"Leave the tofu for the vegetarians, please," he says. That's his job; he stands here and tells people to leave the tofu for the vegetarians. Unbelievable.

She's not a vegetarian, but she takes some tofu anyway. She smiles, tries to pull his attention away from the pile of chicken on her plate. It works. It always works. She is stunning, the embodiment of some ancient beauty, skin like white marble, hair like spun night sky. She loads her plate and moves off through the sea of tuxedos and evening gowns to her table, perfume trailing her wake.

Ace is waiting for her, ridiculous in a black tux and purple cummerbund, muscles bulging under starched fabric, heavy gold-rimmed sunglasses glowing in the candlelight. Their rhinestones flash as he turns to watch her approach. She takes her seat next to him, eyes falling on the small white card at her place setting. The words "Rhonda Friday, The Globe" are etched on it in exquisite gold script.

"You got the tofu," says Ace. He jabs his fork into a hunk of something covered in cream sauce and shoves it into his mouth. He killed a man with a fork once, right in front of her. Pushed it into the guy's spine at the base of his neck. They were embedded with the troops in Somalia, armed only with an army ration kit.  It was a long time ago, but eating with Ace still makes her uncomfortable.

"Yes, I got the tofu." She puts some silk in her voice, gives it just enough oomph to grab some attention. Her dinner companions perk up immediately, predictably. They know somebody important has sat down. They change their manners. The men sit up straight, the women slowly pick at the gourmet meal with heavy silverware. Gurevich would be pleased. Rhonda could picture her, thick brows hovering high on her vast forehead, scratching notes on recycled Soviet paper. The Russians spent more money on psychological research during the Cold War than on heating oil. When the war ended, the KGB kicked Gurevich out into the cold. Rhonda spent four months with the old crone, learned everything she could. Harper's picked up the profile; National Geographic published the photo essay. "How's the wine?"

Ace chews thoughtfully, takes a long pull on his glass of red. "Not bad, a little tart for my taste, but this is the '78, not the '76." He swirls the cabernet around in the glass, watches the legs hold on, then ease their way back into the matrix. Ace spent three years at Greystone in Napa, studying to be a sommelier. Two days to graduation he got into an argument with his instructor over a bottle of Shiraz. It didn't come to blows, but it was close. They kicked Ace out, banished him. Now he's got a column in the Globe called "Ace on the Case." He calls himself an investigative reporter, but usually ends up writing restaurant reviews. He peers at the wine. "I've had better." His right eyebrow hovers above the gaudy frames for an instant, then retreats behind a rhinestone.

She takes a sip of the cabernet, lets it roll around on her tongue. Her eyes scan their dinner companions—yards of silk and lace wrapped around pale pampered skin. She can almost smell their cash, a slurry of sweat and blood and oil. Patricia Fentworth, the heiress to the Fentworth silicon empire, sits to her right. She has a nose like the prow of a capsized ship. She is in love with "Reynaldo," the Portuguese pop star. Rhonda knows this because she caught them canoodling on a beach in Algarve. She met Fentworth at a party in Faro a few days later, asked how Rey was doing. She thought Fentworth's brain was going to sluice right out of that nose all over the tapas.

Fentworth became an instant inside source, feeding her gossip on an almost daily basis. Rhonda didn't have to charm her way into any exclusive charity ball or awards ceremony, not even this one.

The mark is next. Nicholas Vanderweil, software and media mogul. Tall, slim, with gray temples and chic black-rimmed glasses. He smiles like Buddha, slides along on a film of calm confidence like a mollusk. He's here to accept an award and give a speech on behalf of his company, MediaGen. MediaGen owns more news sites than any other corporation in the U.S. It is a conservative bastion, a mouthpiece for the New American Century. Vanderweil is rumored to carry a copy of the group's manifesto with him at all times. He takes a bite of tofu and casts a smile at Rhonda, eyes like flint hiding behind Zeiss lenses. It's not the hollow smile he throws at reporters during press conferences. This one's got tendrils that slither down into Rhonda's stomach, tendrils that tickle and sicken.

She takes it in stride, raises the corners of her small mouth ever so slightly, takes another sip and bats her lashes over the rim of her glass.

