Damn and damn. The sensation that people might get hurt because I couldn't understand my own instincts was almost more than I could stomach.

Unfortunately experience had taught me that I wouldn't get anywhere if I sat and stewed about it. Muttering curses, I forced myself out of my own head long enough to look around the parking lot for some indication that Deborah had arrived.

I didn't see any new cars. But it was getting close to 11:00, so I decided not to wait. Reluctantly I turned off the Plymouth and stepped out onto the griddle of the concrete.

Deliberately I tried not to hurry. I needed to relax somehow.

Nevertheless anxieties I couldn't identify goaded me too hard. In spite of my best efforts, I burst into Traditional Wing Chun like a man with furies in his wake.

To my surprise, I found Hong and T'ang Wen ready in the hall.

They both wore formal kung fu silks. As usual, I couldn't read Hong's face, but his posture hardly hinted at violence. If he saw threats in meeting Nakahatchi, he may've been reluctant to prejudge them. At his side, T'ang appeared subdued, almost chastened. I suspected that he'd told his master about Nakahatchi's lease, and had been shaken when Hong took the information seriously.

Pulling off my sunglasses, I bowed to both of them. They responded without making a production out of it measured courtesy, a tentative acknowledgment that waited for events to justify something more definitive.

"I'm a bit early, Sifu." By using his title without his name, I hoped to suggest that he continued to rise in my estimation. My own form of measured acknowledgment.

"I don't think Ms. Messenger and Mr. Swilley have arrived yet. Would you prefer to wait for them here, or shall we go on over to Essential Shotokan"? I'm sure we'll be welcome either way."

Hong inclined his head.

"We will go." He may've wanted to gauge Nakahatchi's reaction without Deborah and Swilley there to complicate matters.

"Good." With another bow, I swung the door open so that Hong and T'ang could precede me.

But as we reached the sidewalk, I saw Deborah and a man I didn't know emerge from a BMW so immaculate that it might've descended from the hand of God right there in the parking lot. She wore a pale blue business suit that seemed to turn her auburn hair the color of firelight and flames. When she spotted us, she waved cheerfully, then escorted her companion toward Nakahatchi's dojo.

Without transition my heart started thudding double-time. As surreptitiously as I could, I wiped my palms on my slacks, but it didn't help. Somehow I controlled my impulse to stare while she crossed the concrete. If I got caught up in the lissome sway of her gait, I'd forget that I still didn't know how to trust her.

We converged under the awning at Essential Shotokan's symbolic door.

Deborah gave me a smile that nearly dropped me to my knees, greeted Hong and T'ang with a subtle combination of familiarity and reserve, then introduced all three of us to her companion.

Carliss Swilley's appearance struck me as odd. From a distance, he'd looked both shorter and fatter than he actually was. In fact, he was a man of medium height and average weight, dressed in a rich, slightly shimmering blue suit that God could've handed down along with the BMW.

Dark, horn-rimmed glasses gave his face a studious air. Well-behaved scraps of hair around his balding head suggested elegance. And yet somehow his aura, his presence, insisted that in reality he was short and pudgy, that the man who shook my hand was a facade for someone smaller and less fastidious.

Above his expert's smile, he had plain features a bit too broad for his height, and a substantial birthmark smack in the middle of his forehead. It increased the effect of his glasses, as if nature had marked him with authority. Or maybe it was the insignia of what lay behind his facade.

"A pleasure, Mr. Axbrewder," he informed me in a desiccated tone like the sound of dust settling.

"I understand I have you to thank for this commission. Do you know Chinese antiques?"

"Not even a little bit. But I have a vague grasp on insurance." I flicked an involuntary grin at Deborah.

"Enough to be sure we need a professional appraisal."

"I'm grateful nonetheless." He sounded as grateful as a tombstone.

"A chance to study ivory and workmanship which may have come from early in the Qing dynasty, and which may indeed have been produced by Leung Len Kwai himself" he rustled his hands "well, suffice it to say that missing such an opportunity would be an occasion for regret."

I doubted that. He gave me the impression that he didn't take his "regret" out of the closet very often and hadn't quite finished brushing off the cobwebs.

"I hope you won't be disappointed," I put in bluntly.

"The chops may not be authentic."

"I'll enjoy seeing them in any case," he assured me without enthusiasm.

"Forged antiques often demonstrate as much skill and industry as their originals, and may be nearly as old. Indeed, any copies of Leung Len Kwai's work could well derive, as his originals do, from the eighteenth century. Historically " He was poised to deliver a disquisition, but Deborah interrupted him tactfully.

"Shall we take this inside, Mr. Swilley? It's fascinating, of course, but I'm sure Nakahatchi sensei is waiting for us." Her smile paused on me briefly as she scanned our little group.

"And I'm sure we'd like to escape this heat."

"Certainly," Swilley assented with no change of tone. Maybe dry-and-neglected was the only tone he had.

Deborah reached for the door, but T'ang Wen forestalled her, bowing each of us inside ahead of him.

The air of the dojo was a relief cooled and dim, almost comforting. If I'd been that easily comforted, I might've relaxed a bit. But nearly audible mental voices insisted persistently that I'd entered the presence of threats I couldn't identify or defuse. That lives were on the line somehow.

Hideo Komatori awaited us at the foot of the stairs. He was formally dressed in a dark suit and understated tie which made him look like a pallbearer. Vaguely I wondered what that meant. If there were no accidents in Oriental manners, what message did Komatori mean to convey? For that matter, what did Hong and T'ang imply with their silks?

I wasn't qualified to guess. Certainly Hideo's smile seemed genuine.

Ignoring Swilley, Deborah, and me, he bowed deeply to Hong and almost as deeply to T'ang.

"Sifu Hong," he said, "T'ang-san, I am honored to welcome you. We've desired this day for a long time, but didn't know how to bring it about. For that we're indebted to Brew-san."

Neither Hong or T'ang replied, but Hong gave Komatori a bow that looked adequately respectful. T'ang also bowed, although he couldn't match his master's reserve or grace.

Then Hideo turned his attention to the rest of us. He bowed to me as he had to T'ang, shook Deborah's hand, expressed gratitude for Carliss Swilley's presence the perfect host.

"My master is waiting." He gestured toward the stairs.

"Will you join him?"

"That's why I'm here," Swilley announced. I detected a note of peevishness in his voice. Maybe he thought he deserved more "face"

than he'd been given.

Confirming my impression, he started to talk as soon as Komatori approached the stairs.

"As I was saying, the later decades of the eighteenth century were a time when such martial artifacts as Leung Len Kwai's Wing Chun chops would have been especially desirable. The martial arts in general, and Wing Chun in particular, played a significant political role during the first century of the Qing dynasty. They were considered subversive in the hands of the dynasty's opponents, and strenuous efforts were made to suppress them. For that reason, such artifacts as Leung Len Kwai's chops were uniquely valuable. They represented knowledge and traditions precious to the dynasty's opponents. Historically, the time was ripe for copies of all kinds. A skilled reproduction from that period would have considerable value of its own, regardless of its provenance."

He went on in that vein, throwing out references to "literati art,"

hanging scrolls, and bamboo carving claiming authority with both hands but I stopped listening. Without much effort, I maneuvered us so that Deborah and I brought up the rear of the group. Giving her hand a quick squeeze, I bent down to whisper in her ear, "I've got a bad feeling about this."

She looked at me quickly.

"Why?"

"I can't explain it," I admitted.