Episode 5 - Journalist, Diplomat, Soldier, Spy
The blaring car horn pulled me to my feet. The crazy bastard honking like that was near the checkpoint. Far off, a line of black sedans had pulled up in front of it, and officers had crowded out to gawk. I shoved through them and advanced slowly. And there I was, face-to-face again with the suit from just a few days ago.
"Fancy seeing you again. Good to see you."
"……."
I couldn't even muster a reply. Not because I was flustered. I was just baffled why these assholes had come all the way out here to make a scene.
The suit strode forward boldly. "Could you step over here for a quick word?"
The soldiers guarding the checkpoint tried to intervene, but young suits pushed in to block them, clearing a path with their bodies. But I didn't budge. I just stood there, staring him down.
"Why the hell should I? Send an official memo. Or go through proper channels. What is this bullshit?"
The Royal Intelligence Department was our rival outfit. Sure, I had zero loyalty to them or any patriotism for Abbas, but that aside—they'd tried to steal my op just days ago. No way was I playing nice.
But the suit stood ramrod straight, eyeing me like he had no clue what the problem was.
"……."
"……."
Our stares locked in the air, tension thickening, when—
"Enough of that."
A figure stepped out from the black van parked at the rear. A middle-aged woman. She waved off the approaching suits and walked forward.
"What are you idiots doing to each other? We're all on the same team."
"Sorry, Director."
"Tch…."
The woman clicked her tongue sharply, scolding the suit. Then she turned to me. "Long time no see."
Former head of Military Intelligence Agency Overseas Operations in the Kien Empire.
Former branch chief in the Lushan Federation for Military Intelligence Agency Overseas Operations.
And now, director in the Royal Intelligence Department.
My old boss.
"Don't stand out here. Let's sit and talk."
"……."
Leoni Risha. She'd come for me.
Episode 5 - Journalist, Diplomat, Soldier, Spy
In intel circles, there are named players. Ones who've built legends over years of achievements and skills, or shot to fame with quick, flashy results. They're envied, respected, hated, jealous fodder—or prime recruitment targets.
The prime example? Clevins.
Clevins had been a field agent dashing around as a junior officer, then as a field-grade, he'd sent hundreds of spies to prison as a case officer. He'd outclimbed the security director and intel chief—both senior vets—and become a top pick for bureau chief. Hell, even as a captain, he'd gotten offers from the Cabinet Security Office and Special Investigations Bureau. Calling his talent and rep otherworldly wasn't hyperbole.
But every sun has its moon.
If Clevins ruled domestic ops in Military Intelligence Agency, then overseas had Leoni.
Leoni Risha. The agency's top spook. She'd started in the Kien Empire desk—the graveyard for agents—and climbed to deputy chief. Junior officer days loaded with medals and commendations, but ironically, no one knew what for. Her full career and missions? Black hole. Rumors swirled, but no verification. Just whispers from her veteran colleagues who clammed up, and the trail of agents who'd served under her and ended up KIA or retired early.
That fueled the gospel that she handled the dirtiest, most dangerous jobs—even bureau insiders hesitated to name.
But one thing was certain: she was a phenomenal operative. And the agency knew it, piling secret missions on her.
If she'd finished her Lushan Federation branch stint smoothly, she'd have gone back to Kien as chief. No one else matched her as an empire hand.
With that post under her belt, she could've eyed not just overseas chief, but bureau director next.
"……."
I'd thought she'd quietly retired after her incident and fallout. But here she was, hale as ever. Still kicking in the game, unchanged.
"What're you staring at? It's embarrassing."
"…Long time, ma'am."
"Head my ass. I'm a director now."
Leoni wore a suit, not uniform. Royal Intelligence Department. Director—department unknown. The ex-elite Military Intelligence Agency op now lounged in her chair like no ex-military I'd seen. Totally civilian vibe, slouched and loose. Retirement did that, I guessed.
"Thought you'd retired. Never dreamed you'd jump to Royal Intelligence."
In a barracks room off the ops zone outpost. I plastered on a smile.
We weren't buddies, but not strangers either. She'd been my boss once.
My old superior leaned back. "Not retired. Detached."
Her off-duty tone was the same as ever. I'd thought the formal vibe at our Royal Intelligence meet was a change, but private? Pure old-school Military Intelligence.
Bet she still cursed like a sailor if provoked.
Anyway.
"Got it."
Detached duty. I mulled it, wheels turning.
Like our NIS, the Royal Intelligence chief could request active-duty military or civvies on detachment. Not overreach—standard authority under law. Our world: NIS director coordinates with agencies, prez approves. Detachees keep original status but moonlight as Royal Intelligence staff. Not a transfer—concurrent role. They ignore home-agency orders during.
So Leoni was Military Intelligence Agency agent and Royal Intelligence director.
I nodded. "Makes sense. News to me."
I didn't get the legalese. Wasn't a lawyer, didn't care. Intel outfits bend rules daily. Best not to overthink.
"So, what do you do at Royal Intelligence now…?"
"Deputy director, National Operations Division. Think overseas chief."
Royal Intelligence National Operations Division. Hub for all intel gathering and covert ops.
Didn't know deputy director duties, but gut said high-level. They'd poached an ex-empire branch chief for it—no low seat.
Branch chief-plus, easy.
"Congrats on the promotion."
"Three years, and you're the one congratulating me."
"Ah… I was just an aide back then…."
"Tch."
