“For example, Wing Chun traces its immediate origins to the mid-seventeen hundreds. The tradition from which it springs may be a millennium older. Shotokan, I believe, was founded less than a century ago. The Japanese master Funakoshi derived it from several Okinawan styles, among them Shorin-Ryu, which in turn grew from China. Tae Kwon Do was also developed from Shorin-Ryu, but more recently.
“Historically speaking, Mr. Axbrewder, karate is the young son of a much older father.”
Directly below the dais, the man I tracked passed a younger guy, so close that they brushed shoulders. I was too far away to make out details, but the younger man had lank blond hair hanging onto his forehead and wore an open gi top over a black T-shirt with large white letters that said, “NO FEAR.” I didn’t see him give anything to the heavyset man. But my target’s right hand slipped quickly under the flap of his bag and out again.
Now I was sure. He was the drop. The younger man was another pick.
I had to admire the sheer effrontery of a hand-off right under the noses of everyone at the head table—Sue Rasmussen, Sternway, the record-keeper. But the dignitaries were too busy to notice.
“So why was Wing Chun developed?” I asked T’ang Wen. Obliquely I worked my way toward the subject of the chops. “What was wrong with the tradition?”
He treated me to a smile that revealed nothing. “That is an important question, Mr. Axbrewder. I will answer briefly.
“Because of their richness and complexity,” he explained, “the older forms of ch’uan fa often required decades of dedicated study. As an example, forty years is not considered an unusual span for the mastery of Tai Chi ch’uan. In the early seventeen hundreds, however, the Manchurian Qing dynasty challenged the Shaolin temples, which supported the Ming family. This demonstrated the need for a combined style which could be mastered more easily, and therefore be disseminated more widely. Wing Chun was developed at the Northern Shaolin Temple from five older systems for that purpose.
“You may be interested to know that it was devised by a woman, Ng Mui, a Buddhist nun who escaped the Qing destruction of the Temple. This is relevant for obvious reasons. A style intended to be taught easily and widely could not rely on strength or weight for its effectiveness. Rather it required quickness, flexibility, and timing rather than force. With Wing Chun, a small woman might well defeat a large man.”
While T’ang spoke, my target passed the display and ambled through the crowd across from me. Reflexively I concentrated on him too hard to see anything else. But when I remembered to widen and blur my awareness, I noticed a matronly woman in a blowzy flower print housedress headed for him. Despite the blur—or because of it—I saw her dip toward a gear bag as if she’d stumbled. Then she righted herself with a bulge in her fist. Two steps later, she nearly collided with the drop. He adjusted the flap of his bag. When she went on by, her hands were empty.
I hardly heard the yelling of the contestants, or Rasmussen’s announcements. The events in front of me might as well have been invisible. Tension and worry throbbed in my temples. I had a hard time following T’ang Wen’s answers.
I abandoned subtlety. My next question sounded disjointed, but I didn’t care.
“Where do the chops fit in all this history?”
Some of the students behind me shifted uncomfortably. T’ang’s tone sharpened, giving his voice an undercurrent of anger.
“Our traditions hold that Ng Mui first taught her new system to a young girl named Yim Wing Chun, who had need of its advantages. Subsequently she taught Ng Mui’s system to her husband, Leung Bok Chow. When he was convinced of its effectiveness, he began to disseminate the new style, calling it ‘Wing Chun’ in honor of his wife.
“One of Leung Bok Chow’s first students was Leung Len Kwai, a gifted artist. Our traditions say that he carved the essential stances and techniques of Wing Chun into a set of ivory chops in order to preserve the system from later misunderstanding.
“We are Chinese,” T’ang Wen finished with a hint of vehemence. “We revere our traditions. For that reason, the chops are priceless to us.” Then he added scornfully, “If they are genuine.”
Hong Fei-Tung gazed impassively at everything and nothing, as if he’d been sculpted in terra cotta.
My target had stopped moving. A quick check told me that his three picks had done the same. Apparently they’d all decided to watch the tournament. Or they were waiting for a signal—
A signal from their spot. Keep working, or cut and run.
