“You picked the right spot,” Alexey said.

“What do you mean?” Weecho said, cradling his cell against his shoulder, eye out for cops while he drove with the last of the morning rush traffic heading into the city. He’d spent the rest of the night at the hospital, found out they wouldn’t be operating on his mother until this afternoon at the earliest. Meantime, the grunge band needed their van back. 

“Come by the house,” Alexey said. “You can see your own handiwork.” 

Alexey clicked off and Weecho worked his way downtown, dropped the van off and took the subway back up to 77th. Rang the bell on the iron gate to Alexey’s five-story town house. His houseman, Jeremy, answered the door, took Weecho up the curving marble staircase to the library, same soft light through the tall windows as when they were Skyping Aramis and Lynch. 

“Hello, Weecho,” Alexey said. He was finishing up breakfast at the computer table with Dara and Commissioner Burke. Waved his hand toward a sideboard of food. “Help yourself and come look.” 

He hadn’t eaten at the hospital, the smell of bacon and fresh baked bread making him realize how hungry he was. He started to fix himself a plate, but Dara came over and took it from him. 

“You sit down,” she said. “I’ll bring it over. What would you like in your coffee?” 

“Just black is fine, thanks.” 

Another woman in his life, like Juna last night and his mother, seeing to it he ate, like put some poundage on him. Him thinking his mother would have her work cut out now just to feed herself. 

Commissioner Burke looked him over as he pulled out a chair. 

“I understand you’re a swimmer,” Burke said. 

“Yes, sir. The survival stroke.” 

Burke did his imitation of a smile, pointed to one of the computer screens. “We’ve already got something from your night’s work. I didn’t want you to see it because of its sensitivity, but Alex said it was only fair you did.” 

Alexey nodded. “The key word is sensitivity. Nothing you’re about to see goes beyond this room. Understood?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“You’ll see why in a second.” He clicked the mouse. 

Dara set a plate piled with bacon, eggs and two sweet rolls in front of Weecho, coffee in a ceramic mug, and took a seat next to him.  

“This is a replay,” Alexey said. “They got an early start.” 

Weecho took a bite of eggs and watched the screen. 

He could see Yoon’s library where he’d hidden the bug, not too different looking from where the four of them were sitting right here. Most of the frame showed the conference table where he’d aimed the concealed lens. He knew the signal had been relayed from a surveillance van parked near the pier where Yoon’s yacht was tied up. 

The conference table had three place settings on it, Yoon at one, a man with his back to the camera at another. The third place was empty. Yoon stood up and looked offscreen. 

“Senator, good morning.” Yoon held out his hand. “You slept well?” 

Senator Patrick Hugh Gatchel, in a blue blazer and casual shirt, stepped into the frame and shook Yoon’s hand. Had spent the night aboard, it sounded like.  

“Very well, thank you,” Gatchel said. 

Yoon smiled. “I believe we had a successful evening.” 

“Thanks to your hospitality.” Gatchel looked over his shoulder. “That’s a beautiful bird there.” 

Weecho said to Alexey and Burke, who couldn’t see it, “There’s a falcon in a cage.” 

They nodded. 

Onscreen, Yoon said, “Thank you. My colleague and I do what we can to protect our wild friends.” 

What better way than a cage? 

Yoon gestured to the other person at the table. “Senator Gatchel, may I introduce Mr. Emer Lynch.” 

Lynch, who was still turned from the camera, reached out his hand. 

“An honor, Senator. Excuse me for not standing.” 

Gatchel went to shake the hand – and jumped back. Weecho leaned in, could see that Lynch had a big snake coiled in his lap.   

“Not to worry,” Lynch said. “He’s resting.” 

Weecho looked at Alexey and Burke for a reaction, realized they’d have seen this on the earlier screening. He turned to watch Lynch’s hand stroking the snake’s head. 

“This is an Iranian sand viper,” Lynch said. “Fairly rare, very appropriate for what we’d like to discuss.” He gestured toward the empty place setting. “Please, have a seat.” 

Gatchel gave him a look that wouldn’t have gotten anybody’s vote, sat down like he wanted to be anyplace but there. A white-coated waiter leaned in and poured coffee, topped off the other two cups and left. 

“Now I hope I can speak frankly here,” Lynch said, “because it’s possible that together we can do something very worthwhile for ourselves and for our country.” 

Yoon sat back down. “Mr. Lynch refers to your Arms Appropriation Committee’s buy-back of armament from our allies in the Middle East.” 

 So, Juna had nailed it when she Googled Gatchel.  

