"Yes," he assented.

"The occasion will be highly ceremonial. If you were present, you might find it too" he considered adjectives briefly "indirect to be useful. But it gives great face. I think Mitsuku-san is right. Sifu Hong will understand that any disagreement about the chops doesn't indicate disrespect."

"So why aren't you all dressed up?" I meant, like Nakahatchi.

He smiled more broadly.

"Because I was born in this country, Brew-san. And my ancestors weren't aristocrats. My family has remained Japanese in many ways, but our traditions don't include formal aristocratic tea ceremonies. I don't own the right clothes. This" he indicated his suit "is the best I can do."

"Well, you've got me beat, at any rate," I muttered.

"It's a good thing I'm not invited." I was sincere about that. An hour kneeling at a low table while I struggled not to use the wrong chopstick would've ruptured something.

"I'm not that pretty on my good days."

Komatori didn't respond directly. Without any particular transition, he announced, "My master would like to speak with you later. Perhaps after lunch?"

That surprised me.

"What about?"

Hideo didn't offer me any help.

"He'll tell you."

For the second time my throat went dry, like I'd swallowed a lump of alum. New tension ran along my nerves. I had the sudden impression that something big had opened ahead of me, just out of sight. Something personal My instincts must've been working overtime. Or else I was so knotted up about Hong that I'd started flinching at shadows.

I forced moisture back into my mouth.

"After lunch is good," I said, nearly croaking. I hadn't made any specific plans.

"I'll be glad to talk to him."

Komatori bowed as if I'd granted a significant request.

Meanwhile Swilley continued hectoring his unfortunate audience. He'd produced a loupe which he used to scrutinize several of the chops from all sides, while he went on and on about secret artist's marks and scientific means of dating ivory. As far as I could tell, he hardly paused for breath. Maybe having a voice that dry enabled him to inhale through his ears.

At his side, Deborah listened and nodded, feigning attention.

Hong had examined a couple of the chops, primarily by rubbing them with his fingers. Then he withdrew as if he didn't want to get in Swilley's way. His face held no more expression than a clay pot. In contrast, T'ang watched Swilley like he expected the appraiser to grab a handful of chops and bolt.

From a respectful distance, Nakahatchi presided over the display. The sheer artificiality of his attire seemed to emphasize the sorrows ingrained in his features. He looked like a man with more bereavements than he could name.

The more I saw of him, the more difficulty I had imagining him as a martial artist. He looked like Death's Gatekeeper, immersed in the griefs of those who passed through his portal.

Abruptly Swilley put down the chop he'd been peering at, lowered his loupe, and turned around.

"Ms. Messenger. Mr. Nakahatchi." His voice held a tremor I hadn't heard before excitement or alarm, I couldn't tell which.

"There's no doubt. Other experts will agree with me. The workmanship is unmistakable. And the particular way that the ivory has aged is right."

He paused as if he needed to gather his courage. Then he announced, "The chops are genuine. They were carved by Leung Len Kwai."

Oh, shit. My heart kicked into a faster beat. Genuine? That sure as hell raised the stakes. For me, for Watchdog and Lacone. Definitely for Nakahatchi. And for Hong Somehow Swilley's pronouncement multiplied the danger I'd put Hong in. Suddenly the floor around him was littered with land mines, metaphorically speaking, and I didn't know where any of them were.

Deborah's eyes widened at the news. T'ang looked hard at his master, expecting some reaction, but Hong remained expressionless, silent.

Nakahatchi bowed his head like a man in prayer.

Komatori glanced at me and shrugged discreetly. I guess he didn't know where the mines were either.

"I would be reluctant to assign a specific value," Swilley continued, "without consulting my sources." Now that he'd taken the plunge, his voice grew steadier.

"And Mr. Hong may have relevant information which would clarify an important point."

Shifting to face Hong, he asked, "Do you know if this collection is complete, sir?"

After a moment Hong nodded ambiguously.

Did that mean, Yes, I know, or, Yes, it's complete? I wanted to ask, but Swilley didn't give me a chance.

"On that basis," he proclaimed like a desert wind, "I feel confident in suggesting that a complete set of this provenance cannot be worth less than one million dollars." He looked like he wanted to chortle.

"Beyond question. Possibly more.

"Congratulations, sir," he finished, addressing Nakahatchi.

"You are now a rich man."

Damnation. Killing Bernie probably seemed trivial to a man who aimed to get his hands on that much loot.

At the case, Deborah appeared to shake herself out of a daze.

"Mr. Nakahatchi," she began earnestly, "I recognize that this may not be entirely good news. When Mr. Swilley is ready to name a precise figure" she looked toward the appraiser "by tomorrow if possible?"

"By three o'clock today," Swilley answered with a smug smile.

"No later."

Nakahatchi raised his head. Whatever he'd felt a moment ago was hidden now. He might've been ecstatic, suicidal, or merely confused, and I wouldn't have known the difference.

Deborah nodded reluctantly.

"When we get a figure," she continued to Nakahatchi, "we'll consult with Mr. Lacone and the IAMA. And our home offices, of course. We'll see what we can work out. I'll do everything possible to keep the insurance within your means. But that will take at least a couple of days.

"In the meantime" she pulled in a deep breath "I assure you that you're covered. Your policy, and the policy on Martial America, will protect you until we're ready to discuss new terms."

Nakahatchi should've been glad to hear that. A couple of days would give Lacone time to get serious about security. But Deborah's promise didn't seem to affect him. Apparently he'd raised stoicism to the level of an art form. Or else he just didn't care.