outfits hadn’t pretended that they were demonstrating a martial art, I would’ve been more impressed.

  Nevertheless I couldn’t shake the impression that I was watching the prelude to a disaster.

  I didn’t think the hall could hold many more people, but they kept coming. A few still trickled past the registration table, but most of them were spectators. By yesterday’s standards, the chops attracted a substantial crowd, presumably because the events the audience cared about hadn’t started yet. But the cluster around the display wasn’t large or unruly enough to tax Security’s abilities. Bernie’s blazers maintained order with no detectable difficulty.

  Sammy Posten was definitely out of his mind.

  From her position of prominence at the mike, Sue Rasmussen volleyed glares in my direction at irregular intervals, but she didn’t try to chase me off the dais again. At the moment, Ned Gage was out on the floor, sorting refs and competitors for more events. Parker Neill appeared to be chatting with Sifu Hong. Posten had disappeared, at least temporarily.

  So far Deborah Messenger hadn’t put in an appearance. I didn’t have any reason to think she would, but her absence darkened my gloom anyway.

  Since she wasn’t here, I scanned the hall for Anson Sternway.

  Somehow he managed to check his paperwork at the head table, visit Nakahatchi over near the display, talk to other heavyweights around the hall, and supervise registration, all without any apparent movement from place to place. For a while, I entertained myself by trying to keep track of him, but I couldn’t do it. Whenever he changed positions, he blended into the crowd so smoothly that I lost sight of him until he stopped somewhere.

  It was a hell of a trick. Vaguely I wondered if he did it on purpose. By now it was obvious that some of these martial artists had skills I shouldn’t underestimate.

  I wanted someone to talk to. But I’d learned as much about karate-related subjects as I could stand for the time being. I needed other kinds of information. Maybe I’d do better if I approached Hong Fei-Tung.

  But while I contemplated leaving the dais, I slipped unconsciously into watching one of the kata events without actually seeing it. Sort of a Zen thing. Concentration without attention. Or intention. And I discovered a curious thing. If I didn’t look for Sternway consciously, I could tell where he was. By an unexpected piece of perceptual conjuring, like narrowing and diffusing my attention simultaneously, I was able to follow his movements peripherally when I couldn’t track them directly.

  I’d spent the better part of the past twenty-four hours trying to tune my instincts to the pitch and rhythms of the tournament, but I’d gone about it the wrong way. I wasn’t used to working in this kind of crowd. With nothing clearly in view except a performance I didn’t see, I knew that Sternway was over there, and Hong was on this side of his clustered students. At the main doors, Master Soon stepped out of the hall for some reason, while Ned Gage made his way toward the head table. And—

  Trouble.

  —diagonally across from Hong a slim young woman in a nondescript warmup suit dipped one hand into a gear bag that wasn’t hers, then straightened up and moved away casually, her hand closed at her side.

  My heart forgot a couple of beats. Trying not to be obvious about it, I jerked into focus on her.

  Not really a young woman—a girl in her teens. Stringy hair, bland features that deflected notice, dull eyes. Nothing furtive about her, no flush in her cheeks, no rapid glances, no instinctive twitch as she fought an impulse to look behind her.

  But now both of her hands were open and empty.

  9

  I should’ve whipped out my cell phone right then, called Max, warned Bernie. But I’d been concentrating on her too hard—I hadn’t tagged the drop. And she’d already gotten rid of the evidence.

  Fortunately I had time. She wasn’t done. Her route took her deeper into the crowd instead of back toward the doors.

  When a pick and a drop meshed that smoothly, they knew what they were doing. They had experience. And experienced teams typically included three or four picks, all feeding the same drop. Plus a spot, a guy who looked like an innocent bystander to watch for problems, signal warnings, and run interference.

  I wanted to do this right, snag the whole team. Pouncing on the girl would accomplish exactly nothing. At the very least, I needed the drop—

  But while I spent a couple of minutes failing to identify him, I had time to remember that I wasn’t the boss here. This was Bernie’s call, not mine.

  Trying to look like a dignitary on important business, I took out the phone and dialed Security’s preset number.

  I wasn’t good at the kind of concentration I needed. As soon as I focused on the phone, I lost the girl. While I waited for the connection to go through, I tried to locate her again. For a ragged moment or two, I couldn’t find her. Then I did.

  The heavy voice that answered said, “Go ahead,” like I was supposed to know who he was.

  I didn’t stand on ceremony. “Axbrewder,” I told the phone. “I need to talk to Bernie.”

  The voice—Max—didn’t answer. Instead I heard switches clicking. As soon as the line opened, I said my name again.

