Episode 5 - Journalist, Diplomat, Soldier, Spy
Rocheal Mining Company Kien Empire Branch Security Officer, Esilu Motors Kien Empire Market Evaluator, Tuhermyna Shipping Kien Empire Branch Port Security Chief, Chief Accountant at the Abbas Consulate General in the Kien Empire, Intelligence Officer at the Abbas Embassy Defense Attaché Office in the Kien Empire, or Abbas Ministry of Defense 401st Brigade Commander, Military Intelligence Agency Overseas Operations Division Kien Empire Branch Chief. Leoni had cycled through countless identities, but right now, she held just one title.
"Long time no see, Director."
"What's this about pleasantries."
Director of the Royal Intelligence Department National Operations Division 2, Leoni. I'd come face-to-face with my old superior, who'd gone from the Magic Tower to a policymaker in the national intelligence agency. She looked utterly exhausted, slumped in the back seat of the van.
"You're looking sharp."
"Is that an insult or a compliment?"
"Take it however you like. So, what's brought you to the Magic Tower? You're not thinking of returning to fieldwork, are you?"
I had no idea what a director in the Royal Intelligence Department actually did, but it was obvious enough at that level. Paper-pushing approvals and policy decisions. It was a desk job through and through—no rolling in the mud.
Leoni eyed me, sitting across from her, her face aged about a decade. "Do I look like someone who'd go back to fieldwork at my age?"
"You're still spry as ever."
"At this age, they don't even send me out—or call me in."
The seasoned operative gazed out the window. The heavily tinted glass acted like a one-way mirror, severing the van from the outside world. The pane that divided reality looked shadowed in black, and Leoni's reflection in it seemed shrouded too.
Whether drunk on the mood or the passage of time, Leoni fell silent, lost in thought for a long stretch before suddenly speaking up. Her eyes still fixed on the world beyond.
"Heard you took a bullet."
"Where'd you hear that?"
"What secrets does this world hold?"
Leoni smoothly changed the subject, hiding her source. I didn't press her. There were no real secrets in this world anyway.
"So why are you here? Not scouting for a job switch at your age, I hope."
"Doesn't that sound ridiculous?"
"...Fair point."
Leoni kept her gaze locked outside as she continued. "Just out for a field inspection. Promotion's around the corner, so I've got a mountain of work."
Promotion from director. I nodded and offered congratulations. "Deputy Director? Congratulations, ma'am."
"You won't like it."
"......"
I didn't bite at the vague remark. Leoni wouldn't have dragged me here just for small talk. If she had, I'd be a little pissed.
As that thought crossed my mind, Leoni—still staring out the window—reached into her pocket without shifting her eyes and pulled something out.
"...What's that?"
"A gift."
"Got any intel on him? Better than the background check."
Dmitri had come through with information. More detailed than the standard profile. I flipped through the pages, reading aloud.
It was an intel dossier processed by the analysts from what Dmitri had sent.
"Kubinka Military Academy graduate, Reconnaissance Command Foreign Intelligence Division 3rd Intelligence Brigade 547th Detachment Leader..."
The info from Dmitri was spot-on. The instincts of a former social affairs reporter hadn't dulled.
"You review this?"
Pippin answered. She was busy binding the intel dossier she'd slaved over with the analysts.
"Cross-checked against the agency database. The unit exists, and fixed assets confirm the Kubinka graduation."
"Yeah?"
The intel analysis team had compiled data from the Military Intelligence Agency servers with Dmitri's tip into a slim dossier. Defector spy testimonies, photos from fixed agents at training camps, counterintelligence reports on non-converting long-term prisoners, rough org charts from recon command gathered by case officers, detailed Imperial intel unit breakdowns extracted by operatives, and more.
What Dmitri brought was just one training photo and a military academy record, but the analysts had squeezed out volumes.
"Four years back, he worked as a travel agency employee in the northern Russhan Federation. Old record, but it's direct from a case officer—high reliability."
"How high?"
"Lowball it at 40%, high end 70%."
Seventy percent. Even accounting for age, that's solid. Probably because it came straight from a case officer, not some paid informant.
I scanned the list of that travel agency's offices on the back of the dossier.
"Pen."
"Here."
I took the pen from Pippin and started crossing out distant offices one by one. After scribbling away for a while, I finally handed back the pen and dossier.
"Get the team's on the nearest ones first."
Time to unleash the dogs.
*
Using the tip from Dmitri, I started hunting the thugs' higher-ups. A social affairs reporter who knew his stuff had delivered the goods, as expected. Of course, I paid the price.
The Military Intelligence Agency contacted a member of the Intelligence Committee to table a "Resolution on Human Rights Abuses in the Kien Empire" in the upper house plenary.
Considering diplomatic ties, it was a politically loaded move, but since the guy was opposition, a hawk who'd risen to general in the military, and the upper house mattered less than the lower, the fallout was minimal.
The prime minister's approval? Already secured—via the agency chief's request.
On the surface, this was an opposition stunt, not the ruling party's doing. Just tabled, not passed. So the Abbas government could dismiss it as one wild member's antics.
And the Empire getting flak for human rights? Hardly new. They huffed a bit but wrote it off as election posturing and let it slide. After all, the dirty work wasn't the foreign ministry's—it was intel's.
In the end, the only group taking it seriously was the Empire's intel agencies. And they mobilized faster than anyone.
"What the hell is this now?"
