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Someone who isn’t alone.
    The Emirati deputy ambassador and his wife. They keep up the traditional dress here, but despite the shroud of the abaya , she’s obviously not too happy with her husband. She holds up a hand to cut off his protests, then swoops into the hall. The same hall Talia should be coming down any minute.
    She doesn’t need any rescuing, but a heads-up might be appreciated. I text the only real number programmed into my operational phone with the word Incoming .
    How much trouble could she get into? She’s probably stuck primping her post-wig hair or something, though that sounds a lot more like Shanna than Talia. I keep mixing and mingling and monitoring the door every other minute. Where is she?
    After five minutes that feel like forever, I get the text back. One word, like mine, but definitely not the word I want to see.
    Problem .
    Backup? I offer.
    Maybe . Greenroom .
    I don’t want to draw attention to myself. I stroll back to the side doors, like I’m slipping out because all these free drinks have caught up with me.
    The hall is quiet and dark — and empty. No sign of the Emirati’s wife or Talia in trouble.
    I double check her text. What kind of problem? Wardrobe malfunction? Security scuffle? I finally text again. Greenroom still?
    Greenroom bathroom.
    Not sure I want to know what problem has her stuck in a bathroom, but I text back for details anyway.
    Burqa and American in greenroom , she replies.
    Uh, yeah, that might qualify as a “problem” of sorts. Doing what?
    Ten guesses.
    Hm, big mystery. Probably a little more than free intelligence samples like they're at the Real Canadian Superstore.
    I reach the greenroom door, but don’t dare waltz in. Talia texts again: American chatted me up offstage. Been in here so long that it’ll get weird real quick if I walk out now. IF he doesn’t recognize me.
    And if he does recognize her? Yeah, magic color-changing hair isn’t a typical diplomatic accessory. At least not for those in the official corps.
    I’m still trying to come up with an idea when Talia sends one more message. Moving out.
    It feels like somebody’s standing on my chest. This is too big a risk. She could probably stay put in that bathroom until . . . whenever —
    But an American guy and an Emirati woman alone together? Exactly what we want.
    Picture , I demand.
    Pervert .
    Great, now she wants to flirt. But she’s got to know exactly what I mean and why, so I let it slide, pacing outside that door. One minute. One minute to snap the photo and sneak out. That’s all it should take.
    Three minutes pass, and my pacing is spiraling into a tight little tornado of terror. What is taking her so long? The room’s not that big. She’s in trouble. She’s in danger.
    She needs me.
    I crack the door as quietly and quickly as I can. On the other side, one can light shines down in the little hallway leading into the room, and beyond that, dark.
    I don’t see Talia. Or anybody else.
    The door jerks out of my grasp, and the handle slips and clatters. Talia appears from behind the door, glaring up at me in the weird lighting and silence.
    Then I see the movement behind her in the shadows. We’re interrupting someone — someone who was definitely expecting me a lot less than Talia was.
    We need a cover. Quick.
    I look back to Talia and somehow that soft smile from this week and the one moment both our covers slipped last Friday are all I can see. I know exactly what to do.
    I cross the last step between us, slide my arm around her waist and hesitate only a fraction of a second before I kiss her.
    Her lips are soft and cool against mine. My heartbeat slows in my ears, time drawing out until another voice interrupts. “Who’s there?”
    It takes me half a second to remember what I should be doing. This is our guy, but I can’t see him in the dark.
    “Oh,” I say, shooting for surprise and somewhere north of the world’s longest undefended border. “Sorry. Didn’t realize