  “What?” Bernie demanded softly.

  The girl had paused like a spectator watching an event. Obviously her drop hadn’t circulated back into range yet.

  I ke
pt my voice low so that I wouldn’t be overheard. “There’s a team in the hall. A drop, at least one pick.”

  I saw Bernie’s head jerk. “Where?”

  “Teenage girl. Stringy hair. Dull brown warmup suit. To your right.” He shifted in that direction. Before he did anything rash, I added, “She’s the pick. I haven’t made the drop.”

  He didn’t hesitate. “Then we wait.”

  I nodded to the phone. “If you want to do this right.”

  “I want the whole team.” He was sure. “Especially the drop. I’ll take my chances.”

  I pictured the possibilities. A good team might have three, four, even five picks roughly spaced around the hall, all working in the same direction. The drop would stroll the opposite way, taking wallets, watches, money, whatever from the picks as they passed. And the spot—

  Hell, he could be anywhere. The bleachers, probably.

  “I’ll watch her,” I murmured to Bernie. She was my only clue to the drop—unless I managed to identify another pick. “If I still don’t have the drop when she reaches me, I’ll tag along.” I thought hard for a second, then asked, “You want this line kept open?”

  “No. If we do this right, there’s no hurry.

  “We’ve got the doors.” He meant his guards. “You get the drop. And anybody else you’re sure about.”

  “Right.” I hung up with my thumb and pocketed the phone.

  She was on the move again. Casually, like she lived in karate tournaments, she wandered past Bernie toward Nakahatchi’s display. Then she turned to cross the hall in front of the dais.

  Scrambling inside, I considered my options. If I tailed her too closely, I’d make myself conspicuous to the drop. And I wouldn’t be able to tag any other picks until I knew the drop. But if I stayed back, I might miss him.

  I did not want to screw this up.

  Concentration, that was the key. The right kind of concentration—the kind I’d used to keep track of Sternway.

  I wasn’t sure I could do it. I was too tense.

  I needed distraction, some way to diffuse my attention, like watching an event without really seeing it.

  That gave me an idea.

  The girl drifted past me, so close that I could’ve grabbed her by the hair if I hadn’t been faking dignity. She had a gift for looking aimless, vacant, like there wasn’t a thought in her head. She’d done this before, too often to be scared by it. Or she knew more than I did about drugs.

  I let her go until she began to sift her way among the competitors, spectators, and gear bags that cluttered the edges of the tournament space. Then I retreated to the back of the dais, dropped to the floor, and went after her.

  I did my best to look as aimless and vacant as she did, but I didn’t succeed. As far as I knew, I didn’t have any casual genes.

  Karate-ka stretched and warmed up everywhere, spectators applauded over my head from the stands, contestants yelled their lungs out in the rings. Keeping track of her strained my nerves. If I hadn’t been so tall, I would’ve lost her.

  But she was moving down the hall toward the place where Hong had set up his encampment.

  He sat turned slightly away from me, with his students grouped behind him—a few Chinese, the rest obviously not. He seemed to regard the tournament without interest, as if it were too transitory to impinge on his seamless facade. His features were so smooth that he could’ve posed for a bust of Buddha. He would’ve looked ageless if time hadn’t marked his stiff short hair and eyebrows with grey.

  I paused briefly to pull myself together. Hong Fei-Tung might look as placid as a saint, but I already knew that he had fire hidden inside him. I didn’t want to get burned.

  Ahead of me, the girl disappeared.

  As soon as I panicked, she reappeared. Dammit, she’d probably lifted something from another gear bag, but I’d missed it. Too many people blocked my view—I couldn’t see her hands. Then the crowded parted for an instant, and I saw her strolling away with her hands loose at her sides.

  Damn and damn. I’d missed the drop as well.

  But now he had to be between us. And moving toward me. For the next new seconds, at least. Trying not to be obvious about it, I scanned hard.

  Three candidates snagged my attention, all acting like they belonged here, all carrying bags that could’ve held gear or loot. Two of them wore warmup sweats. The other had on a white gi with an IAMA patch.

  I dismissed the karate-ka. In that getup he couldn’t escape unobtrusively. And the competition interested him so much that he turned his head to watch every time he heard a yell.

  The man right in front of me wasn’t a likely candidate either. He wore light blue sweats and the toned whippet look of a sprinter. But he carried his bag wrong, zipped up tight, with his near hand hooked under the strap over his shoulder. He couldn’t have accepted a handshake without making a production out of it.

