Waldo frowned suspiciously but continued his briefing. “We have a range of clothes in the closet, so you should find something to fit. And there is a fridge with cold food. Don’t open the door to anyone but me, and if someone comes through that door who is not me, then feel free to shoot them. While we are not in the embassy and so technically not on American soil, this suite is attached to the embassy, and so a strong case can be made. In any event, jurisdiction over these rooms is a gray area, which should be enough to get you back Stateside if anything goes wrong.” Waldo opened a drawer in a writing desk. “In the event you are out of ammunition, we have a selection here, behind the stationery.”

“Ooh,” said Chevie. “Stationery. Cool.”

Waldo bristled. “I would have thought, Agent Savano, that after the Los Angeles foul-up, you would take this job a little more seriously.”

“I am being serious,” said Chevie. “One of my foster moms collects stationery.”

“I shall be writing a full report,” continued Waldo, “and your attitude will be both underlined and in italics.”

Chevie selected a clip for her Glock. “Sorry, Waldo. I get a little giddy under pressure. There’s someone after us. Someone a little out of the ordinary.”

Waldo was not impressed. “Well, your someone won’t be coming in here without an assault team behind him. And even then he’d need the door remote, which is paired to my biometric readings.”

Riley took his nose out of the fruit bowl. “Thanks for the grub and everything, mate, but none of you Yankees knows what you’re talking about. Garrick will come for me.”

Chevie opened her mouth to disagree, but all that came out was a soft sigh. Garrick had come through a wormhole to find Riley. He had overcome Smart’s ninja hazmat team. It seemed unlikely that a hobbit and a locked door would keep him out.

She checked her watch. “So, Gim— Waldo. Fifty-nine minutes, right?”

Waldo made a sound that was very close to an actual harrumph, then composed himself and smiled sweetly before extending his left hand, palm up.

“Tell me you are not looking for a tip,” said Chevie in disbelief.

Waldo’s smile disappeared and he closed his fingers tightly, as though crushing the soul of an enemy.

“Force of habit,” he said, and beeped himself out of the door.

Chevie and Riley spent the next half hour trying to relax somewhat, but neither of them could shake a feeling of frosty foreboding. And it wasn’t one of those vague feelings that something bad was on the way; it was the very specific belief that any second Albert Garrick was going to burst in through the reinforced door and shoot them both in the head.

Chevie wondered if she should call someone, and if she did call someone, what would she tell them?