<strong>Archibald</strong><br/><br/>The Ninth Viscount Warburton has the little sidewalk cafe to himself this morning.  The sun is shining, the sky is pleasantly blue, and the usual hustle and bustle has died away for an hour or so--most of the tourists are still abed, since this is Sunday, and most of them doubtlessly partied too hard last night.  It's enough to make a dignified gentleman of wealth and taste chuckle in his tea.  The only downside to his pleasant stay on this island, so far, is that his old friend Bridgeman has not yet arrived!  They were supposed to meet on Thursday, but the charming scoundrel has somehow managed to avoid making the proper rendezvous.  No doubt he met some charming little Swiss gel whilst in Zurich and forgot the time...again...<br/><br/>As Archibald enjoys the morning sun, someone approaches: not the waiter, who is skinny and black and has a number of piercings that make the lad look rather fierce.  Instead, this is an older fellow, older than Archibald, bald, rather stout around the middle, and bearing a walrus mustache that rings an immediate alarm bell in the nobleman's mind.  That this ghost is also wearing tacky khaki shorts and a garish floral print shirt does little to distract Archibald's attention from the bottle of gin and two tiny glasses on the tray in the man's arms.<br/><br/>The man's name is Yazkov.  He is...or, rather, was...one of the Soviet Union' more infamous spymasters.  He's also supposed to be quite deceased.<br/><br/>"A peace offering," Yazkov offers as he sets down the tray.  "One scholar to another.  Since we are both on vacation, yes?"<br/><br/>Without waiting for Archibald to grant permission, he takes the seat opposite the Viscount.<br/><br/>"I have some unfortunate news for you, I'm afraid.  If you would prefer, I know where one might find an MI6 agent or two, if you'd rather hear it from them."<br/><br/><br/><strong>Alexi and Ysabel</strong><br/><br/>The pounding on the door is what wakes both of the occupants of this room from their fitful slumber--the room is in sorry shape, and there is a persistent reek of alcohol, which goes a long way to explain the hangovers that both are currently experiencing.  It may also explain a few moments of confusion while each gets their bearings...<br/><br/>But two things are definitely crystal clear.  One, neither recognizes the other.  And two, both are certain that this is not their hotel room.<br/><br/>The pounding gets louder.<br/><br/>"C'mon, open up!  I forgot my keys!"  The speaker sounds vaguely like Steve Buscemi.  And annoyed.  "Lex!  Izzy!  Open the fucking door before I bust it down, wouldja?"