"Look," Elizabeth said, spinning on her heel. She gave him the full headmistress's voice, starting low and threatening to rise to the painted plaster ceiling. "If you do not leave me alone I'll summon hotel security, and have you thrown out of here." She glanced toward the desk, where the young woman was already helping someone else to check in.

"Oh, you don't want to do that, Liz," he said, shaking his head, stepping up so he was level with her. "Make things rougher for you and me."

Liz? Elizabeth stared. "How do you know my name?"

The man put out his hand. "Beauray Boudreau, ma'am. Call me Boo-Boo. I'm supposed to be working with you. Didn't they tell you?"

"You?" she asked. The man had very intense blue eyes that beamed with sincerity and savvy. His sharp cheekbones and nose outlined a mouth that was thin-lipped but quick to smile. His wrists and neck were whipcord thin, and they disappeared into a disreputable, ragged hunting jacket that might once have been khaki. His jeans were untidy and threadbare, and he wore sneakers without any socks. His blond hair was very short, but the severe cut didn't lend him an iota of respectability. "You're with the FBI?"

"Yes'm," he said.

"Oh! Well, yes," Elizabeth said to this apparition, trying to collect her thoughts. "They did tell me there'd be someone working with me, but they didn't say what—I mean, who."

Boudreau laughed heartily. "Don't blame you none for being skittish. You're new around here. I know a lot of visitors think all of us Americans must be gangsters or hillbillies, but we're more than we seem. We're kinda used to it. Oh, by the way," he reached into one of the dozens of pockets that made up—nearly held together—the body of the hunting jacket. He presented her with a manila envelope that had been folded twice to fit in a pocket. "Here's your dossier. They said you'd be wantin' that first off."

"Thank you," Elizabeth said, examining it surreptitiously to make certain there were no insects clinging to it. She glanced quickly back toward the reception desk to see if there was any reaction to her and her odd escort. No one was paying any attention. New Orleans must see people like Boudreau slope in and out every day. She started to open the envelope flap, keeping the edge close to herself so Boudreau couldn't see in.

"Some mighty interestin' readin' in there," he continued, conversationally. "I'll just look forward to chewin' it over with you, when you've had a chance to clean up."

Elizabeth noticed the adhesive strip had already been broken. She stared at him, outraged. Putting a finger in her pie without permission! "How dare you read my briefing before I do! I'll tell you what I think is appropriate for you to know."

"Ah." Boudreau tipped his head back and half-lidded his eyes so they glinted with blue fire. He no longer looked like an innocent street lunatic. He looked like a fully aware and possibly dangerous street lunatic. "I'm so sorry, ma'am. I thought we was supposed to be sharin' information. I'll just be sure to remember that for gettin' you around the city and all, tellin' you only what you need to know."

Elizabeth was instantly contrite, and wary. She didn't need to have his meaning spelled out for her. Cooperation. Hands across the water. Special relationship between Great Britain and the United States of America. She was in a strange city, and she needed this strange man to help her complete her mission. He knew it, and she knew it. She took a long breath. Time to start over.

"I am so sorry," she said. "I am not thinking. I'm exhausted, and it's been a trying day. HQ threw me in at the deep end. I was assigned to this only just before the flight left."

"And it's wrong of me to be so inhospitable," Boudreau said, bowing low so that the frayed end of his sleeve brushed her shoes. "We'll get your bag up to your room. You have a chance to wash up, and then we'll tell each other things."

"This is Mr. Boudreau. Mr. Boudreau, Mr. Nigel Peters," Elizabeth said, effecting introductions in the hotel bar an hour later. They had taken a very private table in the Mystic Den, and she had searched it carefully, using the bug detector from Q Division, her training from OOPSI, and native talent inherited from her grandmother.

"Call me Boo-Boo," the American agent said, shaking hands with both of them. He had a grip like a bench vise, Elizabeth thought, carefully counting her fingers when she got her hand back. "I'm what you might call a free-lancer for the Bureau, Department BBB."

Elizabeth felt her brows go up. "A free-lance agent?"

Boo-Boo leaned back in the elegant brocade-covered chair, looking like a bedraggled cat toy at a cotillion ball. "Works out good for all of us, ma'am. I got some trainin' from the best people down here; an interest of mine, even a natural talent, you might say." A meaningful glint from those very blue eyes, and Elizabeth thought she understood. "The Department can use that, and they don't have to keep a permanent office. That's good for their budget. They keep me on retainer, and that does me some good. I keep an eye on things for them down here, and they call me when they need me. I'm a sworn agent."

"Yes, well," Peters said, clearing his throat. He lit another cigarette off the end of the first and stubbed out the butt. Elizabeth could tell he didn't have much confidence in the American's professionalism. Neither did she, for that matter, but necessity ruled in this case.

"I think we oughta go over security arrangements," Boo-Boo said. He pointed at the envelope at Elizabeth's left hand. "We don't need to discuss what's in there. All of us already know."

The British agent nodded. She had read the dossier while changing clothes in her charmingly elegant room, and then got immediately to work. Everything that she had guessed was confirmed by the confidential briefing. Lord Kendale was concerned for his daughter's safety, based on Fionna/Phoebe's complaints of magical attacks. He would not, could not dismiss them, and neither should the agency. The report had been updated while she was on the plane.

The one thing about the case that Mr. Ringwall had not mentioned that really worried Elizabeth was that there had been an MI-5 agent assigned to the Kenmare group before her. Twenty-four hours before, he had been found wandering half-naked up Dublin's Grafton Street, babbling about little people—odd, but not inexplicable. The agent's... indisposition was the reason Elizabeth had been sent on in such haste. There still was no explanation as to what had struck him mad in the middle of the Dublin shopping district. Tests so far had turned up no traces of drugs or physical trauma. Elizabeth gulped. The mission was already sounding more dangerous than she had feared. Was she up to a mission like this? Peters and Boudreau were both studying her, waiting for her input. She must continue to present a professional mien, no matter what.

"MI-5 has no conclusive information as to the source of the attacks on Ms. Kenmare," Elizabeth said, "but we are prepared to protect her to the extent of our powers."

"Us, too," Boo-Boo said. "Even if it turns out to be a wild goose chase. Better that than real trouble, although my superiors won't like it much."

"Look," the manager said tentatively, eyeing them, "I don't know what I'm getting into now. I don't want two governments angry at Fionna, but I don't want her hurt, either. Do you think the things that are happening are real, or not?"

The two agents exchanged glances.

"Won't know until they strike again," Boo-Boo said. "We've got to keep an open mind about that until we see for ourselves."

"Whether the attacks are of paranormal origin or not," Elizabeth said, "if we are to believe her, and I am inclined to do so, someone or something has targeted Fionna Kenmare."