Uncertainty whetted my sense of disaster to a cutting edge. The phone seemed to burn in my pocket.
“‘Priceless,’” I echoed because I had to say something. “And Nakahatchi has them.”
Tangible disapproval poured down from Hong’s students.
“They do not belong to him,” T’ang Wen stated coldly. “He cannot appreciate them. They are Chinese. I do not question the value of Shotokan. But Nakahatchi sensei is Japanese. He lacks the centuries of tradition and study from which true appreciation grows.”
Out on the floor, Ned Gage adjudicated a dispute between a couple of contestants and the refs. Neill watched nearby, but didn’t intervene. Down at the end of the hall, a group of karate-ka swung long staffs in elaborate patterns, presumably warming up for a weapons event. Sammy Posten hovered uselessly near the displayed chops. Sternway remained at the head table, master of all he surveyed. He held his right arm crossed over his chest, his right hand on his left shoulder as if to rub a sore muscle.
I gripped the phone in my pocket. During the past half hour, the heat had climbed ahead of the AC. Now it felt stultifying. My arm ached where I’d been kicked yesterday.
Forgetting transitions, I asked roughly, “How do you account for all this misunderstanding of the Chinese and their traditions?”
Alarm made me sound less than sympathetic. Several of the students behind me murmured angrily. T’ang Wen lost his smile. Nevertheless he kept his poise.
“Like the West,” he informed me coldly, “Japan has an imperialistic culture. You have more in common with them than with the Chinese. In addition, you have no heritage yourself, and therefore see no value in it. Western practitioners are drawn to that which seems natural to them. You have only to look about you to see the truth of this.”
Under other circumstances, I would’ve asked, And you don’t think your contempt for people like us has anything to do with it? Scratch a man who thinks he’s being sneered at, and you’ll uncover someone who enjoys sneering himself. But I couldn’t concentrate on T’ang Wen any longer. I’d run out of time.
Applause spattered the hall as one of the hard style events ended. From the gallery, spectators waved their arms or fists. Rasmussen pointed toward the registration table or the main doors. Sternway lowered his arm. Neill turned away from Gage and the dispute, throwing up his hands in apparent disgust. Posten beckoned like he wanted Bernie’s attention, but Bernie ignored him.
Casual as ever, my target moved again. So did his picks. The girl continued the way she’d been going, but both the young man in the NO FEAR T-shirt and the matronly woman changed directions.
They’d seen a signal. They were heading for the doors.
“Excuse me,” I murmured to T’ang brusquely. “Something’s come up.” As I strode away, I snatched out the phone.
Signal, hell. I’d seen a dozen of them. Somehow I wasn’t doing my job.
The phone rang interminably before Max answered. The line clicked interminably as Max connected me to Bernie’s radio. I’d nearly rounded the corner of the hall by the time Bernie’s head jerked toward me.
“Yeah?” he rasped.
“They’re leaving,” I told him urgently. “The drop and three picks. Someone warned them off, I don’t know who.”
As fast as I could, I described them. My target had almost reached the main doors when I finished.
Bernie didn’t hesitate. “I’ll take the drop. You get the rest.”
Across from me, the heavyset
man paused at the main doors as if he could feel Bernie’s stare gouge into his back. Then he nodded to the nearest guard, pulled open the door, and left the hall.
I wanted to argue. This guy was too big, too light on his feet. Bernie needed backup. But before I could object, I heard more clicks, and the tone of the connection changed. He must’ve switched to Security’s general channel. I saw tension flash from guard to guard as soon as he spoke again.
“There’s a team here. I’m following a suspect outside. Axbrewder’s after the others. Hold the doors. Don’t let anybody in or out until he says so.”
My phone went dead.
Bernie left the hall. I couldn’t stop him.
Damn and damn. He was the boss, it was his call. But he was making a mistake, I was sure of it. I’d known it the minute I woke up this morning.
