It wasn’t long after the Aramis incident that Alexey put Weecho on a photo shoot. A fancy shoot, black tie, part of a big social event – an event where Weecho would be working undercover with Dara. 

The evening started early at Cover’s studios. Weecho set up a bank of remote strobes and angled them to get a stylized, early-Hollywood effect (“sculpting with light” he called it). His first official Cover model was wearing a slinky silver gown, was made up to look like a 1930’s film star. Sultry. Smoky. Waiting for Weecho against a curved white backdrop. He raised the camera and the model gave him a series of classic Hollywood glamour poses, flinging her long blond hair. Flash! Flash! 

Weecho looked over to the shoot director, a neon-haired woman in a gothic gown standing with tuxedoed Alexey, both of them checking the monitor linked to Weecho’s camera. Alexey nodded and the woman gave Weecho a thumbs-up. 

Next was a model in a white blouse unbuttoned down to her red leather belt, the hem of her black skirt brushing her toes. She moved so the blouse opened wider and Weecho moved in for the shot. Flash! Another check with the director, another thumbs-up. 

Last was a tall, dark-haired young woman gliding across the backdrop in a long emerald dress, turning like a dancer and swirling the dress, pointing a perfect leg through the slit up one side. Weecho shot from a series of angles, checked the images on the camera’s screen, nodded his thanks to the model.  

Dara. 

She smiled and came over, checking out Weecho’s tux. 

“You look very nice,” she said. 

“Compliments your uncle.” The tux a gift from Alexey. “You’re the one looks terrific.” 

“It’s the dress.” 

“You’d make a chicken suit look good.” 

Dara curtsied graciously, showing more leg, and walked with Weecho over to the monitor where her uncle and the director lady were checking the last of the images. 

“Good,” Alexey said. 

Looking every bit the fashion icon in his perfectly fitted tux, he stepped over to the models’ dressing area where a dozen beautiful women were being zipped into outfits fresh from fashion’s marquee names.  

“Okay, listen up,” Alexey said. “The cars are waiting, so soon as you’re ready, go downstairs. You all look terrific and I know you’ll be great.” 

He blew them a kiss, nodded for Dara and Weecho to join him, and headed for the door.   

                                                #          #          # 

They rode down the West Side Highway in the back of Alexey’s Bentley, heading with the nighttime flow of lights toward lower Manhattan. Weecho sat in the seat that faced rear, Dara next to him in her emerald dress. Alexey was in the back seat facing front, talking on his cell:  

“I’m on the way to an event I’d like you to save some Style Section space for.” He glanced at the camera in Weecho’s lap. “We’ll be sending you pictures as they’re happening.” Listened, nodded. “You’re great. Thank you.” 

He snapped off the connection, tossed the phone onto the console, fixed a serious look on Weecho.     

So did the man at Alexey’s side, Commissioner Burke. “So tell us what Juna picked up about Nina Galleon,” Burke said. 

It was only a few hours before that Weecho had found out himself, hadn’t had a chance to fill anyone in, everyone involved with last-minute details organizing the event. 

“Nina was basically making it with Lynch,” Weecho said. “They’d known each other from growing up out there.” 

“We already supposed that,” Burke said. “What we want to know is why would she do it? With him especially.” 

“Juna said it sounds like he had her hooked on smack.” 

Alexey shook his head. “The great compromiser.” 

He turned to the window, stared out through his reflection in the glass. The car stopped for a light and he turned to Dara. 

“Why didn’t we know this?” 

“We didn’t stay that close,” Dara said. “We only had a brief fling when I was checking her out during instruction.” 

Fling? Dara and Nina? 

“Obviously she tried to play it both ways.” Dara with that bit of an accent, sounding matter-of-fact. “Lynch with his heroin had the leverage. I should have picked up on it.”  

Weecho thinking, Man, am I out of my depth. 

Burke put his gaze back on Weecho. “And now we’ve got someone in there we know even less about.” 

“Hey, give her a break.” 

“How much do you know about her?” 

Weecho started to say something, instead shook his head.  

Alexey looked back out the window. The car began moving again. When he spoke it was to Burke. 

