The door being unlocked, the two men had no trouble entering the dimly lit flat. As they crossed the threshold of the living room a lamp clicked to reveal Renard sitting on the couch, drink in hand, smirk on face.

“You?” John asked in genuine surprise.

“You weer expecting a 6 foot tall rabbeet?” Renard jested, possibly a little too proud of his ruse.

John leaned back and considered this unlikely hero carefully, “So the harried call to the bodega down the street for forged travel papers?”

“I’m a veesiting stoodent. Of coorse I haf a visa. You know a lot four a, what ees it you do, maid?”

“You and your sources,” Pablo muttered.

John silenced him with a wave of his hand, “Very clever, sir, but that leaves you at our tender mercies.”

“Why shoold I fear the authoreeties? I haf done noothing wrong,” Renard said calmly, though his tremulous hand shook the ice in his drink.

Pablo sneered and pulled out an impressive knife, “We’re not the authorities. And now you’re going to die.”