Yazkov looks from face to face, taking the measure of each before finally, reluctantly nodding.<br/><br/>"Very well.  I suppose it would be easy enough to arrange another room or two...assuming, that is, that you two do not mind continuing to share?  Or perhaps you would prefer to work out the arrangement yourselves?"<br/><br/>Fitz rubs the back of his neck and grins in a way that practically telegraphs his opinion of the situation.<br/><br/>"Fair enough," he says, a bit too cheerfully.  "Gimme a couple hours to get my stuff and I'll be ready to move in.  I'm not picky about room-mates, but a top floor room would be a good idea."<br/><br/>"You know my answer to that," Yazkov frowns, then turns to Alexi.  "You are quite correct.  In point of fact, since I am quite deceased in the eyes of the Motherland and Father Agency, it would be most unwise to wire back for more.  Fitz will take you back to your room, and Archibald and I will join you later.  He will also need to pack, and I have some assurances of good will that you will no doubt appreciate."  His smile creeps back.  "It will be good to work again.  Better to work for a good cause."<br/><br/>+++<br/><br/>Some hours later, Archibald and his luggage arrive in the crowded little parking lot (if that's what it really is) outside the same hotel where Alexi and Ysabel woke up.  The sign out on the street does little to build his confidence in the place: Hotel Coral Essex.  And judging by the state of the neon lighting that traces the letters, the sign is probably somewhat misleading at night.<br/><br/>Up the block, a man in body armor conducts a six-pack of chacma baboons on what looks to be a mostly orderly patrol of the neighborhood.<br/><br/>Beside the hotel, a gaily dressed but scruffy young woman dances in place beside a boom box playing the music of a recent pop star--Katie Summer or some such.  She gives Archibald a vacant grin as he passes.  "Heard the good tunes?"<br/><br/>Alexi and Ysabel meet Archibald out in the courtyard.  Fitz is in the office with Yazkov, wrangling over the room assignments from the desk manager, who is an impossibly ancient North African woman who seems to have decided against all available evidence that the look of a London chavvie suits her perfectly.