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that enclosed green lawns surrounding a courtyard of stone where the Russian flag waved lightly in the hot breeze.  And inside those gates she saw large and burly men armed with pistols and escorting attack dogs mere inches from the fence.
    Really charming, she added mentally.
    At the gate they were greeted by a single guard dressed in a security booth who stopped her with an outstretched hand.  “Halt… papers please?” he said in what Regina was sure was fractured and therefor school-taught English.
    She handed him an envelope holding all of her paperwork and clearance to work in the embassy and gave a detailed list of whom she was here to see and why.  The man spared a moment to look over the papers before giving a rough and unfeeling nod.  “You may proceed,” he said in that rough tone that she associated with all Russians.  “Your bags must be inspected in embassy foyer.”
    She smiled and the man’s native language replied, “Thank you for your help.”
    She took her bag from the limo driver who wordlessly passed it to her and returned to his waiting vehicle.
    Getting herself through the embassy’s lobby was an interesting event.  Her bag and briefcase both were inspected in a manner that she thought would have put the TSA to shame.  Both were checked for hidden compartments or device pockets wherein she may have tried to smuggle in something nefarious.  Even her pocket recorder was x-rayed thoroughly before the security men within were convinced she carried nothing that could be a threat.
    Her papers were checked, checked again, and re-checked by three different security stations until she was finally allowed to pass into the embassy’s waiting area.  She had been expecting as much but that made the whole ordeal no less tedious.  Russians were nothing if not thorough.
    “Wait here,” said the attendant that showed her to the waiting area once they had discovered she could speak their language.  “Mr. Romanov will be with you shortly.”  And the attendant disappeared through the same door they’d entered through, closing it behind him and shutting her in.
    The waiting area was simple and reminded her of the waiting room at a DMV.  The room was small, thirty feet to a side, with only one window to look out through and a collection of plastic chairs and a single water dispenser to keep her company. 
    Must not get a lot of visitors, she decided as she settled into a chair beside her bags.  She passed the time by mentally reviewing everything that she knew about what was going to happen and the legal options that she had as things now stood.  Once she had a chance to conference with Mr. Romanov she would have more to work with.  But until then, it was best just to be sharp on what she could predetermine.
    Her thoughts were interrupted when the door opened and in came a man that she didn’t recognize.  From the papers – as well as the legal brief – she knew that this man wasn’t Alexi Romanov.  He seemed more intimidating than the man she’d seen in the pictures.  It was a man with thick tendrils of red hair and a matching beard and a look on his face that seemed so hard it could have carved diamonds.  He wore an expensive suit but the boots he wore told her that this man’s purpose was decidedly not business.
    “I am Yuri Salnikov,” he said plainly, “Mr. Romanov will see you now, Ms. Wells,” he said in a voice that sounded almost gentle.  He gathered up her larger bag and gestured for her to follow him and she did.
    She was led to a bank of elevators and was taken to the topmost level. When the elevator arrived and her escort showed her out she felt a small pang of panic.  Standing before her were a series of doors that, despite being marked in Russian, she could read easily enough and each was marked as either a Court Room or a judge’s private chambers.  And outside those doors were men dressed as she knew only lawyers or other practitioners of the law would