After exchanging a few superficial pleasantries with Su Jian, Julian Vance found his interest waning. He had scanned the man’s workstation with a practiced, predatory eye. The documents Su Jian guarded so zealously were mostly administrative chaff—mundane reports from plainclothes Milice agents patrolling the markets, or minor intelligence regarding black-market tobacco smuggling. None of it was the "gold" Julian was hunting for.
"I’ll leave you to the paperwork, Su Jian," Julian said, offering a casual salute. "I think I’ll take a stroll. The air in here smells a bit too much like bureaucratic sweat."
As the morning wore on, Julian found himself ironically impressed by the dysfunction of the Milice. On his very first day at 83 Avenue Foch, he hadn't been given a single assignment. Aside
