Fife-Simpson feinted a couple of times, but Wu had no reaction. Oh, what the hell, Fife-Simpson thought to himself, and lunged at the man’s face. He was very quick, but Wu was quicker. He caught the brigadier’s wrist, and Fife-Simpson found himself on his belly, his own knife blade pressed against his throat. What the hell was that? he asked himself.

Wu took the knife away and stood up, beckoning Fife-Simpson to do the same. He tossed the knife to the brigadier, who caught it blade first, cutting his finger.

“Again,” Wu said, beckoning.

Fife-Simpson was angry and embarrassed now and did not hold back. He feinted, and tossed the knife from one hand to the other, a maneuver that usually worried his opponents.

Wu simply caught the knife in midair and tossed it back to his attacker, who was struck in the chest by the blade.

Fife-Simpson was grateful for the protective gear now, because without it he would have had a knife blade in his heart. Wu was still beckoning with both hands.

The brigadier recovered the knife and, with no hesitation, flung himself feet first into a leg tackle, bringing Wu to his knees, but no further. There was the flash of a hand and Fife-Simspon found himself flat on his back, with the knife blade laid against his cheek, the tip a quarter-inch from his eye.

Wu looked at Meg questioningly. She gave him a slight nod.

Fife-Simpson was yanked to his feet, and the knife was tossed to him again.

“Once more,” Wu said softly.

Fife-Simpson was humiliated and furious now. He drew himself into a coil—his left arm before him, bent at the elbow, fist clenched—and flung himself at Wu, slashing back and forth, a maneuver designed to hit his opponent anywhere, and with enough force to mark his body and bring blood.

Fife-Simpson found himself flying through the air. He struck the padded wall with more force than he had expended, then collapsed in a heap. He felt a warm trickle down one side of his nose, which found his lips and tasted a little salty.

“Enough!” Meg called out.

Fife-Simpson staggered to his feet, blinded in one eye by blood.

“Over here,” Meg said.

Fife-Simpson staggered across the matted floor to where she stood. A young man stood beside her, holding what appeared to be a fishing tackle case.

She stripped the protective clothing off him. “Lie down on the bench, face up,” Meg said.

Fife-Simpson followed her every instruction instantly, and the young man spent several minutes suturing and then bandaging his forehead and finger.

A half hour later, Fife-Simpson was driving his car through the gate of Camp Peary and onto the public road, following instructions to the motorway back to Washington, wondering what the hell had happened to him, and why.

27

Over breakfast the next morning, Lance told Stone and Rose about Fife-Simpson’s experience at the CIA and Camp Peary.