In the cold, rain-slicked reality of London, Colonel Masterman sat in the "Mountain City" headquarters, his fingers drummed a restless rhythm on the edge of a mahogany desk. The telegram from Master Niu lay before him like a riddle wrapped in an enigma.
"Our 'Ghost' is becoming too efficient for his own good," Masterman murmured, tossing his peaked cap onto the desk. He rubbed his scalp vigorously, leaving his thinning hair in disarray. "First the Sovereign Vaults, now the German logistics for the Northern Front. It’s almost... excessive."
Shen Xing, his ever-composed deputy, suppressed a smile. "Colonel, you should be pleased. This intelligence could save thousands of lives in Arras. It would be a monumental gift to the Free French."
"That’s exactly the problem," Masterman grunted, bit
