In the brick-lined interrogation room of the Strategic Scientific Reserve in London, Colonel Phillips sits across from Dr. Arnim Zola, casually slicing into the steak dinner originally offered to the scientist. Phillips chews a juicy piece, his eyes fixed on Zola. “I have a brilliant theory. You want to live.”

Zola, his glasses glinting under the harsh light, shifts uncomfortably. “You’re trying to intimidate me, Colonel.”

Phillips feigns offense, gesturing to the meal. “I bought you dinner.”

Zola glances at a paper Phillips handed him, reading aloud, “‘Given the valuable information he has provided and in exchange for his full cooperation, Dr. Zola is being remanded to Switzerland’?”

Phillips, still eating, leans back. “I sent that message to Washington this morning, of course it was encoded. You guys haven’t broken those codes, have you? That would be… awkward.”

“Schmidt will know this is a lie,” Zola says, his voice tight.

Phillips shrugs, his tone matter-of-fact. “He’s going to kill you anyway, Doc. You’re a liability. You know more about Schmidt than anyone. And the last guy you cost us was Captain Rogers’ closest friend, so I wouldn’t count on the very best of protection. It’s you or Schmidt. It’s just the hand you’ve been dealt.”