- NINA -
There he is, stepping inside.
I watch a man, from the comfort of my suv, covered in black from head to toe waltz out of the back entrance of an underground flat. Two large, rusted, metal bins cover the entry, making the area look deserted.
The man walks up to me and mutters something in mandarin. “Nǐ de wénjiàn.” He says in a calm, grumpy tone as he sways his head to both sides, checking for passersby. His body movement is unstable. Although standing in a spot, he’s moving a bit too restlessly.
[Translation: The files you need.]
I stretch my hand out of the car window and take the thick, black, leather travel bag from him. This will be given anonymously to the FBI.
“Xièxiè. Hurios wǒ dǎzhāohū.” I say to the Asian back in mandarin with an Irish accent.
[ Translation: Than
