Peter's Office, the Hegemony Compound, Friday
It was funny. Peter had never thought of himself having a personal life worth mentioning, until it had started slipping right away from him. He couldn't say he was burying himself in his work, because he always did so regardless, but it was an all-devouring distraction; one that saw him running on adrenaline the moment he opened up his personal inbox that morning.
Indian troop movements. Quiet, under the shroud of secrecy, tucked away so well that if his network of informants had been any less far-reaching, he might not have noticed. He suspected very few people had.
Han Tzu, perhaps.
The Muslim League-- no, not the Muslim League, Virlomi-- had taken the bait. She was launching an assault on China with badly-armed Indian soldiers. It was even crazier than his original estimates about what was likely to happen.
"Thank you, mommy," he murmured under his breath.
He put his fingers on the keyboard, sliding an email from Graff into the to-be-read-later pile, and began to compose an email to several contacts he had in the Russian government.
Virlomi was imploding. He had to capitalize on it.
[[ open, but i'll be slow. ]]
Indian troop movements. Quiet, under the shroud of secrecy, tucked away so well that if his network of informants had been any less far-reaching, he might not have noticed. He suspected very few people had.
Han Tzu, perhaps.
The Muslim League-- no, not the Muslim League, Virlomi-- had taken the bait. She was launching an assault on China with badly-armed Indian soldiers. It was even crazier than his original estimates about what was likely to happen.
"Thank you, mommy," he murmured under his breath.
He put his fingers on the keyboard, sliding an email from Graff into the to-be-read-later pile, and began to compose an email to several contacts he had in the Russian government.
Virlomi was imploding. He had to capitalize on it.
[[ open, but i'll be slow. ]]