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when some of them saw me working out and asked if I could show them what I did. I just taught the lessons Mr. Manley learned in Brazil before Americans knew about them. Challenges usually went like this, a pattern familiar to those who have seen jujutsu at work, with slight variations: I'd maintain distance with a front kick, choose a moment to do a double leg takedown, mount, take the back, and do a rear naked choke. In the seminars, I would have to modify this for cops: you can't go to the ground with multiple attackers, you can't go to the ground if the other guy has a knife, much less a gun, so there were other tricks for different ranges. Every so often, a big strong bruiser would be determined to prove that his strength, or surprise, or dirty fighting would prevail, and that my techniques wouldn't work in real situations. Marchese and his partner were two such bruisers. The partner went down in the standard way, but on his turn, Marchese resisted the takedown, so I pulled him down, a technique called pulling guard, and tied his arms and upper body up with my arms and legs. At that point, he tried to stick his thumb in my eye, and had he succeeded, he would have discredited me and left me permanently disabled. So I broke his thumb. He grunted once but kept fighting, so I pulled his arm and head into a triangle and choked him unconscious with my legs. Afterwards, it was in both our interest to chalk it up to an accident, play like it was all in good fun, and I never saw him again. Until now.
     
    I turned from Marchese to Ms. Kenney. “Thank you very much, Ms. Kenney. My connecting flight is in...” I looked at my watch, “...four hours. Is there time?”
    “Sure there is, Mr. Brown. The car is waiting.”
     
    They didn't ask me about the case, didn't mention Hoffman, and if they knew what I was doing there, they didn't let on. Instead, there was a lot of small talk. Traffic wasn't too bad by Manhattan standards, so it was racing by Mexico city standards, and the route was direct enough, Avenida Rio Consulado to Paseo de la Reforma, both big multilane streets. The embassy complex itself was next to the Sheraton, and not far from one of many monuments to Mexican independence. Perhaps there was some irony there, probably lost on my hosts.
    The embassy took security seriously. Backpack checked, handbag checked, metal detectors, shoes, belt, and then Marchese disappeared and Kenney escorted me to an air-conditioned briefing room with no windows. I accepted the offer of coffee and Kenney waited with me. The political attache arrived within five minutes.
    She stood tall, almost my height, and was thick set, with straight blond hair going to grey and pale skin, about fifty. The standard blue skirt suit she wore matched her very sharp blue eyes, which she turned on me. “Jane Hamilton,” she said, with a strong handshake.
    “Mark Brown.”
    “Apologies,” she said, “the Ambassador would have met you himself but he had a number of other appointments this afternoon.”
    I smiled. “I am very happy to have had the chance to meet with you, Ms. Hamilton.” Even though I had no idea who scheduled the meeting or what it was about.
    “I'm sure you know what this meeting is about,” she said.
    I nodded seriously.
    “We are very appreciative that the Mexican government has chosen to work with an independent US organization to handle this case. While we are uncertain about how or exactly who in the government made this decision, we think it is a very good sign of confidence in us.”
    “I am sure that if we can deliver an impartial report, it will be in everyone's interest.” I said, watching her eyes.
    “Indeed. And given the importance of impartiality, we will not be rendering you any assistance beyond what we would offer any other US citizen here in Mexico.”
    “And likewise,” I said slowly, “we won't have any kind of ongoing communication with the Embassy during the investigation. But when I make my final