Night Moves by Tom Clancy, Steve Pieczenik

mistakes. Halfway through, she deliberately mis stepped a hair, allowed her balance to drift slightly off before she recovered.
One did not wish to embarrass the guru in charge of a school one visited by being perfect. It might make him look bad in front of his students, and that was impolite. A minute was enough. She finished the dance, bowed again. It was a great one, she knew, one of her best. Her guru would be proud.

The class broke into spontaneous applause.
Toni flushed, embarrassed.
Stewart smiled at her.
"Beautiful. An outstanding kembangan. Thank you ... Guru." Toni gave him a short nod. He acknowledged her skill by calling her "teacher." And now she was curious. It was a bit forward, but she said, "I would be pleased to enjoy your kembangan. Guru." The students went quiet. It wasn't a direct challenge, but there was a broad hint: I showed you mine, now show me yours.
He smiled wider.
"Of course."
He offered her a formal bow, different than hers but similar in intent, cleared his wind and mind, and began.
Stewart's best days would be behind him. At fifty, she knew he would be past his physical peak, on the downhill slide. That was the nature of human physiology. His knowledge might be greater, but his body would be half a step behind, and steadily, if slowly, losing ground. Her own guru had been amazing, but she'd been an old woman when Toni started, and there were places she could no longer go. Stewart was still in good shape to look at, and certainly better shape than most men his age, but he would have lost a couple of steps by now. She should have made a couple more mistakes in her dance, she thought. With Stewart's first series of moves, Toni realized she was wrong. If you play decent guitar and you see a tape of Segovia practicing, it makes you want to cry because you know you'll never be that good.
Stewart was the martial artist equivalent of Segovia. Toni watched, mesmerized. The man moved as if he had no bones, as if he was a drop of hot oil rolling down a clean glass window--smooth, effortless, and utterly amazing. She had never seen anybody perform kemban-gan as well.
At about the same point in his dance as Toni had done, Stewart offered a bobble. His foot came down a hair crooked, he had to shift his weight hurriedly to recover. Toni didn't buy it for a second. This man, who was old enough to be her father, would not make that kind of mistake. He'd given it to her, a gift, so she would not lose face. She was thrilled. If push came to shove, Stewart was superior to her.

He was the perfect opponent, the one her guru had always trained her to face: bigger, stronger, probably
faster, and with technique that exceeded her own. In silat, you didn't practice to beat attackers who had no skill, you strived to learn how to defeat those who were as good as or better than you. If you could prevail in those circumstances, you had the essence of the Indonesian system. If she and Stewart fought, he would win. There was no question in her mind. As soon as she realized this, Toni wanted to do it, wanted to test him, to be bested--and to learn from it.
Stewart finished the dance and bowed. The students wanted to go wild with cheering and clapping, but he held up a hand to silence them. He gave Toni a military bow, a slow nod. Toni said, "I'm going to be here for a week or so longer. I would be honored if you would allow me to attend your classes. Guru."
"The honor," he said, "would be mine."
Oh, boy!
Saturday, April 2ndSomewhere in the British Raj, India Jay Gridley used a big silver machete to hack his way through leafy vines that draped low across the jungle trail. It was hard work, chopping at the bush, and the heat and humidity enveloped him in a miasmatic fog that kept him drenched in sweat. The wooden handle raised blisters on his hand, and the stink of cut branches and vines was so cloyingly... verdant, it was alive with greenness.
It wasn't comfortable, this hack through the jungle, but there was no good way to