Swearing viciously, I shoved the phone into my pocket and forced my legs to slow down. I had to be unobtrusive again. When they couldn’t leave by the usual doors, the picks would look for other exits. They might even panic. And the service corridors weren’t guarded—
I needed help. Quickly I searched the hall.
For one frightened moment, I couldn’t find what I wanted. Master Soon was already gone. Sternway had vanished from the head table while I wasn’t looking. Rasmussen stood at the record-keeper’s shoulder, consulting about something. Ned Gage and Parker Neill moved toward opposite ends of the hall. Posten had already started to argue with a guard who wouldn’t let him outside. Hong appeared to be watching me dispassionately. But I couldn’t locate the picks.
Then my head kicked into gear, and I found them.
I had to gamble, so I did.
The kid in the NO FEAR T-shirt could probably run faster than the others. And Ned Gage was closer to me than anyone else I might’ve trusted.
I angled across the tournament floor to intercept him.
As I approached, he started a smile that fell away when he saw my face.
I didn’t give him time to say anything. Hunching, I whispered, “There’s a kid, stringy hair, NO FEAR black T-shirt. Over near the display. He’s a thief. Don’t let him out of here.”
Before Gage could react, I wheeled away.
Now I only had to worry about the dull bland girl and the woman who looked like a chaperone for a junior high field trip. On one of my good days, I would’ve said that I had them outnumbered. But it wasn’t, and I was scared. My impulse to hurry had so much force that I could hardly contain it.
Bernie needed me and didn’t know it.
Already people had begun to clump at the main doors, wanting out for one reason or another. The girl joined them without any detectable concern. Some of the spectators muttered complaints at the guard, but she didn’t join them. As far as I could tell, she was asleep on her feet.
The guard managed to look flustered and determined simultaneously. Trying to be polite about it, he held his ground.
I plowed my way into the crowd until I reached the girl. Smiling, I wrapped my arm around her waist and knotted my fist in the fabric of her warmup suit. If you hadn’t seen her quick flinch, you might’ve thought we were old friends.
“You’re coming with me,” I told her softly.
She didn’t resist. Why should she? She’d gotten rid of the evidence. After one fast glance, she didn’t so much as look at me.
Bulk had its advantages. Despite the crowd, I pulled her forward easily until I reached the doors. A few people wanted to know what the hell I thought I was doing, but I ignored them.
The guard nodded to me nervously, peered at the girl, then flicked a question up at my face. Maybe he thought she didn’t look like a pick.
I shoved her at him. Reflexively he caught her arms. “Hang on to her,” I ordered over the top of her head. “She’s one of them. I’ll get the others.”
“Hey,” the girl protested eloquently. “Hey.” She may’ve tried to struggle.
I didn’t pay any attention.
Some of the spectators sounded like they were about to get rude. Facing them, I raised my voice a bit. “Security problem, folks. Nothing to worry about. We’ll open the doors in a couple of minutes.”
Then I shouldered my way past them and headed for the next set of doors, hunting for a flower print housedress.
She wasn’t hard to find. The doors she wanted to use weren’t busy, and she stood right in front of them. The guard there was a grandfatherly type with a bad comb-over and pleasant teeth, maybe a few years younger than Bernie, and she was talking to him. Not hassling him. Just the opposite. His attentive smile suggested cronies sharing gossip. When I got close enough, I heard her chuckle comfortably.
I felt a pang of doubt, even though I’d seen her work. She wouldn’t have looked less furtive—never mind guilty—if she’d just been anointed by a Bishop. Involuntarily I hesitated.
But the next second at the edge of my vision I saw the NO FEAR kid sprint across the floor toward the service doors—and almost fall on his back when Gage grabbed his arm. At once Gage slipped the kid into a wrist-lock, then walked him in my direction, extracting cooperation with no apparent effort.
That jolted me past my uncertainty. If I was wrong, there was nothing I could do about it now. Bernie needed me.
By my count, he’d already been gone too long.
At the doors, I interrupted the blowzy woman’s seduction of the guard by dropping one hand on her shoulder and the other on his. Holding them together, I asked him quietly, “What’s standard procedure for dealing with a suspect?”