“And former allies,” Lynch said, watching the senator and stroking the snake. 

Yoon watched Gatchel watching Lynch. 

“As an example,” Yoon said, “we have an opportunity to purchase a supply of anti-personnel devices and shoulder missiles shipped there by our Russian friends.” 

“A large supply,” Lynch said. “We’d like to arrange a transaction quickly to keep them out of adversary hands.” 

“That’s honorable of you,” Gatchel said. He held Lynch’s gaze, then turned to Yoon. “Mr. Yoon, let me be frank. Your campaign help has been of enormous benefit to me. Your contacts as well.” 

“It has been my pleasure.” 

“But that help has been more than repaid. I’m afraid my upcoming agenda is going to make me… less accessible.” The senator put both hands on the table. “Which isn’t to say I will be unaccessible.” 

“Meaning?” 

“Perhaps it’s time to rethink our arrangement. The numbers.” 

The two men studied each other, each expressionless. After a moment, Yoon said, “Allow me to give it consideration.” 

“Absolutely.” Gatchel pushed up from the table and held out his hand. “I thank you again for your generous hospitality.” He shook Yoon’s hand, nodded good-bye to Lynch, and left the screen. 

Weecho glanced sideways, could see by the way Alexey and Burke kept watching that there was more to come. 

Onscreen, Yoon waited for the sound of Gatchel shutting the door behind him before he spoke to Lynch. 

“It will play in his stateroom?” 

“He’ll see it as soon as he walks in.” 

“Well then perhaps we should be there.” 

They both got up from the table, Lynch still cradling the snake, and walked out of the frame. 

Weecho turned to Alexey and Burke. “What’s he supposed to see in his stateroom?” 

“Wouldn’t we love to know,” Burke said. “But what we do know is that a United States Senator has been playing footsy with a global-class arms dealer.” He gave Weecho his deep-freeze look. “No one outside this room is to know that. No one. Understood?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

He’d heard it the first time, but no harm repeating. 

                                                #          #          # 

He watched the replay again with Dara. 

“Would you like more coffee?” she asked. 

“No, I’m good, thanks.” 

Alexey and Burke had gone downstairs to the pistol range to shoot and talk. Their concern was Yoon and Senator Gatchel. Weecho’s was Lynch. 

Soul Patch Lynch. 

Weecho hadn’t taken his eyes off the screen. Even watching him from the back, Weecho could see plenty from his own past in him. The snake routine – pure intimidation.   

“He feeds on other people’s suffering,” Weecho said. “Your perfect psycho-sadist.”  

Dara turned from the screen – Where did that come from? 

“He’d laugh at a dog fight if it was nasty enough. Or a kid on the wrong end of a punch. Believe me, I’ve been there.” 

Weecho picked up another piece of bacon, chewed on it while he thought back to something he hadn’t considered a big deal at the time, but it had added to the list that set his mother on her path to prison.            

“When I was in grade school,” Weecho said, “my mother made me take piano lessons. I hated it. I mean, we lived in a tough neighborhood and that wasn’t what you wanted to be known for. But I did it, for her. One time I was skateboarding to my lesson, and some kids who knew where I was going threw rocks at me. One hit me in the head and opened a gash. I fell off my board and the gash bled all over my music book. It made me depressed, to look at that book later with the dried blood on it. My father when he saw it just laughed. Called me a wussy.” 

He saw that Dara, being foreign, didn’t know the word.  

“Sissy,” Weecho said. 

She nodded. “What did you do?” 

“I gave him a look. He slapped me, my ears rang. I never took another lesson.” 

                                                      #        #        #  

Teddy Shongut usually didn’t drink in the middle of the day, but sometimes life got the better. He was sitting by himself at the end of the bar, reading a magazine. Springsteen was on the jukebox singing about a one-legged man. The bartender came over and set a fresh beer down, filled a shot glass from the bottle of Seagrams he’d left sitting out, pushed the glass to Shongut and rapped his knuckles on the bar. 

“To better days.” 

 Shongut nodded thanks, poured the shot into his beer, took a swig, wiped the foam off his lip and went back to the magazine. 

It was an issue of Cover, the one that had Nina Galleon on the front. Shongut was looking at the pictures inside, the ones of Nina in the summer outfits. He let his laced beer sit there for awhile and stared at the pictures. 

Finally, he took another swig, coughed and wiped his nose on the back of his hand. He closed the magazine and folded his hands over Nina’s face. Bowed his head – then looked up and stared at himself in the backbar mirror.