“I need to do some restructuring, Vince, this using the magazine as cover.” 

“What are you talking about?” 

“I’ve been doing it with Tel Aviv’s blessing, but not with much backing.” 

“You’re talking money?” 

Alexey nodded. “You’re ex-navy, I’m sure you know about the old prize system.” 

“Booty.” 

Alexey looked at Weecho and Dara: “When a warship took another ship, we’re going back now, the winning captain was awarded the cargo. The Prize.” 

Weecho and Dara nodded, waiting for the connection.  

Alexey turned back to Burke. “The magazine is thin and getting thinner. All our divisions are.” 

“It’s a thin economy,” Burke said. 

“The economy, to put it kindly, sucks.” 

“So what are you saying?” 

Alexey’s eyes took in each of them. “I’m saying that if we want to keep this thing going, we need to keep the magazine going. And if we’re going to do that, we need to come up with some kind of Prize. Soon.” 

                                                #          #          #  

The lights of lower New York swung into Weecho’s view through the rear window as the driver wheeled the Bentley off the highway and out to the North Cove Yacht Harbor. Pulled them up to a long ocean yacht tied to a pier at the foot of the World Financial Center. The boat was lit up like a cruise ship, Weecho noticing a helicopter sitting on an upper deck pad. Alexey had phoned ahead to make sure the Cover models had gotten aboard and were circulating. 

The driver got out and held the door. Weecho slung his camera over his shoulder, started to get out, looked back at Burke who stayed put. 

“Aren’t you coming with us?” 

“I’m the last person you want to be seen with.” 

That made sense, given the plan. Weecho nodded goodnight, got out, and, with Dara on his arm, followed Alexey up the boat’s gangway. 

A uniformed deckhand escorted them along the promenade and into the main salon where the affair was in full swing – champagne corks popping, platters of finger-food going by, couples dancing to music from a time when people crossed oceans on liners and dressed every night like this.       

Weecho got his paparazzi act together and started working the black-tie crowd, most of them fashion people not shy about having their pictures taken. The Cover models were pros at filling in wherever a pretty face was needed. 

Dara played charmer-at-large, was pretty much everywhere, getting people to smile their best, no effort at all. She stopped on her way across the room to straighten Weecho’s bow tie. 

“When do you think?” she said. 

“Lemme see how it’s going after the speeches.” He glanced at her purse. “I’ll come back for you when I know it’s a go.” 

They had a chore to do. 

A few minutes later Weecho got a nice shot of Dara listening to a U.S. Senator who’d gotten up to make a speech about the organization the evening was raising finds for – something called the New Citizens Culture Development Fund, which sounded to Weecho like an upscale way to get first look at any new talent coming into the country.          

“And now,” the Senator said, “please join me in welcoming the man whose energy put this event so quickly together. Ladies and gentlemen, the distinguished publisher of Cover magazine – Alex Alexey.”   

Alexey smiled and waved at the applause. Weecho snapped his picture and joined in the clapping. 

“Thank you,” Alexey said. “Thank you Senator Gatchel.”  

He waited for the applause to die down. 

“Two of my most meaningful career moments,” Alexey said, no rookie at public speaking, “came when I discovered it was in the publishing world that I could be most creative, and that there is much to be gained by helping newcomers to this country find their own creative path – a chance some of my immigrant relatives would love to have had. The fund and I thank you for your generous support.” 

He gestured to a nearby model whose zebra-striped skirt was paired with a short black jacket that had little underneath but the model herself. 

“And thanks to our designer friends for letting us make their creations the centerpiece of our evening.” 

The crowd gave themselves a round of applause while Alexey turned to a short Asian man standing nearby. When it quieted down he continued: 

“And please let’s give a special thanks to our host this evening for sharing this beautiful vessel – Mr. Ming Jay Yoon.” 

More applause. Weecho took a picture of Alexey, speech concluded, walking over and shaking hands with Yoon.  

 “That was very kind of you, Mr. Alexey,” Yoon said, the two moving off to the side of the crowd. “But not necessary.” 

Alexey smiled. “We wouldn’t have had an event without you. And Cover would have missed out on a great feature.” 