He gaped at me like I’d asked him to perform a radical mastectomy on her. Apparently he didn’t believe Bernie’s warning. A nice lady like her, a thief? No way. Hell, in another minute he might’ve let her go.
Urgency gathered in my chest. I was about to snarl at him, but he managed to jerk his attention back to his job. Swallowing hard, he answered, “Detain them until the cops get here. There’s a room we can lock in the Security offices.”
The woman put on a perplexed smile and made a show of hoping someone would tell her what was going on.
“Good enough,” I snapped. “This woman is a suspect.” I tightened my grip on her shoulder, just in case. “Do not lose her.”
Like magic, the junior high chaperone transformed herself into a yowling harridan. “A suspect?” She sounded fierce enough to intimidate the dead. “Of what? Get your fucking hand off me, asshole! I know my rights!” In another second we’d have an audience. “You’re hurting me! Get your—!”
I shut her up by digging in with my fingers until she remembered what hurting actually meant.
“Mr. Gage has another one,” I informed the guard. “There’s a third at the main doors. Get as much help as you need. Lock them up. Don’t open the doors until you have all three of them under control. I’m going after Bernie.”
I was about to add, Are you listening? but he cut me off by wrenching himself out of his confusion. Quickly he snatched the walkie-talkie off his belt, thumbed the toggle, and demanded backup. At the same time, he took hold of the woman’s wrist like he didn’t ever intend to let go.
A look over my shoulder told me that Gage was close. By now I knew that he could help out if the woman gave too much trouble.
Shifting past the guard as fast as I could, I hauled open the door and left the hall.
Colder air slapped my face, but it didn’t help.
Bernie wasn’t in the wide hallway between the convention facilities and the main hotel. So where the hell was he? He should’ve been back by now. He’d had enough time to corral the drop and cook him breakfast, for God’s sake.
The lobby—
But two steps later, another panic hit me. Damn Posten. If he was right, if this was a diversion—
I rebounded for the doors like I’d slammed into a wall.
Shoving my head inside, I barked at the guard, “Don’t leave the chops alone! No matter what else happens!”
I wasn’t sure he heard me. The woman fought him
furiously, and he had trouble keeping his grip on her. But Gage caught my eyes and nodded. His wrist-lock supplied just enough pain to make the kid cooperative.
Good enough. I shut the door and headed for the lobby as fast as I could go without running.
Master Soon had left the hall earlier for some reason.
The lobby was practically empty. A few guests lined the registration counter, presumably checking out. Near the doors, a small group of karate-ka watched the parking lot, waiting for someone. In the middle of the open floor, Anson Sternway stood with Alex Lacone and Deborah Messenger, his back to me. Lacone’s fixed grin, and her artificial animation, made me think that she was explaining the finer points of commercial coverage. As far as I could tell, neither of the men noticed me. But she managed to fling me a bright smile without interrupting herself.
I ignored it. My pulse had kicked into overdrive the instant I saw that Bernie wasn’t in the lobby,
Then where—?
If he’d chased the drop out into the parking lot, I could stop worrying. He couldn’t have run down a four-year-old, never mind a determined man less than half his age.
Had he already caught his target, taken him to the Security offices? He’d be safe enough there. He’d have backup.
Back into the service corridors? I’d never find him without Max’s help. And if his monitors showed any trouble, Max would’ve called for help by now.
If I were a smart drop, and I wanted to ditch Bernie without an audience of security cameras, hotel staff, and passersby—
In panic I ran for the nearest men’s room. Fumbling instinctively at the .45 I didn’t have, I smacked open the door and charged inside.
White tile echoed the clash as the door hit the wall and bounced shut behind me. Stressed metal clanged like the clash of ruin, so loud that I thought the mirrors would shatter. The space was big for a men’s room, and as generic as the rest of the hotel—six urinals, eight toilet stalls with open privacy doors, at least ten sinks below the mirrors, enough paper towels to mop up Armageddon. The Luxury wanted its guests and visitors to relieve themselves conveniently, if not comfortably.
The Man Who Fought Alone Page 15