Leoni tsked, sinking deeper into the chair. Not pissed—just her usual self.
Why'd she seek me out, though?
"……."
I racked my brain. Not for belated congrats. Not her style to trek here for chit-chat.
One answer fit.
"…The overseas op. That why you're here?"
"What?"
"To ask me to hand it off to Royal Intelligence."
Tracking the spy ring's backers—pass it over. High odds.
She was ex-military. Lifelong Military Intelligence overseas, Kien specialist.
I was overseas intel, first posting Kien.
Senior alum calling in favors. Common as dirt.
Nothing else came to mind. We weren't close or enemies.
Why her personally? No clue. Not crucial.
Leoni snorted. "If I asked for a handoff, you'd do it?"
"Dunno… Gotta check regs if I even can…."
I trailed off, citing rules. Stall tactic. Buy time till Clevins wrapped the Agreman snag, got us to the Magic Tower. Op done. Snatching a live one? Asking for inter-agency war, ranks off.
Then brass swarm the PM's office, begging. No handoff.
Steal it? Military Intelligence goes rogue sans PM okay—knives out.
So regs it was. But her reaction wasn't casual.
"You think I'd come here for that crap?"
"……."
Her eyes bored into me, venomous. A piercing glare like a dagger to the heart.
Leoni straightened. "Not here for a handoff."
Her stare cut deep, but I smirked coolly. "…Right? Then spit it out. Lunchtime."
"……."
"Oh, eaten yet?"
"Your mouth…."
Leoni's scowl softened. She muttered, "'Clevins taught him all the wrong shit," and slouched back.
Senior or not, rough on a colonel.
Idle thought. She adjusted her glasses, cutting to chase.
"Fine. No beating around the bush—we're not that close. Straight to it."
"Listening."
"You…."
The pitch landed.
"Ever thought of switching sides?"
*
The Royal Intelligence Department was Military Intelligence Agency's rival. More precisely, as foreign intel agencies, they checked each other for better efficiency—a symbiotic rivalry.
Intel gathering. Analysis. Counterterror. Tech protection. Overseas biz support. Policy advising. Covert ops.
Royal Intelligence vs. Military Intelligence, Military Intelligence vs. Royal Intelligence—they shadowed across fields.
Universal: CIA-DIA, FSB-SVR, DGSE-DST, SIS-GCHQ, Mossad-Aman, CIRO-DIH, State Security vs. General Staff Intel, Cultural Exchange vs. Reconnaissance, NIS vs. Army Intel.
National vs. sectoral, domestic vs. foreign—they wage brutal info wars for budget and primacy.
Oversteps, low blows happen.
But not always foes. Training swaps, intel shares, personnel exchanges, joint ops, detachments, TDYs—regular mingling.
Family, after all. Hate the game, not the player.
Here? Different. Caste system's alive, pride and loyalty sky-high. Internal wars fiercer than global—anything short of crossing lines.
Like now.
"…Pardon?"
Royal Intelligence pitch: job offer. Switch shops.
Intel world's heavy on poaching. Talent-starved for experience.
Agencies special-recruit outsiders. Like NIS ads for military intel, North Korea, overseas, investigations, IT specialists.
Sometimes direct, like: "Retire and jump to us?"
I asked Leoni, "Why would I go to Royal Intelligence?"
"What's your tenure?"
"…Six years."
"Yeah?"
She closed her eyes, calculating aloud. "Academy three years. Straight to platoon leader end of LTJG—one year field. Training six months. Ops three. Aide three…."
"……."
"Six-year Military Intelligence agent. Short-term specials enter grade 7. You'd slot team lead minimum. Majors grade 6—transfer bumps two…."
"……."
"Grade 4. Section chief. Sound good?"
Generous rank. Mid-20s intel section chief? Solid mid-management.
"Not just grade 4 pay. Full staff, gear, support, authority at that level. Blank check if needed."
"……."
Blank check from a national intel agency. Do-whatever-you-want pass. Pure overreach, beyond regs.
Overkill for a 28-year-old newbie op. Could bite hard.
But worth the risk.
I stayed silent. Leoni shifted, pressing—not recruiting hard, just laying facts.
"Still no? On switching."
"Doesn't give me reason to leave Military Intelligence."
"Reason?"
She laughed. "You eat this rice—you know. Royal Intelligence field agents outnumber Military overseas hands."
"Staffing's classified."
"Think I don't know? Look, exacts are black to me too. Need to be chief or PM. Eyeball guess."
True. Classified's classified, even to us. No clearance, no peek. Org size especially.
But vets sense scale.
She was ancient.
Leoni held up a finger confidently. "One thing's sure. Scale, clout—Military Intelligence can't touch Royal."
Yep. Sectoral vs. national. Raw numbers favor Military total, but split domestic-overseas. Overseas sliver vs. Royal's foreign focus? Tiny.
"And you know working Royal beats your current gig. Comfier setup."
"……."
"If you hate handing off the op, why not better terms?"
Pure op logic—no loyalty crap. Pragmatism over patriotism, efficiency over feels.
"……."
"Think it over. Toting a rifle ain't the only patriotism."
Bit of flag-waving.
Leoni gathered her things, stood. At the door: "I trust you're not dumb enough to waste your talent."
"……."
"Can't give forever. Decide fast."
*
Dispatch and concurrent duties based on Article 12 (Concurrent Employees) of the National Intelligence Service Act. Not really a "setting"—it's actual law.