"Ms. Friday," he says, his voice like weathered granite. "I'm glad you could make it."

She sets her glass down, nods almost bashfully. "Thank you."

"I enjoyed your piece in Harper's. Impressive work."

"Again, I thank you." She lets her smile grow ever so slightly, holds eye contact just few seconds too long.

He holds her stare, waiting for her to blush. I doesn't happen. He quickly and gracefully returns his attention to his dinner. 

"Well played." Ace slips the words out between bites, just under his breath. Rhonda cringes. He's an apt pupil, has sharp eyes, but is as subtle as a howitzer.

"Thank you." She takes another bite of the tofu, chews it thoughtfully. She'll need to lose Ace soon. He's great for grunt work, but tonight she'll need stealth, subterfuge. After the award ceremony, Vanderweil is set to receive a bundle of papers from Kaneda Yamamoto, CEO of Yamamoto Enterprises, second-largest microchip manufacturer in Japan. The company's been researching something they call "media film," a flexible computer display. Rhonda's been following the story for months. All signs point to a merger, Yamamoto-Vanderweil emerging from the dust with a new piece of hardware that could replace the printed word.

Tonight she's going to get her hands on that paperwork.

The lights dim, conversations fade. Silverware clinks on fine china, throats are cleared. Rhonda looks up at the stage, red velvet curtains forming the backdrop for a single dark podium lit by a powerful spotlight. A small hunched man approaches from the left, clutching a stack of note cards and a pair of half-moon spectacles. He places the cards on the podium, then perches the glasses on his nose. A digitized voice drifts down from the surround-sound system embedded in the ceiling. "Terrence Hepler, CEO of Hepler-Rand Company," it says.

"Good evening," he begins, thick Texas accent tangling his tongue. "Welcome to the Hepler-Rand Seventh-Annual Excellence in Media Awards Ceremony." A small round of soft clapping hovers in the air, then dies abruptly. "For more than 30 years, Hepler-Rand has provided cable television service to 50 million Americans. Its ground-breaking cable news network, HRN, has chronicled two wars, five presidential terms and countless natural disasters. . ."

Rhonda's mind wanders. She makes a show of giving her rapt attention to Hepler, but she knows exactly what he is going to say. The script is always the same. Hepler-Rand strives to be fair and balanced; supports media studies programs in countless universities across the nation. Bla bla bla. She flicks her eyes in the direction of Vanderweil. His face is aimed at Hepler, a plastic smile stretched from ear to ear.

"Since 1997, Hepler-Rand has given awards to journalists and publicists for their outstanding work. This year, we've decided to do something different." Hepler pauses, looks up from the note cards. This is Hepler being candid. "Y'all know that I don't use computers, never could get the hang of them." The crowd snickers. "But apparently, they're pretty popular. Some of the kids in marketing told me about this thing called the Internet and some guy named Vanderweil. . . 'You better be careful,' they said. 'He'll put you outta business.'"

The crowd chuckles.

"This year we've created a special award for 'new media,' for Mr. Vanderweil." A girl in a slinky dress emerges from the curtains, cradling a huge golden disk in a pair of thin hands. "Mr. Vanderweil, I'd like to present you with the first-ever Hepler-Rand Excellence in Online Media Award."

The crowd goes wild, or as wild as it can. People clap. Someone actually bellows "good show, old chap," from the back of the room.

Vanderweil tries his best to look surprised, presses a spidery hand into his chest and shakes his head. What an armature. He rises, a spotlight shining down on him from somewhere overhead. He makes his way to the podium, weaving through the sea of tables like a blade of wheat caught in a light breeze.

Rhonda watches Yamamoto watch Vanderweil. He reads like neon sign, hands nervously fondling the handle of a slim attaché case next to his chair, dabbing at a sweaty forehead with his napkin. Stature of a sumo wrestler, temperament of a nervous ferret.