“A successful evening for all, then,” Yoon said. 

“A win-win.” 

Juna had been right – Yoon looked like an Asian kewpie doll, or one of those wedding cake figures – groomed so not a hair was out of place, perfect little tux, if anything shorter than Weecho. 

Weecho took another shot when Senator Patrick Hugh Gatchel joined them and shook Alexey’s hand. 

“Brevity and style,” Gatchel said, keeping his face so the camera could find it, a senatorial reflex. “A good combination, don’t you think Mr. Yoon?” 

“One can never have too much of either.” 

Alexey nodded thanks to both of them, had to raise his voice when the music started up again. “This is quite a vessel, Mr. Yoon. I imagine you can sail it anywhere.” 

“I prefer it to flying.” 

“Well, I’m glad you were in port when we called.” 

Alexey caught Weecho’s eye and cocked his head toward a nearby door. 

Weecho stepped back into the crowd, made sure Dara saw him when he headed for the door. He grabbed a couple of prawns off a passing tray, shoved them in his mouth and let himself out into a passageway. The door swung shut on the music and chatter – then opened again and Dara came out. 

“You’d better take this now,” she said, digging in her purse. “In case you find a place for it before I can leave again.” 

Weecho didn’t answer with his mouth full.  

She gave him the bug they were there to plant, a tiny video cam and mic unit that Commissioner Burke’s people had built into the spine of a book. The two of them were told to put it in a place where it would “pick up something useful.”    

Dara said, “If it looks like I can get to you without being missed, I will.” 

Weecho realized only after they’d gotten aboard and saw the party layout that of course she would be missed. So would he. We need some shots, someone would be saying, Where the hell is that camera?  

Dara gave him a quick peck on the cheek and went back through the door. 

Burst of noise, then silence. 

The door was thick mahogany. Same for the paneling along the passageway. Weecho headed toward the other end, passing more doors, staterooms most likely, probably locked. Not what he wanted anyway. At the end of the passageway he came to a door that had Library engraved on a shiny brass plaque. 

Library. Books. Check it out. 

He tried the door. It wasn’t locked. Probably left open for guests to use. 

Well, guest he was. He poked his head in, did a quick scan, saw nobody was in there, stepped inside and closed the door behind him. 

The room had shelves of leather-bound books, overstuffed leather chairs to read them in, not too different from Alexey’s place. What gave it its own touch was the picture-window view of the Hudson River at night. In front of the window was a big antique desk, computer on it with a screensaver picture of Yoon’s yacht off some tropical beach. Dara could maybe get into that later if she could break away. 

Angled in the far corner was a conference table that looked like it might get the kind of use the mini-cam and mic should snoop on. This was working out better than he thought. 

He started over there… froze at a noise behind him. 

Turned around slowly… let out a breath.  

Over in the opposite corner was a big fancy bird cage. Inside it, glaring at Weecho, was a peregrine falcon. 

Weecho could guess the chain of how it got there – Shongut to Lynch to Yoon. 

“Peace,” Weecho said, snapped the bird’s picture and turned back to the conference table. 

He put the camera down and pulled out a chair, stood on it to reach the top shelf of books. Opened the hollowed-out book Dara gave him that had the video cam and mic in it, made sure the motion-activated setting was on. He closed the book and wedged it up there between two books near the end – a spot that had the concealed lens aimed toward the table in a way Weecho thought it would cover the most area. He’d tell Dara where it was and she could come back and check it if she wanted, but probably best not to chance it.     

He got down off the chair, pushed it back in place and made a quick inspection. Just another book up there. Picked up his camera, said so long to the falcon and went back out the door.  

Was heading back for the party when one of the stateroom doors opened – and out stepped Lynch, Soul Patch Lynch. Where the f…? Weecho whipped around and went the other way, couldn’t tell if Lynch saw his face or not. At the end of the passageway, wanting to run but staying steady, Weecho came to a door that matched the one going back to the party. No idea where it went, or even if it was open. 

He grabbed for the handle. 

“Excuse me,” Lynch called to his back, the man’s tone saying freeze.