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as an American agent.
     But he did neither, instead scratching his thumb against his temple. “King in English or Polish?”
    “Don’t worry. Somebody’s meeting me at the airport,” said Dean.
    He glanced at his watch, then decided he’d hit the gents’ before boarding the Polish plane. Excusing himself, he wandered
     across the waiting area to the hall with the rest rooms. He entered the men’s room and was just positioning the strap of his
     carry-on against his shoulder when someone else came in; the sharp click of heels against the floor caught Dean’s attention
     and he glanced over his shoulder.
    It was the Asian woman.
    “Hey,” he started to say.
    “Into the stall,” she said.
    “What the hell?”
    The woman leaned toward the sink and waved her hand in front of the faucet. Its motion sensor clicked and water spewed from
     the tap.
    “The stall,” she said, pointing.
    “Wait up.”
    The door opened once again. As Dean glanced toward it the woman took two quick steps to him and wrapped herself around him,
     her mouth seeking his.
    Even if her accent hadn’t given her away as an American, Charlie Dean was hardly the sort to forgo a kiss, even if it was
     offered in a men’s room. Still, he wasn’t entirely comfortable with the situation.
    Nor was the man who’d come in to use the facilities for their intended purpose. He retreated hastily, the door slamming behind
     him. In the meantime, the woman had begun pushing Dean backward toward the last toilet stall.
    “Uh, what’s go—”
    She slapped him.
    “Idiot,” she hissed, reaching over and waving her hand in front of the flush sensor.
    “What the hell’s the story?”
    “Idiot,” she repeated. She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a small, round makeup case. “Here.”
    Dean took the case. He turned it over and then opened it. There was nothing inside, so he started to give it back. She grabbed
     it from him, opened it, then pushed it in front of his face.
    “What, my five o’clock shadow?” he asked.
    “Just shut up.”
    Something about the mirror wasn’t right. The woman tilted it slightly, clicked something on the back, then frowned and shook
     her head as she pocketed it.
    “Retina scan?” he asked, finally catching on.
    “Did they recruit you off the street?” the woman asked. “Or is it just that you’re from Texas?”
    “Do I sound like I’m from Texas?”
    “You sound like you’re from the planet Moron,” said the woman.
    “Well, don’t let that stop you from explaining who the hell you are,” Dean told her.
    “Santa Claus. Now why the hell are you talking to a Russian agent?”
    “Who?”
    “You idiot. The fat boy sitting next to you in the waiting area works for the Russian Security Service.”
    “He does?”
    “Listen, do me a favor and go home, okay? I don’t have time to baby-sit an NSC wanna-be.”
    “Fuck you.”
    “Gee, Chuckie, what a clever comeback. That wow ’em back in Houston?”
    “I don’t come from Texas.”
    “I know where you’re from.” She glanced toward the door of the rest room, as if she heard someone coming. “Yeah,” she said
     to herself. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Okay.”
    Dean strung his carry-on bag over his shoulder. Except for the fact that she obviously knew who he was, he might have thought
     the woman psycho.
    Not that those were mutually exclusive propositions.
    “Just go catch your flight,” she told him, turning back around and pointing. “When you get there, in the terminal, go to Gate
     Two. Gate Two—you can count that high?”
    “Ha-ha.”
    “I’m not joking.”
    “I don’t have a ticket beyond Poland. I’m supposed to be going to Surgut, but no one gave me a ticket.”
    “You are from Texas. Just buy a ticket on the first flight on the board.”
    “That’s going to take me to Surgut?”
    “Buy a ticket on the first flight on the board.” She pushed open the door to the stall. “Good-bye.”
    The door to the men’s room opened