"That is fantastic," he said. "That's just, wow, that's the best news I've had all year. You taking an interest in our stuff, it's going to really push it over the edge. You'd think that selling weight-loss to Americans would be easy, but not if it involves any kind of travel: 80 percent of those lazy insular fucks don't even have passports. Ha. Don't quote that. Ha." "Ha," she said. "Don't worry, I won't. Look, how about this, we'll meet in the lobby around nine, after dinner, for a cup of coffee and an interview?" She had gone from intrigued to flattered to creeped-out with this guy, and besides, she had her first clinic visit scheduled for ten and it was coming up on nine and who knew what a Russian rush-hour looked like? "Oh. OK. But you've got to let me schedule you for a visit to some of our clinics and plants -- just to see what a professional shop we run here. No gold-teeth-shiny-suit places like you'd get if you just picked the top Google AdWord. Really American-standard places, better even, Scandinavian-standard, a lot of our doctors come over from Sweden and Denmark to get out from under the socialist medicine systems there. They run a tight ship, ya shore, you betcha," he delivered this last in a broad Swedish bork-bork-bork. "Um," she said. "It all depends on scheduling. Let's sort it out tonight, OK?" "OK," he said. "Can't *wait*." He stood up with her and gave her a long, two-handed handshake. "It's a real honor to meet you, Suzanne. You're one of my real heros, you know that?" "Um," she said again. "Thanks, Geoff." He seemed to sense that he'd come on too strong. He looked like he was about to apologize. "That's really kind of you to say," she said. "It'll be good to catch up tonight." He brightened. It was easy enough to be kind, after all. She had the front desk call her a taxi -- she'd been repeatedly warned off of gypsy cabs and any vehicle that one procured by means of a wandering tout. She got into the back, had the doorman repeat the directions to Lester's clinic twice to the cabbie, watched him switch on the meter and checked the tariff, then settled in to watch St Petersburg go flying by. She switched on her phone and watched it struggle to associate with a Russian network. They were on the road for all of five minutes -- long enough to note the looming bulk of the Hermitage and the ripples left by official cars slicing through the traffic with their blue blinking lights -- when her phone went nutso. She looked at it -- she had ten texts, half a dozen voicemails, a dozen new clipped articles, and it was ringing with a number in New York.