In Lassen's villa, later that night…
Lassen was sprawled out on his couch, a cup of hot chocolate in one hand and an absurdly luxurious blanket, probably stolen from a five-star hotel, draped over his legs.
[You know, I thought freaking out a highly trained American agent would be more fun than that]
"I swear, he was wound up tighter than a sniper's trigger. I thought he was going to stroke out just from hearing me say his name."
[And you let him go without planting a virus, a bug, or even a tracking chip. We're getting old, host. Losing our edge]