"I sleep lightly." His tone suggested that every real martial artist did the same.

"And I am attuned to my dojo. I would be aware of any intrusion.

"Further, my first student, Pack Hee Cho, makes his home here. He is talented and sensitive, and I have taught him well. Also" Soon spread his hands slightly "he is a large man. Even you would say so. In fighting his effectiveness is extreme."

"That's it?" I didn't even try not to sound skeptical.

"As an additional precaution," he went on more sharply, "and as part of their training, all my brown belts in turn sleep here. They place their pallets there." He tilted his head at the door behind me.

"No one can enter without disturbing them."

A pretty good precaution, I had to admit. And it explained a few things to me intuitively, anyway. Despite its obvious benefits, his approach to training said less about security than it did about solidarity, school loyalty. It ingrained an us-against-them attitude.

After spending a few sleepless responsible nights on the floor, half expecting every cough and pit stop to bring down his master's disapproval, even a tough-minded brown belt might lose his ability to think for himself.

My mouth twisted as I considered the implications.

"That should do it," I remarked, although I meant something different than Soon probably thought I did. If Hong and Nakahatchi taught us-against-them, Martial America would degenerate into a war zone.

All the front doors, as I'd already noticed, opened outward.

Which brought me to my other question. Before Soon lost patience with me, I said, "I need to ask you about keys. Just to cover an obvious point.

"Do you still use your original key? The one you got from Mr.

Lacone?"

"Yes," he answered without interest.

"Your key works for the fire doors as well as this one?" The apartments upstairs didn't concern me.

"Yes."

"How many copies are there?"

He didn't hesitate.

"Each of my black belts is given a key."

I raised my eyebrows.

"So there are, what?" I glanced around at the rank certificates "twenty copies? More?"

"Yes," he said again.

"That's a lot, Master Soon." A bitter wind gusted in the background of my voice.

"Can you trust that many people?"

Not to mention their girlfriends, spouses, buddies, co-workers. He pinned a lot on school loyalty.

He wasn't worried, however. Stiffly he informed me, "I do not grant a black belt to a student who has not earned my trust."

Oh, of course. Naturally. I faked a smile.

"I'm sure you don't." Then, taking a precaution of my own, I said, "Thank you, Master Soon. That's all I need for now.

"We'll have the chops appraised in a few days. When we know whether or not they're genuine, we'll decide how much security they really need. I might want to consult with you again then."

Thinking while I talked, Come on, asshole. Tell me you know that's a lie. Tell me you know they're genuine.

Tell me you didn't leave the tournament to make a phone call.

But he disappointed me. Indicating the door, he said, "We will speak again at that time." And not before, his tone added.

Discretion and all that. The better part of fucking valor. I took my cue and left, snarling inwardly at the sensation that I had my tail tucked between my legs.

Outside the sun felt like a wash of fire against my heated face. I abhorred backing down. Maybe I was doing my job. Earning Lacone's money. But as far as I could tell, I'd accomplished exactly nothing.

I didn't know how much longer I could keep it up. I longed for the simplicity of Puerta del Sol's dark streets, the straightforward corruption of men who lurked in alleys and doorways to sell drugs or flesh or stolen property. Crimes like Bernie's murder and Soon's attitude were making me crazy.

Probably I should've driven away right then, given myself a chance to decompress a bit. I could always call Essential Shotokan from the van, let Nakahatchi know I'd talk to him later. No doubt that would've been sensible.

So of course I didn't do it.

Carliss Swilley had pronounced the chops genuine. A complete set of this provenance cannot be worth less than one million dollars. And Bernie was still dead.

Squinting against the light because I was too angry to put on my sunglasses, I rounded the building to Sihan Nakahatchi's dojo.

I had no idea what he wanted to talk to me about. Presumably it had something to do with guarding the display. In which case

I had a very simple suggestion for him one that wouldn't impress Watchdog even a little bit, but that might do more to keep the chops safe than all the security measures I'd mentioned to Lacone.

As I pulled the door open and entered the building, I went blind for a few seconds while my eyes adjusted to the relative gloom. When I could see again, I caught a glimpse of a white gi through the doorway to the main dojo. Hideo Komatori shifted quickly in and out of view as he worked up and down the hardwood floor alone, practicing some kata or other.

And he did it without all the tension and threats, the strained breathing and flushed faces, that I'd seen at the tournament. Instead he moved like oil flowing down a cascade of worn stones, viscid and somehow out of reach, as if by the time you identified where he was he'd already slipped somewhere else. His reflection in the mirrors made him look like he filled the room. His breathing was deep and easy, inaudible. In fact, the only sounds came from the snap of his gi against his forearms and calves at the end of each technique. Even when he jumped, his feet returned to the boards as lightly as a falling breeze.

If I'd had the brains God gave lawn furniture, I might've taken it as a warning.

For some reason I felt sure that he was aware of me, but he didn't so much as glance in my direction until he'd come to the end of his pattern. Even then he didn't acknowledge me until he'd bowed to the room a sign of respect for the dojo, apparently.

At last he turned and walked toward me, smiling.

"Brew-sem," he said when he'd bowed himself out of the dojo, and bowed again to me.

"You've come to talk to my master."

I nodded. But I was still too angry for my own good. Procrastinating so that I wouldn't rush into a mistake, I asked, "Have any idea what it's about?"

He gestured me toward the stairs. Clearly he didn't want to keep Nakahatchi waiting any longer than necessary. As we headed upward, he said, "Sensei hasn't told me what he has in mind. Knowing him, however, I might hazard a guess."