Len considered it for a minute. He liked to know who he was going up against when at all possible-- but he also liked to know who he was getting in bed with (so to speak) and that hadn't really worked out in his favor either. Besides, this "requiring background on the terrorist organization" sounded like it was going to be two hours of dates and histories that had no real life practical applications. Len had done a considerably good job at avoiding history lectures ever since he dropped out of high school; and he wasn't about to sit through one now.
"Terrorist organization seems to sum it up pretty well. What's their end game?" That was really the only part of their history that would be of any use. Just like with any individual person; if you knew what they wanted, then you'd know where to hurt them.
He still didn't look away from her, leaving the cigarette to hang from his mouth and puffing on it casually every few minutes. He didn't say anything out of line, or inappropriate, or to even hint that there might have, for a very short period of time in the very distant past, been something between them. There was nothing in his face-- no anger, no sense of betrayal, no affection. Times past, she might have had inklings of some emotions below the surface: camaraderie, friendship, affection, fraternal bonds with his fellow Rogues-- but ever since her cover was blown that day on the Helicarrier, it had all disappeared. He was carefully blank, and neutral, and cold.