“Before he departs, take him down to Camp Peary, equip him with protective gear and a knife of his choice, and introduce him to Wu. When he’s done there, send him on his way with a hearty handshake and a slap on the back.”

“Understood,” she replied. “I think I speak for all the people he’s met when I say, ‘good riddance.’”

Lance laughed, then hung up.

—

Meg put away her phone and went to find the brigadier, who was in the break room, finishing a cup of tea. “Do you have time for one more visit?” she asked.

“To where?”

“Our training facility. The director thought you might enjoy meeting someone there.”

Fife-Simpson sighed, put down his teacup, and followed her from the building. They crossed a hundred yards of well-kept lawn and entered another building.

“We’ve heard that you prefer the knife as a weapon,” Meg said, “and we thought our approach to attack and defense might interest you.”

“Of course,” Fife-Simpson replied.

She took him into an equipment room and supplied him with a thick canvas jumpsuit and a protective upper-body garment that, when zipped up, gave him a shield from his chin to his crotch, and the sleeves of which stopped below his knuckle. “Suit up. You can put your things in a locker, there. I’ll be waiting through that door.” She pointed.

—

Fife-Simpson liked the garment he was donning; he thought it might soothe the fears of some of his students at Station Two. He opened the door and stepped into a room of about twelve by eighteen feet, with a thickly padded floor and walls, up to about six feet. Meg was sitting on a bench at his right, and she stood up and beckoned him to a cabinet, opening the doors to reveal a couple dozen knives and other hand weapons.

“Please select something,” she said.

Fife-Simpson chose an ordinary-looking, but very sharp, field knife. “This, I should think,” he said.

“Good,” Meg replied. “Now, may I introduce you to Mr. Wu?”

Fife-Simpson turned and found an Asian man standing in the center of the room, dressed in gym shorts and nothing else. He appeared to be unarmed, and the brigadier had not heard him enter. The man beckoned, then pointed at a spot on the padded floor, about six feet in front of him.

Fife-Simpson walked out onto the floor and stopped.

Wu stood, feet slightly apart, empty hands at his sides. He had thick, cropped black hair and bland features. He beckoned with both hands. “Attack me, please,” he said.

Fife-Simpson shook his head and said, “You are unarmed. I have you at a disadvantage.”

“Perhaps not,” Wu replied. “Attack me, please,” he repeated.

Fife-Simpson felt a trickle of fear run down his bowels, but he shook it off, assumed a fighting stance, and circled to his left.

Wu turned with him, but made no other movement.