"I doubt it, the art of photography notwithstanding. Can't rule out the possibility they've met elsewhere of course, but allegedly this is Merovic's first visit to our charming little city."

The dismissive flick of his fingers seems to indicate anything further is above his pay grade, whether it be in service to SIS or Moscow. It also signals what little measure of his attention had ever been turned outside of their box coming home to roost. Ralston's gaze—steel gray eyes that had been bright and cold along the Danube now turned exceptionally dark by the shaded box—settles firmly on her rather than bothering to entertain the pretense of either Merovic or the orchestra.

"Do you expect my medal will be delivered by hand or by post?"

Ha ha.