Episode 4 - Why Pick on Me?
'Hey, you hear the news?'
My colleague's question came as I tore open a packet of Maxim White Gold coffee mix. I shot back without looking up.
'What news?'
'That senior Kim who retired a few years back. Our exec ran into him at HQ recently.'
'Captain Kim? What the hell's a guy who's long gone doing there?'
The bastard leaned in with a sleazy grin.
'He changed jobs.'
'Changed jobs?'
'Yeah. Asked around with a senior over there—says he's doing great. In London.'
'That guy's always been Eurasia desk. London, though?'
'Yeah. Exec said he's hitting it off with some rookie on their team. Name was... something Sejin, I think.'
It was a sweltering summer day, sun beating down mercilessly. Behind the barracks, in the smoking area. As my colleague racked his brain for the name, I tapped ash into the ashtray.
'Don't sweat it. He's not one of ours anymore anyway.'
'Dude. He was our senior in the army, colleague at work. What's with the cold shoulder?'
'I'm not talking about that, asshole. Let's just game talk like usual. Why drag up other people's shit? You forget how tiring it gets mixing with those types?'
'Man, you spineless prick...'
The guy chuckled, tilting his paper cup. Glug glug. Right then, the hallway window slammed open.
The exec's menacing voice hit my ears like a slap.
'Hey, you old farts. Coffee done? Get your asses back inside. And why the hell are your hats off? Forgot regs? Want me to remind you?'
'Sorry, sir!'
'We'll fix it!'
My colleague stubbed his cig in the cup, tossed it in the ashtray, jammed his beret back on, and scurried inside. The exec turned to me.
'You too. Deputy Director Jeong's looking for you.'
'Yes, sir.'
I adjusted my beret and headed in. My vision blurred. The hallway. The stairs. They flipped fast.
Then, blackout.
Blackout.
As I was about to crash in the on-duty room, Royal Intelligence Bureau agents showed up demanding I come with them. I wasn't particularly curious why a rival agency wanted me. Experience told me tangling with other intel outfits always meant headaches. Joint ops, intel sharing—whatever, nothing good ever came from it.
It was a truth as solid as a math formula, proven by my decade-plus in the game. And whether then or now, I was tired, exhausted, and doomed to stay that way. So I politely declined their escort request.
But these Royal Intelligence Bureau guys were tougher mutts than I'd figured—relentless, obsessive. They barged into the on-duty room, badgering me to come along. No reasons. No destinations. No destinations. Asked, got nothing. Endless emotional drain disguised as talk. Finally, I caved with a promise to wrap it in an hour and followed.
And now, that hour was up.
"You said an hour would do. Why are you still dragging me along? Huh?"
"Not dragging. Escorting."
I got smacked on the back of the head. The one-hour promise was bullshit, of course. I'd expected it, but actually getting played still twisted my gut. The tinted-black sedan convoy kept steady speed and spacing, snaking fast through winding roads. We were on some nameless mountain pass. Stars said eastbound, but that was it. No map, no signs. First time here. No clue where we were.
One thing clear: heading east. And these drivers weren't amateurs.
"Where to?"
I asked the suit in the passenger seat—the one who'd handed me his card.
"......"
"Not answering?"
The suit ignored me, stone silent, no moves. First time meeting assholes this stone-cold. Even the Gangnam tie-wearers with egos to the sky showed basic manners to industry pros.
"...Sigh."
No point raging here—I'd just tire myself out. I leaned back, sighing deep. Couldn't jump from a moving car, so eyes shut for a nap. Silent protest it was.
Dozing in the back, I caught snippets of radio chatter from the front.
"...Three minutes. Open the main gate."
Deep night, moon hidden by clouds. The convoy crossed the mountain path to its goal: Royal Intelligence Bureau HQ.
*Unlike Military Intelligence Headquarters, the Royal Intelligence Bureau was located far from the center of the capital, practically out in the middle of nowhere. As land prices soared and the population boomed, the Ministry of Land and the Treasury pushed for redevelopment, while Congress—cozy with the construction tycoons—complained nonstop. Military Intelligence ignored all of it. Meanwhile, the Royal Intelligence Bureau quietly sold off its real estate and relocated to a larger, more modern headquarters.
Suits living downtown griped about access, but as civil servants, they couldn't buck policy. Became goose dads or endured long commutes. Heard that rumor as counterintel aide to the bureau chief.
First time visiting Royal Intelligence Bureau, confirmed the rumor was true.
"This way."
The agent led me inside. Dropped my stuff at the desk, cleared security, ID check—then entry granted. Following the suit down a straight hall, I asked,
"So why am I here? Time to spill."
"We don't know either. Just following orders."
They didn't know why they fetched me. Real or hiding something, higher-ups pulled the strings for sure. The lead agent walked silent; I matched in quiet. We trudged on wordlessly.
Suddenly, he spoke.
"Know what this place does?"
"Pulls nails, I hear."
Not clueless—just the vibe. Royal Intelligence Bureau: national intel agency. Like NIS in Korea, CIA in the US. As both domestic and foreign intel, more CIA than NIS. "Nail-pulling" half-joke. But given the sitch, couldn't sugarcoat.
