When a foreign traveller checks into a hotel in a certain country whose name rhymes with Fooze-Mekistan he is required to sign a whack of papers, agree not to photograph military installations or the power grid, and to stay on the hotel grounds after a certain hour. We knew that much well in advance but only after we gathered in the hotel lobby were we tipped off to the fact that secret service agents may be assigned to tail us. Within two minutes of checking in we noticed about eight of these clones in K-Mart suits just moping around the lobby, pretending to talk on their flip phones, and at one time reading a newspaper… upside down. These two were assigned to track my friends James and Kirk and the guy sitting just behind me was apparently my man. James Bond he was not. To be honest I was a little miffed to learn that I had been assigned to an agent who wore heavy iron braces on his legs and who walked with the assistance of metal-tipped crutches that could be heard a quarter mile away.