Veronica called the hotel first thing in the morning. Past 9 a.m.—everyone should've been at work—yet here she was, ditching duties to ring me up.
"Where the hell are you? Sounds like music—don't tell me you're calling mid-mass."
"At my usual spot. Not the cathedral."
"Why go there?"
"Can't I?"
Jesus.
"Tch... Anyway, cut the crap and explain this mess."
"What needs explaining? Politician doing politician shit. Obvious election ploy for a shoutout next vote."
I parroted the Abbas government line verbatim. Diplomats speak for the state—no choice. Defense attachés were diplomats too, technically. Spy or not.
"That's the official word from up top. I'm at the Magic Tower—how should I know the homeland politics? Not a politico. Busy as hell—talk later."
I wrapped it in the sacred rules of diplomacy and intel, making bullshit sound legit. Didn't land.
"Dug around—that guy's a Kelsir Military Academy grad, made general, worked Defense Policy Office on secondment to Military Intelligence, now intel committee staffer. How do you not know? Baffling."
"Uh...?"
She knew foreign politics better than me. Spouting details I'd never heard, I stuttered in shock.
"It's obvious—your embassy's kicking up shit everywhere. Call me before they storm my door. Now."
She rattled it off in a pissed-off torrent. Total psycho.
"H-h-hey, protests nearby—can't hear great? Can you?"
"Crystal. Bullshit. And earlier you said embassy office?"
"Veronica! Gotta go—busy!"
"Wait—hey? I hear fine! Hel— you son of a—"
Click! Slam. Line dead. Worried I'd smashed the receiver, I glanced around—the whole office stared, mid-paperwork.
"...Sorry."
I bowed to the room, grabbed the receiver again like nothing happened. Mortified.
*
The upper house stunt put Imperial intel on edge, but the op proceeded without a hitch. First, 73rd Project Team activities hadn't pinged their radar. Second, no moves from Magic Tower counterintel.
Imperial movements were within expected margins. With Imperial Guard wielding unchecked power via intel dominance—and their foreign nets recently hammered—it wasn't odd.
But the Tower's silence was fishy. Post-Nastassya Treaty, the Tower was intel playground central. Still, this was blatant.
Their diplomatic rep dead, attaché in a shootout—their intel-led shootout. Sovereignty violation anywhere.
Unless civil war crumbling the gov. Doing this in a stable foreign capital? Diplomatic complaints incoming.
Yet the Tower stayed mum as time ticked. Something's brewing...
Ten years in intel screamed suspicion at the Tower, but Military Intelligence saw it as a win.
"Just keep doing what you're doing."
"Really okay?"
"What's the problem?"
Clevins sounded business as usual.
"Tower's more at fault, no? Overseas says push ahead. Gotta get your payback, right?"
"Y-yeah. Payback's good."
Payback stirred old memories—bitter taste.
"But... sovereignty breach? If caught, no diplomatic immunity—faces plastered in headlines."
"That's why we have operatives. Collision inevitable—strike first or crush 'em."
"Roger."
"And you're off attaché duty awhile. Cleared with the office—rest easy."
Call ended. Last bit went in one ear out the other.
I sat Pippin and Jake down, relayed agency directive.
"...That's the sitrep."
They gawked up at me, faces like they'd been yanked from quitting time.
"Why the stares?"
"Thanks for the heads-up, but... 10 p.m.?"
"Jealous? Be the op."
"No thanks."
I sat on the sofa, disinfecting my stitched shoulder. Clear antiseptic sloshed, unlike iodine's yellow. Tweezers grabbed cotton, soaked it, wiped meticulously. Less pain than expected—like tending someone else. Weird.
As I disinfected, masked and gloved Jake assisting one-handed, he asked:
"Who stitched this? Damn good job."
"Me."
"Pardon?"
I nodded at the hidden med kit. "Bought it all, patched myself. No help."
"Solo gunshot treatment? Bull."
"C'mere. I'll stitch you pretty."
Snaking to knot his trap shut, Pippin sighed at us, exasperated.
"Sigh..."
"What now?"
"Shot and you're clowning? Finish disinfecting."
She booted Jake off while I wrapped fresh gauze. Popped familiar painkillers and antibiotics, uncapped water—then remembered booze with Dmitri pre-healing.
...Whatever.
"So, next move?"
"On what?"
"The project. Brass greenlit most requests, but you're mum."
I opened the fridge as Pippin spoke. A cute mini-dragon thing puffed cold air hello. Tossed a water bottle—it hugged like a deadbolt, rolling inside.
Grabbed a bottom-shelf potion.
"Checked all travel agency offices?"
Jake, burning cotton and gauze with a rune stone, replied.
"No. Few left."
"Anything to report?"
"Nah."
Hand out—Pippin slapped the chart on it. Excel-neat grid, searched offices red-lined.
"11 of 17 done. Zilch."
"Why skip the last 6?"
"Hit 'em—staff on duty, couldn't search."
"Right..."
Pop! Potion cap chirped open. Game-HP-potion look, but tasted meh. Monster blood? Kinda gross.
Downed it. Flavored—pricier.
"...Huh."
Grape.
Trashed the bottle, issued orders.
"Prep for the last 6."
"Tomorrow, then."
"No—now."
"...Huh?"
Blank stares from Pippin and Jake, clock-checking. 23:56.
"Round up nearby staff. Roll out."
Prime time for spy work.