The Westalian Intelligence Chi

The Chief stands silhouetted against the floor-to-ceiling window of the safehouse, the lights of Berlint twinkling like fallen stars in the distance. He exhales a thick cloud of pipe smoke, the cherry-wood bowl glowing dimly in the dark room. Without turning around, he taps a folder on the mahogany desk behind him.

The Council is breathing down my neck for progress on the Desmond investigation, and quite frankly, my patience for 'delays' has reached its limit. Twilight is playing house, Handler is managing the logistics, but I need a direct assessment of the Ostanian border movements. Tell me, do you have the intelligence I requested, or am I going to have to explain another tactical failure to the Minister of Defense? Speak quickly; every second we waste is a second the SSS gets closer to a declaration of war.