Flip it: half-joke meant half-serious.
"You know your stuff."
The agent chuckled—self-mockery? Conversation died; awkward silence returned. We hurried on, soon arriving.
The agent politely held the door, gestured inside professionally.
"Go in."
I nodded, entered. It was a conference room.
* Royal Intelligence Bureau's room was plainer than expected. Military Intelligence's exec mini-room felt like a command center or bunker. This? Like any gov office or corp boardroom. Freer vibe.
But the national flag behind the head seat, banners with Royal Intelligence Bureau and Military Intelligence symbols screamed state agency. Attendees in suits and uniforms proved it wasn't ordinary.
I scanned the room from the door.
"......"
Head seat empty. Left near door: soldiers. Familiar faces—no need to ID. Military Intelligence brass. Opposite: suits, probably Royal Intelligence Bureau.
"...Why are you here?"
"What the hell's this guy doing here?"
Director, chief of staff—all key Military Intelligence figures crammed in a Royal Intelligence Bureau conference room. Even Clevins, who hadn't picked up. Got the picture: inter-agency joint meeting. Department heads too? Practical session, not policy.
Domestic side (security, intel, counterintel) brass? Odd. I saluted the Military Intelligence commanders.
"Sorry for the late hour, sirs."
Director saluted for all; as top decision-maker rep, Clevins asked me—brig gen promotee, next director fave.
"Frederic. Why'd they drag you here?"
"No idea."
Couldn't say "Royal Intelligence Bureau goons hauled me" in front of their bosses. Truth was, I didn't know. Yanked from bed—what to say? Clevins pressed; answer came from across.
"Ah, our guys brought him."
Some Royal Intelligence Bureau suit replied, gesturing back.
"Sit. Must be beat from the trek."
Then don't drag me. Couldn't snap at elder, so zipped it. Couldn't sit either.
"What authority do you have over our guy?"
"He agreed to come."
"Voluntary? No investigative power, and you pull unauthorized moves?"
"Just polite tea invite. Voluntary my ass..."
Military Intelligence vs. Royal Intelligence Bureau—stare-down started.
"So what's the reason?"
"Tea needs a reason?"
"This guy..."
"Whoa, calm down. Kid's here—what's this mess?"
"Joking now? Who's the geezer acting unwise?"
Air thick. Banter nasty—fight brewing before I walked in. I eased the door to slip out; agents waiting. Shut it quick.
Room like cold fire, no cooling. Someone had to play white knight. Came from near head seat: Royal Intelligence Bureau.
"Enough."
A gray-haired elder stepped in. Voice lacked thunder, but cooled the heat fine. He scanned the quiet room, wrinkled eyes tilting as he continued.
"I called the captain."
Unknown grandpa summoned me. No need to ask who: head seat's opposite, Military Intelligence Director's facing spot. One qualifier: Royal Intelligence Bureau Director.
He told me,
"Long trip—sit, you're tired."
Director smiled warmly, offering a seat.
"......"
I stayed standing, eyeing Military Intelligence brass. My house was Military Intelligence, not theirs.
Only sat after Director's nod—folding chair at table back. Soldier protocol. But irked Royal Intelligence Bureau (Director's their head); room vibe plunged like regulated Bitcoin to the basement.
"......"
"......"
"......"
"......"
Royal Intelligence Bureau vs. Military Intelligence Bureau. Dozens staring silent, not breathing. Then,
"Haha!"
Director burst in elder laugh.
"Captain's vibe just like first meeting our director. Right, Director Leoni?"
Mid-40s woman across replied.
"Was I?"
She eyed Director, then slowly turned to me. Finally saw her: unkempt bob, not long but untouched. Scrawny, hollow cheeks, sunken eyes, jutting cheekbones. But fierce, venomous glare erased flaws.
"Spot on. They teach that at Kelsir?"
"Dunno. Take as compliment, sir."
Kelsir Royal Officer Academy 145th top grad. Army's first female intel officer. Youngest Military Intelligence agent. First woman through selection as operative. Handled Kien Empire desk, Lushan Federation branch. Elite of elites. Controlled hundreds on intel frontlines. Dodged drag nets, shredded counterintel, nailed secret ops. Spy world legend. Real 007.
And...
"Long time, team leader."
My ex-boss.
"Wait—no, captain now, so team leader?"
"......"
"Great to see you again."
Reunion with old superior.
The "Director Leoni" who appears at the end is modeled after real-life figure Gina Haspel, the first female CIA Director in US history. Gina Haspel rose from key roles in Africa and the Middle East to head the CIA's National Clandestine Service, Deputy Director, and Director—an elite among elites. The National Clandestine Service was created in the late '90s as HUMINT (human intelligence) waned, overseeing all CIA HUMINT collection and covert ops (political-economic-propaganda-deception-subversion-terror-coup operations). Human elements and personal life are purely the author's creation; abilities draw from her real feats. Gina Haspel inspired the protagonist "Maya" in Zero Dark Thirty, whose analyst role in turn inspired the novel's Pippin.