I get to the strip mall and walk inside KM Studio, early as usual. I'm always the first one there. The instructor is an Israeli woman named Katia Loenstern. She's thirty-something and extremely attractive. Very buff and strong, too. I think she likes me, but I can't reciprocate. It's just too dangerous in my business to get involved with someone. Besides, I never know when I have to leave the country, and I can't talk about what I'm doing. It's not the best set of circumstances upon which to build a relationship. I don't particularly enjoybeing celibate, but I've trained myself not to think about it. I can appreciate looking at a beautiful woman, but that's as far as my thought process goes. I've been able to find the discipline to stymie it there before I allow the desire mechanism to kick in.

Katia is in the studio, limbering up on a ballet rail. I think she rents the studio to a ballet class on some days. I can't imagine that Krav Maga classes alone pay the rent.

"Sam!" she says, obviously surprised to see me.

"Hi, Katia," I reply.

"Where the heck you been? I thought you'd disappeared off the face of the earth."

That's right. I was in the Far East. I hadn't been to class in three months even though I had paid for the whole year in advance.

"I've been away on business," I said. At least it was the truth. "Sorry. I should have told you I'd be gone a while."

She straightens out and faces me. As usual, she's dressed in a leotard and tights for the warm-up. She'd put on a little more clothing later for the sparring portion of the class. Katia is tall, muscular, and has a nice, natural body. Her black hair comes down just past her shoulders. She has brown eyes, a long nose, and a rather pouty mouth. Yep, I would certainly jump her bones in another life.

"Just what kind of business are you in?"

"Sales. Overseas sales. I was in the Far East for three months."

She eyes me skeptically. "You don't look like a salesman."

I put down my gym bag that contains a towel and an extra T-shirt and sit on the mat. I begin my own warm-up stretches and ask, "I don't? What does a salesman look like?"

She gets on the mat near me and continues calisthenics. "I don't know. Just not like you."

"What do I look like?"

"You look like a soldier. Like a career soldier. Someone who's been in the army for thirty years."

" Thirtyyears? I'm not thatold!"

"No, I guess you're not. Okay, twenty years. How old are you, anyway? I forgot."

"It's on my application for the class, isn't it?"

"Yeah, I could go look it up, but I'm too busy right this second."

"I'm forty-seven."

She makes a face that indicates she's impressed. "Sam, you don't look a day over forty. Maybe even thirty-eight. And that's getting pretty close to me."

I look at her and she smiles at me. Is she flirting? Was that a come-on?

"Why, how old are you?" I ask.

"You know it's impolite to ask a woman her age."

"Aw, geez, Katia. Come on, I fessed up."

"Guess."

I'm pretty sure what the answer is, but I pretend to think about it. "Thirty-five?"

She raises her eyebrows. "Very good."

Two more students enter the studio. Josh and Brian are orthodox Jews who believe that "the war" will come to their neighborhood someday, and they want to be able to defend themselves. They're big guys. I don't think they'd have any problem defending themselves, with or without Krav Maga.

"Anyway, welcome back," Katia says to me, ending our conversation.

"Thanks," I say.

Over the next ten minutes the other students arrive. Out of twelve people, nine are men ranging from age sixteen to forty-something. I think I'm the oldest guy in the class. The three women are relatively young, between eighteen and thirty, I think. Katia's a very good instructor. She starts each class with a basic warm-up that includes some kind of aerobic activity, strength conditioning with push-ups and sit-ups, and stretching. Warm-ups are usually different in each class to keep things interesting and to ensure that each student leaves with a variety of exercises that can be used to keep fit outside of class. Following warm-up, Katia leads us in hand techniques for fifteen minutes. This time is devoted to hand strikes such as punches, elbows, and hammerfists, and associated defenses. The next fifteen minutes focus on leg techniques--kicks, knees, and their defenses. The final quarter hour is spent on self-defenses, and in Krav Maga there's a lot to learn. Katia goes through each self-defense move thoroughly, step-by-step to ensure maximum understanding. Then we practice live, with partners. The entire hour includes drills to enhance muscle strength and cardiovascular conditioning, as well as drills to teach students how to operate under pressure or fatigue, defend against multiple attackers, and keep fighting spirit high for the entire duration of a defense or fight.

Unlike the color belt system used by other martial arts systems, Krav Maga is broken down into levels. When you progress through the system, you move up in level until you reach 3B, the most advanced class that Katia teaches. That's the one I'm in, as well as "Fight Class," where we have the opportunity to spar while wearing protective gear. In 3B we work on weapons defenses, grappling, joint locks, spinning heel, and slap kicks, and other advanced combatives.

When the hour's up, everyone is in a major sweat. I can't wait to get home and hit the shower. As folks are leaving, I wipe my face and neck with a towel and catch my breath. Katia comes over to me and says, "Sam, you should be teaching this class, not me."

"You do a great job, Katia," I say.

"I'm serious. You've been doing this a long time, haven't you? I mean, I knew you were good, but today you showed me a thing or two. Where did you study before? Are you from Israel?"

I shake my head. "Nope. Born and raised here in the States."

"You're not Jewish, are you?"

I smile. "Charlie Chaplin was once asked that question," I say. "He replied, 'I don't have that honor, sorry.' "

She laughs. "Well, you're damned good. I'd really hate to fight you for real."

I don't know what to say, so I shrug and mumble, "Thanks."

"You have to rush off?" she asks. "You want to go get a coffee? Or something cold to drink? We can go to the little diner next door."

Oh, brother. This is all I need. Damn. Part of me wants to go with her and the rest of me wants to run like hell. I just can't get close to a woman. I know it doesn't work. I've been there, done that.

"I don't know. . . ." I start to say.

"Oh, come on. I'm not going to bite you. I might kick you in the groin if you don't, but I won't bite."

"We're all sweaty."

She rolls her eyes. "What is this? You looking for every excuse you can think of? We'll sit in the corner and no one will smell us."

Damn, she is cute.

"All right," I say.

She shakes her head as if to say, "I just don't get you." She grabs her stuff, I take mine, and we go out the door to the diner.

Katia buys a medium coffee, black. I opt for decaf. I don't like to have to depend on stuff like caffeine. If you get too used to coffee to keep you alert, you have no business being a Splinter Cell.

Now comes the hard part. She's probably going to ask me a lot of personal questions and I'm going to have to lie. I keep a catalog of cover stories for situations like this. The usual "What do you do for a living?" and "Where did you go to school?" and "Have you ever been married?" questions.