Deal Breaker

and Win bowed once more and moved into the private dojang for the upper-ranked black belts. They began with meditation, something Myron had never quite gotten the full grasp of. Win loved it. He did it for at least an hour a day. Win folded himself into a lotus position. Myron settled for sitting Indian style. Both men closed their eyes, placed their thumbs on the palm directly below the pinkie, and tilted their palms toward the ceiling.

They rested their hands on their knees. Instructions echoed through Myron's mind like a mantra. Back straight. Bottom of tongue curled up against the back of the upper teeth. He breathed in through his nose for six seconds, concentrating on pushing the air down into the pit of his gut, making sure that his chest did not move, that only his abdomen expanded. Then he held the air down deep, counting to himself to prevent his mind from wandering. After seven seconds he slowly released the air through the mouth for a ten count, making sure to empty completely his contracting gut. Then he waited four seconds before breathing in again.

Win did this painlessly. He did not count. His mind went black. Myron always counted, needing it to keep his mind from wandering back to the problems of the day - especially on a day like today. But in spite of himself he began to relax, to feel the tension leave his body with every long exhalation. It almost tingled.

They meditated for ten minutes before Win opened his eyes and said, 'Barro.' Korean for stop.

They performed deep stretching exercises for the next twenty minutes.

Win had the flexibility of a ballet dancer, performing full splits effortlessly.

Myron had gained a lot of flexibility since taking up tai kwon do. He believed it had helped him gain six inches on his vertical leap in college. He could almost do a full split, but he couldn't hold it long.

In short Myron was flexible; Win was Gumby.

They went through their forms or poomse next, a complicated set of moves not unlike a violent dance step. What many exercise-crazed junkies never realized is that the martial arts are the ultimate aerobic workout. You are in constant motion -jumping, turning, spinning - propelling both arms and both legs nonstop for a half-hour at a time. Low block and front kick, high block and punch, middle block and round-house kick. Inside blocks, outside blocks, knife-hand, fists, palm strikes, knees and elbows. It was an exhausting and exhilarating workout.

Win moved through his routine flawlessly - ever the contradiction and deception. See Win on the street, and people said arrogant WASPy wimp who couldn't bruise a peach with his best punch. See him in a dojang, and he struck fear and awe. Tai kwon do is considered a martial art. Art. The word was not used by accident. Win was an artist, the best Myron had ever seen.

Myron remembered the first time he'd seen Win demonstrate his talent.

They were freshmen in college. A group of large football players decided to

46

shave Win's blond locks because they didn't like the way he looked. Five of them sneaked into Win's room late at night - four to hold down his arms and legs and one to carry the razor and shaving cream.

Simply put, the football team had a poor season that year. Too many guys on the injured list.

Myron and Win finished up with light free sparring. Then they dropped to the mat and performed one hundred push-ups on their fists - Win counting out loud in Korean. That done, they sat again for meditation, this time lasting fifteen minutes.

'Barro,' Win said.

Both men opened their eyes.

'Feeling more focused?' Win asked. 'Feeling the flow of energy? The balance?'

'Yes, Grasshopper. You want me to snatch the pebble from your hand now;

Win moved from his lotus position into full stance in one graceful, effortless move. 'So,' he said, 'have you reached any decisions?'

'Yes.' Myron struggled to stand in one motion, tipping from side to side as he ascended. I'm going to tell Jessica everything.'

47 7

Yellow stick-on phone messages swarmed Myron's phone like locusts on a carcass. Myron peeled them away and shuffled through them. Nothing from Otto Burke or Larry Hanson or anyone in the Titans organization.

Not good.

He strapped on his headset telephone. He had resisted using one for a long time, figuring they were more suited for air traffic controllers than agents, but he quickly learned that an agent is but a fetus, his office a womb, his telephone an umbilical cord. It was easier with the headset. He could walk around; he could keep his hands free; he could forgo neck cramps from cradling a phone against his shoulder.