His tablemate proffers him a Coke, which he accepts politely.
“In Taipei,” Don Pancras begins, promisingly enough; Barret, Han thinks, would already be calling him “Don Pancreas.”
While Pancras, who holds his shoulders a little too high in an effort to look mean, makes his way from Taipei to Kilimanjaro via the Snake Triads, Han lets his eyes ease left, over Pancras’ head. Pancras was eager to meet him at the gym, eager to interview and maybe go mano a mano with somebody, show off his kook sul won. Han nods, his eyebrows cocked in the closest thing his face ordinarily gets to affable. Not listening at all.
He’s not hiring Pancras. He’s not even not hiring Pancras. Pancras is a cover.