Tony gave a little wave, at that, stretching out (slowly, carefully) to prop his feet on the table again - sure, in writing was a bad idea. Even he didn't quite suspect Rogers of putting all the names down in his no-doubt labored cursive in his damn diary. But hopefully the number of people he'd brought into this operation wasn't so large that he couldn't remember it without taking notes. He could hope.
"Location's the tricky part, really," he mused, watching the television underneath heavy eyelids. "Diverting supply isn't much of a problem, and accounting for inventory I can do, but places to put it - or the bodies to do it with. That's the issue. District Two is basically one giant pit waiting for me to fill it with guns, but you need men to carry boxes, and to dig it all up again when it's time to go, and to hand it all out. We need people." Which probably meant he was getting ahead of himself. It was a logistical clusterfuck, this whole thing. Some pieces were ready to go but there was no board to move on, entire sections of the field of play were total blanks, his allies were wearing masks if they existed at all - it was a more daunting project than he'd ever even tried to take on, and he had to rely on other people to help move it forward. That was the real trouble. He couldn't take it into the back room and play with it until it did what he wanted, and to hell with what anyone else thought. He was impatient. "When it comes down to it, I guess, we'll want caches near the rail lines, so we can ..."
He trailed off, considering - and reaching for his glass - and letting his attention siphon off toward the television screen. His least favorite person had popped up behind a podium, and as much as Tony would have liked to switch him off, his knee-jerk reaction to Stane was something like what one might develop against a predator: better keep an eye out. (It called to mind, very briefly, the Maximoffs' code, but - no, better leave that be, for now.) He'd been out of it for a couple days; had he missed some news? He tried to remember - but it could just as easily have been some stuffed-shirt's birthday. He couldn't keep track of all this stuff. "What does that fucker want," he muttered, drinking and running his tongue over his lower lip, thoughtful, cautious. "You know, sometimes I just think he likes to hear himself talk."