  That left a heavyset guy in dingy sweats the color of used bandages. He was only a couple of inches shorter than me, and at least forty pounds heavier, but he carried his bulk like it was made out of polyurethane, light enough to levitate. Dull eyes, a broken nose, jowls he could’ve used to store food for the winter, brows so full of bone that they gave him a perpetual scowl.

  His black vinyl bag had a loose flap instead of a zipper, perfect for slipping things inside quickly. It hung from his right shoulder, with his hand resting on the flap.

  He glanced at me unpleasantly as he shifted past, but if he saw anything that worried him, he didn’t show it. With any luck I looked too lost, out of my element, to be a threat.

  I let him go, didn’t so much as turn my head as he went by. I wanted the whole team. If I could keep an eye on him, he might help me tag the other picks.

  As casually as I could, I followed the girl toward Hong.

  He still gazed out at the tournament vacantly, like he’d been hypnotized into oblivion. But his upright posture gave the impression that he’d starched his spine, and his hands rested on his thighs as if they might clench for blows at any moment.

  As a group, his students copied him, but only a few of them looked like they sat in that position easily, and only a couple matched his air of being able to do it all day without strain.

  I paused a stride away. Briefly I scanned the hall, practicing diffused concentration until I got a fix on the girl and the drop. Then I turned to Hong Fei-Tung.

  I’d already met his temper, and I didn’t want to set him off, so I bowed the way I’d seen Sternway bow. Striving to sound respectful, I said, “Sifu Hong. May I speak with you? I’d like to ask some questions.”

  His gaze slid toward me, smooth as oil, and away again. If he remembered meeting me yesterday, he kept it to himself. Instead he glanced at a man seated beside him. At once the man rose to his feet and answered my bow.

  Like Hong, he was Asian, but with sharper features. He was obviously younger than his Sifu, but his face showed lines Hong’s lacked. His smile accounted for some of them, but the creases between his eyebrows made him look like a man who took frowning seriously. The irises of his brown eyes held strange fragments of silver like chips of mica, sharp enough to cut.

  “I am T’ang Wen, Mr.—?” He was better at sounding polite than I was.

  “Axbrewder,” I told him. For good measure, I bowed again. “I met Sifu Hong yesterday.” Since Hong clearly hadn’t mentioned me, I added, “I work with Sternway sensei and Mr. Appelwait.”

  T’ang Wen went on smiling. “Mr. Axbrewder. Perhaps I may be of use?”

  Sensing disasters I couldn’t identify, I stifled a sarcastic retort. Maybe having a student speak for the teacher was an obscure form of Chinese courtesy—although I suspected that the courtesy was for Hong’s benefit rather than mine. Either way, I didn’t think I’d gain anything by challenging it.

  Instead I said gruffly, “I’m sure you can.

  “I hope you’ll forgive my ignorance. I’ve been hired to help make sure nothing”—I glanced deliberately toward N
akahatchi’s display—“unpleasant happens here. But I don’t know enough. If you’ll answer a few questions for me, I may be more effective.”

  T’ang inclined his head. “If a mere novice in the study of ch’uan fa may do so, I will assist you.”

  In the stands behind their sifu, Hong’s students had abandoned watching the tournament. Instead they stared at me expectantly, waiting for a chance to take offense. Their distrust was as plain as a wall.

  I turned my back on them. I didn’t have time for their expectations. I needed to see what went on around me.

  “Ch’uan fa?” I asked, just to get started.

  Anson Sternway now stood on the dais beside the master of ceremonies, consulting with her about something or other.

  “Here in the West,” T’ang Wen explained, “the Chinese martial arts have come to be called ‘kung fu.’” He’d positioned himself so that he could see my face as well as Hong’s without standing in front of his teacher. “The term is acceptable, but it is not precise. The Chinese arts are more properly termed ch’uan fa, the Way of the Fist. Or perhaps wushu, which encompasses all martial discipline.” He shrugged delicately. “Like China herself, ch’uan fa is little understood elsewhere.”

  I heard hints in his voice that I wanted to pursue. But he was getting ahead of me. I kept my questions in order.

  “So Wing Chun would be an example of ch’uan fa?”

  “Indeed.”

  Off to my left, the girl rounded the corner of the hall, still apparently moving with no particular purpose. I’d lost track of the heavyset man, but when I blurred my attention I located him again. He remained on my side of the hall. In another minute he’d cross in front of the dais.

  I didn’t pause. “How is it different from, say, Shotokan?”

  “Wing Chun”—T’ang made it sound like ving tsun—“is a separate style from a different country. It has its own philosophy and history.” His tone suggested a desire to correct my ignorance gently. “However, ch’uan fa and karate are distinguished primarily by time. The Chinese martial arts are far older. They have been developed over centuries rather than decades.