Max turned and we followed him out of the back room around to the stairs. Up one flight, then another. We came to a door covered only with a bamboo weave. Max pushed the bamboo aside for Flood to enter, and we were in Max’s practice room. The rough wood floor was hand-sanded and bleached so it was clean as an operating table. Flood didn’t have to be told to remove her shoes. The floor was slightly rough to the touch. Against one wall was a giant mirror, against another were Indian clubs, long wooden staves, a pair of fighting swords. A heavy bag like prizefighters train on was suspended from the ceiling in one corner.

Max approached the center floor, arms at his sides. He swept his hand to cover the surroundings, bowed toward Flood with an after-you-please gesture, and Flood knelt in front of her duffel bag and brought out the robes Max had given her. She shucked off her outer clothes, stuffed them into the bag, and put on the black robes.

She sprang onto the floor, spun into a kata that vibrated with grace and power. Her kicks became hand-thrusts so smooth that I couldn’t see the transition-her breaks were as clean as surgery. She worked against the mirror as she was supposed to, finishing in a deep bow to Max. No change in breathing, like she was at rest. A lioness returned to the jungle, and glad of it.

Max bowed in respect. He opened his hands, caught Flood’s nod and stepped onto the floor. He knife-edged one hand, blurred it toward his own neck and pulled it to a dead stop maybe an inch away. He bowed again to Flood, motioned her forward to him.

Flood stepped onto the floor, twisting her neck from side to side to get loose. Max moved his hands in gently waving patterns in front of his face and chest-like he was carefully gathering cobwebs. He held one leg slightly in front of the other, bent at the knee.

Flood danced in on her toes, twisted her body to the side and faked a left-handed chop, then spun into a kick from the same side, her foot darting like a snake’s tongue. Max took the kick on the outside of his thigh and moved behind her in the same motion, firing a two-finger strike at her face. Flood fell forward, her hands caught the floor and she back-kicked at knee height. Max flowed under the kick and his elbow whipped back with the power of a piston, stopping a millimeter from Flood’s temple. Finished. Real duels between top karateka don’t take more than thirty seconds-except in the movies. They move too fast and there’s no margin for error. If Max hadn’t pulled his last strike short, Flood’s skull would have been crushed.

They both got to their feet. Bowed. Bowed again. Flood’s face was flushed with joy-Max’s eyes were bright with approval. He held out his hands, palms up. Flood put her hands in his and he turned them over, examining closely. Max drew his hand across his waist, patted his legs, nodded emphatically. Then he held out his hands, nodded again, but with reservations.

Flood said: “I know. My kicks are better. My teachers have told me that I’m lazy. That I work with what works for me, not with what doesn’t.”

Max pointed to my wristwatch, and Flood understood. It was too late to learn new tricks-she’d have to fight the Cobra with what she had. Flood was ready. She went back to the duffel bag and brought out the picture of Sadie and Flower, the piece of silk, and the candles. I handed over a copy of the Cobra’s mug shot, and her quick flashing smile told me I was on her wavelength. For a change.

Max left the room and came back with a low red lacquered table that had tiny dragon’s claws for legs. He placed it in the far corner so the mirror would reflect the icon no matter where you stood.

I left Flood and Max in the temple and went downstairs to hook up the field phone and check in with Michelle.

53

MICHELLE ANSWERED THE phone on the first ring, her voice all breathy and excited, not like her at all. “Burke, is that you?”

“What is it?”

“He hit the hook, baby. He sent a kid-”

“Don’t say anything more. I’m on my way.”

I ripped the phone from the connectors and sprinted for the Plymouth. Flood would be safe with Max, and if anyone hit the top floor looking for Michelle they’d have to get past the Mole. Everything was locked in place now, and phone conversations weren’t going to help.

The Plymouth slipped through the light traffic like a dull gray shark. The smaller fish moved aside, and it took only minutes for me to get back uptown. I rolled into the parking spot, waved my arm to attract the attendant, and slipped him the ten bucks as I was locking up. The lobby was deserted-the indicator said one elevator car was on the eleventh, the other on the ninth. I hit the Down switch for both cars and charged up the stairs.

Still quiet-still empty as I went along. I timed my breathing so I had a burst of oxygen left at the end of each flight-you don’t want to be out of breath if you meet unfriendly people. I sucked in a nasal blast before each flight, let it out as I was climbing. I stopped at the top floor, waiting for my blood to settle down and listened. Nothing. I approached the door, tapped softly. Not a sound. I tapped again, said, “It’s me, Michelle,” and the door swung open.

I moved inside and found myself facing the Mole hunched over some kind of plastic box glowing ruby-red from its insides, a slim metal cone pointed directly at the door. The Mole looked at me, blinked, took his hands out of the box.

Michelle was sitting in a corner, a petulant expression on her face, like she was being punished for something she didn’t do. She opened her mouth to say something and the Mole held up his hand to silence her before she got a word out. “She went out,” the Mole told me in his soft voice.

“You what?”

She bounded off her perch, came over to me, glaring over her shoulder at the Mole. “He sent a kid, Burke. A little kid. We got the whole thing on this hookup the Mole has here. Some little kid walks in downstairs and tells them he needs the phone number for his older brother. Like his older brother doesn’t want to come in personally, right? He says he wants to establish contact-like he memorized the words. So the jerks downstairs, they give the kid the new number for their operation and the kid just walks out. Can you believe it?”

“And…?”

“So I ran downstairs and followed the kid when he came out of the elevator.”

The Mole began in an injured tone, “I told her not to leave-”

“You don’t give me orders, Mole!”

“I could have followed him.”

“Cut it out, Mole-you couldn’t follow your nose,” Michelle shot back. I could see the two of them were prepared to spend hours over this, so I finally asked the key question. “What happened?”

Michelle preened her feathers before she answered, the little kid in school who had the right answer all along and had her hand up and was finally getting called on by the sluggish teacher.

“The kid was a street boy, you know? A real chicken-hawk’s special. Sweet little face, maybe ten years old. He looked like one of those Colombian kids they sell in the adoption scams-just a baby. He stops for a hotdog a couple of streets down from here. I thought he might be going to one of the flophouses or something. I was just going to get the address, that’s all.”

“Did he hook up?”

“He sure did, baby-but let me tell it. The kid bobs and weaves, the little clown. Takes a bus uptown, walks around near the park, then just starts to bop down Broadway like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Never goes near a phone. Finally he goes into Happyland. You know, that videogame arcade on Broadway? So I go in there after him and he meets up with a guy at the Space Invaders game in the back. And he gives him a piece of paper-it had to be the phone number.”