He'll sure as hell try."

As long as Hong's secret died with T'ang, the bastard might still come out on top.

There T'ang hung fire. I could see his internal struggle as clearly as if he'd drawn me a schematic. Pride in his master and his style, an almost genetic instinct for secrets, ingrained combativeness a sore ego, grief, and a kind of transcendental rage warred with the insult I'd thrown in his face. He wanted revenge on Hong's killer, he wanted to crush me for putting this kind of pressure on him, he wanted to make Soon eat his air of superiority and his interference. And maybe, just maybe, he wanted to prove that he could match Hideo Komatori's self-possession.

Through the veiled threats of the storm, I seemed to feel the dojo lean in on me, concentrating three schools worth of "face" and pain on my vulnerable shoulders. At my feet Cho groaned, shifted his shoulders. I stepped aside just in case he'd regained enough consciousness to grab at me.

By slow degrees, T'ang Wen sagged. He had to surrender something, that was obvious. I hadn't left him any choice. He couldn't preserve his master's secrets without refusing to help me identify his master's killer.

But he didn't let himself sound beaten. His tone was defiant when he finally said, "I spoke to you of Ng Mui, the Buddhist nun who escaped the destruction of the Northern Shaolin Temple, and who taught her secrets to Yim Wing Chun." At the tournament on Saturday. Before Bernie died.

"That tale is a legend spread to protect Ming adherents from the Manchurian Qing dynasty. In truth, Wing Chun was developed in the south, with the aid of certain masters from the north. They sought to supply Ming supporters with an effective fighting style after the burning of the Southern Shaolin Temple.

"Perhaps Leung Len Kwai carved the chops," he finished roughly, "but he knew nothing of Wing Chun."

In other words, if Swilley hadn't certified the chops as historically valuable artifacts instead of mere antiques, Watchdog could've measured its risk in tens of thousands of dollars instead of millions.

Artistically the chops may've been as beautiful as

Seraphim, but they lacked authority. Their value as a martial record of Wing Chun was nonexistent.

Now I had everything I needed.

Anson Sternway, bless his little heart, didn't look like he was having fun anymore.

Twenty-Six.

Cupping my left hand over my right first, I bowed to T'ang Wen.

"Thank you." I was too scared and angry to sound as fervent as I felt, but I gave it my best shot.

"You humble me. Sifu Hong must truly have been a great master to teach a student like you.

"He was killed because he knew that the chops weren't genuine." I made sure everyone in the room could hear me.

"If the bastard who did it had realized your master shared the secret with you, he would've killed you, too. But now we all know. There's no point in killing any more of us, unless he kills us all."

I'd accomplished that much, whatever happened. No one remained in the line of fire except me.

Unfortunately I'd also raised the stakes. Greed drives some people hard but survival drives them harder.

I had everything I needed, but I didn't stop. One more question cried out for an answer.

"Help me understand something," I said to T'ang.

"Knowing the truth, why didn't your master tell Na-kahatchi sensei about the chops?"

T'ang's hostility had collapsed when he surrendered. He swallowed at the distress in his throat.

"How could my master speak? Nakahatchi sensei showed him respect."

Presumably by welcoming his evaluation of the chops. By inviting him to tea.

"And your appraiser proclaimed his superior knowledge. To contradict that gwailo would deny face to my master's host, into whose care the chops had been entrusted.

"My master could not foresee what followed." T'ang's tone hardened.

"He would have shown his own respect in deeds if he had perceived the danger."

I believed him. Once Hong had accepted Nakahatchi's hospitality, he would've gone to war to square the debt.

Leaving the window, Sternway came toward me, a fixed expression on his face, his hands relaxed at his sides. I had to get moving.

"Care for your students," I told T'ang more quietly.

"Protect your dojo. I'll resolve this tonight."

If I had the strength. Or the brains.

Before Sternway reached me, I turned to Song Duk Soon.

He was helping Cho stand. The big man looked dazed, vaguely bewildered. Maybe he still didn't know who'd hit him. But Soon met me with a glare hot enough to sizzle bacon.

"Master Soon," I said so softly that I almost whispered, "I need your help."

Maybe I did, maybe I didn't. Nevertheless I had to soothe his aggrieved pride somehow. Otherwise I wouldn't be able to turn my back on him. And I owed at least that much to Alex Lacone's dream for Martial America.

Soon's angry stare didn't waver. However, he raised the palm of his hand toward Sternway.

The IAMA director stopped obediently just out of earshot, calm as a man with all his questions answered.

In a low voice, I told Soon, "This isn't done." I indicated the dojo.

"There's going to be more trouble. I need you, or one of your black belts, to keep watch on the empty school," the unoccupied fourth side of the building.

"If anyone goes in, find out who it is. If anyone comes out, stop them. Then call the police."

He appraised me indignantly. After all, I'd threatened him once and insulted him at least that often. But apparently he didn't like the idea that he'd been manipulated any more than T'ang and Komatori did.

After a moment he nodded.

"Thank you," I murmured.

Despite the alarm that scraped the lining of my stomach, the visceral desire to break and run, I took the time to offer him a bow as well.

Then I stepped past Cho toward Hideo.

At once Soon gathered his people to leave.

Sternway came to join me. But now I didn't care what he heard. At this point I only wanted to keep Komatori and his students out of harm's way. Like T'ang Wen and his students.

The IAMA director watched with an expression that might've indicated bemusement while I told Hideo essentially what I'd said to T'ang. I thanked him for his restraint earlier, urged him to call an ambulance for the kid with the ruined knee, promised I'd clear Nakahatchi's name by morning, and asked him to take his supporters back to Essential Shotokan. Now, however, Stern-way's threatening presence marred my sincerity. Sending Ko-ma tori away left me alone, unarmed apart from the .45, my cell phone, and an anger so deep that I could've drowned in it.