Vanderweil strides up on stage, long legs skipping steps. He approaches Hepler first, extends a hand in thanks. Hepler nods and smiles, his tiny eyes shining like brass tacks in some stately drawing room sofa. Vanderweil deftly takes the slim girl by the waist and lifts the award out of her hands. He kisses her on the cheek an eases toward the mic. "Thank you, Mr. Hepler," he says. The words bring silence. "I am delighted to receive this award. Since 1993, MediaGen has been working to inform the public. . . "

Rhonda's feels it in her stomach, a tingle close to her spine. Something is happening and it's not on stage. Ace feels it too, turns his shades on the crowd. Rhonda closes her eyes, listens. Vanderweil's voice fades into the background. She brings the ambient noise into focus. Someone is picking at their dinner, turning their food over on their plate. Someone else is supressing a cough. Then she hears it, a heavy boot scraping along the floor, someone crouching low, slithering toward the podium. She opens her eyes and scans the room. He's there, near the buffet table, black vest tight across his chest, black tuxedo pants terminating at a pair of Army-issue combat boots. He's not telling anyone to leave the tofu for the vegetarians anymore. He's slinking his way toward Vanderweil, Green Beret style, ducking behind tables as if they were trees in a forest.

She can't believe it. The best training in the world and she can't spot a guerrilla masquerading as a waiter. "You see him?" She whispers the words toward Ace.

"Yep."

"He's armed."

"Yep. Something in his vest."

"Are you going to do something?"

"I don’t know. . ." Ace shifts his shoulders, scoots his chair an inch away from the table.

Rhonda's hands find her small sequin purse and reach inside for a small, black almond-shaped device. It is loaded with a few dozen tiny pellets and a canister of compressed gas. It is Pakistani, a souvenir from her Times article on the country's elite cadre of spies. Each pellet is loaded with enough anaesthetic to sleep a horse. It’s a close-range weapon, only effective within a few feet of the victim.

". . . was formed to facilitate communication between different cultures, societies, different language groups. . ." Vanderweil rattles on, oblivious to the impending danger, smile as calm as ever.

The guerrilla waiter is within a few yards of the stage now. He's moving around the edge of the hall, away from Rhonda and Ace.

"We can't reach him." Ace starts looking for alternatives.

"You can't reach him." Rhonda steadies her breathing, swivels in her chair and slinks into the negative space between tables. She feels Ace's hand brush her shoulder, but he's not quick enough. She darts around two tables, black gown gripping her waist and thighs. She reaches the spot where the guerrilla was, just a few yards from the stage, but the guerrilla is climbing the stage now, heavy boots squeaking on it's polished maple boards. He makes a final lunge, diving into a roll and sliding to a stop a foot from Vanderweil. Hepler staggers back into the curtain, taking the slim young model with him.

Vanderweil keeps talking, keeps beaming that smile out across the crowd, completely oblivious.

The guerrilla straightens up and pulls a canister from his vest. He yanks a tab on its top and it begins to hiss.

Rhonda inhales, crouches, amassing potential energy in her legs, remembering her training with Master Wong for the Taekwondo story she did last month. She exhales, releases energy. It comes out like a pound of lit cordite, sends her sailing through the air at the stage, a human dart clad in the finest European evening gown. She lands like a dropped cat, crumples on the hardwood, then rebounds to a crouching position. She raises her right arm at the guerrilla and takes aim.

"BLOOD ON YOUR SOUL!" The guerrilla hurls the hissing canister at Vanderweil.

She fires. The pellet pops in the waiter's neck, cracking like a marble dropped on a glass table. He goes down instantly. She springs to her feet, rushes Vanderweil. She tackles him, slams him down behind the podium. His award frisbees out into the crowd with deadly velocity.

The canister explodes, showering everyone with red paint.

Rhonda raises her head, peers down at the flummoxed Vanderweil. His face is a wreck of confusion, glasses askew, tears streaming down his cheeks. "I . . . I can't feel my legs. . ."

"Your legs are fine." Rhonda takes the opportunity to reach inside his jacket. She finds a small book. A small, extremely worn book inscribed with the title "Le Petit Prince."

"Yamamoto's been hurt." It's Ace, shades off, face covered in red paint, clean skin like a mask around his eyes, hand out, gold rings shining under the stagelights. Rhonda rolls off Vanderweil and stands, ingoring his hand.

© 2008 Dustin Driver