Natalia slips a flat-looking metal strip, about the width of a good seat belt, through the top of the door jamb, and starts slipping it about.

"You could say that," she replies. "Mostly, my mother instilled a healthy disrespect for dictators, and Father--"

Ah, there. She yanks, and the door handle pulls up, and she grabs hold and pulls it open. "My father is a fisherman."

Natalia unhooks the strip from where it grabbed hold of the safety handle on the inside. Ladder, ladder, who's got a ladder...?