Episode 5 - Journalist, Diplomat, Soldier, Spy
The desert heat was scorching. Summers in this distant land, deep in Africa, had a different bite from Korea's sweltering humidity—you could feel it just standing still. I draped my jacket over the desk and broke the ice.
"Hey, old timer. How's life in the boonies treating you?"
"Like shit."
"Specifically, what part's shitty?"
"Food doesn't sit right. Gut's always churning. Hot as hell. Mosquitoes swarm even inside a net. One bad sip of water and you're shitting your brains out."
The Asian guy perched on the bed stuck out his duck-like bill and grumbled. I handed him the gift I'd brought along with some words of comfort.
"Isn't this the life you chose? I brought a full carton of those Diss you love so much—tough it out."
"Oh, fuck yeah. Nice, nice. Time to get a whiff of home."
The guy who'd been sprawled out like a dead rat bolted upright and tore into the packaging. He stuck a cigarette between his lips and wagged it at me. I pulled out my Zippo and lit it for him without missing a beat.
Like a traveler stumbling on an oasis, he sucked in a deep drag, held it deep in his lungs. His Adam's apple bobbed, and the chain-smoker savored it for a good long while before cracking a grin and exhaling.
"Nothing beats domestic smokes. The crap here smells like buffalo burps—can't even puff it."
"Jeez, quit smoking already. Two packs a day? No wonder you're broke. Tsk tsk."
I dragged over a chair. There was a bag on top of it, emblazoned with big block letters: PRESS. I shoved the offending bag aside, straddled the chair, and faced the guy.
He puffed away and eyed me. "So, what fresh hell brings you here?"
"Same old shit."
"Your boss here too?"
"Old timer, don't dig too deep. You know how it is—nosy types start prying. Occupational hazard?"
"Security my ass... Back in my day, kid, I got dragged to Counterintelligence, slapped around by NIS. Fuck."
"You became a reporter when it turned into KMIC. What Counterintelligence?"
"It's a figure of speech, dumbass!"
"Yeah, yeah, got it. Anyway, since it's been ages, fill me in on the world news, Mr. Hong of the Korea Daily international desk."
As always, he grinned and crossed his legs. The war correspondent grumbled sourly at me.
"What're you curious about?"
"You know the Sinkorobi mine in southern Katanga province?"
"...Sinkorobi? The uranium one? Yeah. Why?"
"Got anyone there?"
"War correspondents like me head east, not south. You know that—rebels crawling all over. South's government-held. No reason for me to go. Plus, that uranium goes north—"
"Spare me."
"Got someone? Or not?"
I pulled a wad of dollars from my pocket and waved it teasingly. The correspondent swallowed hard, eyes glued to the cash.
"Uh, yeah. Not right now, but give me time—I can connect you."
"How?"
"Local tour guy in the capital. He's from the south. Can hook you up to Sinkorobi, even Fungurume if you want."
"How much time?"
"One week. Just one."
"Three days. And skip Fungurume—that's Chinese turf. I'm only after commie business."
I stuffed the bills into his top pocket, stood, and gathered my jacket to leave. Buttoning up, I gave the correspondent some advice.
"Don't dig too deep this time. Dangerous shit. Hand it off to me when it's good enough and bail. Call the embassy if trouble hits."
"Got it, got it. Not my wife, nagging like... fuck."
His familiar griping made me grin. I grabbed the doorknob to leave.
And as I turned it, the world flipped. Darkness swallowed me. Blackout.
Following the card from the journalist I'd handed my business card to, I arrived at a building in the city center. I rode the elevator with him and stepped through the door he opened. It was an office. And there, I met someone very familiar.
"Hey! Journalist!"
I waved enthusiastically and raised my voice. Everyone in the office turned to stare.
Through the crammed desks and papers, a balding middle-aged guy shot me a look. He greeted me warmly.
"You little shit! How old do you think I am—still calling me 'journalist'?"
"Aw, c'mon. Good to see you after all this time!"
The bald journalist bellowed at his colleagues.
"Hey! Pack up and get out—go home!"
"Yes, boss!"
A swarm of reporters grabbed their stuff and cleared out. The vast office was empty now, just me and the bald guy.
I snagged a random chair, plopped down, and glanced at the nameplate on his desk.
"Whoa... Social Affairs Chief? Last I saw, you were just a reporter. Climbed the ladder, huh?"
He smirked and sat across from me.
"You think I'd just shrivel up and die?"
I grinned back at him.
"Heard you got nabbed by the cops—figured you'd wash up as a floater in some river."
"Jeez... fuck."
"Prison chow hit the spot?"
"Prison my ass. What am I gonna do with you? Can't just bash your head in."
The ex-major-paper social affairs reporter-turned-Imperial press guy picked up his cane and spat affectionately.
"Why the cane? Hurt yourself hiking?"
"Knee's fucked, shithead. Cops did it."
I leaned in to eye his limp leg dangling under the desk. After a moment's thought, I asked.
"Knee stomp?"
"Yeah."
"Must've hurt."
"Turned me into a cripple. Got me fired too."
"Hey, no wheelchair—that's a win! As long as you're breathing."
"Oh, thank you...!"
The Magic Tower minor paper's social affairs chief bowed till his nose nearly hit the desk.
"Thanks for poking my wounds after all this time, you prick!"
"What're friends for."
I sat across from the news chief, cackling. A middle-aged man and a fresh-faced kid yukking it up—pretty unfilial sight, but whatever.
"Good to see you... been too long."
Dmitri, social affairs reporter for one of the Kien Empire's top five majors, now chief at a Magic Tower minor rag. The hothead who'd hanged politicians and bureaucrats with their own neckties via exposés, blacklisted by the Imperial Guard as an anti-regime journo.
"How've you been?"
"Like hell."
"You look it."
He's my informant.
*
My long history with Dmitri started at a cafe in the Empire's east. Back then, I was Military Intelligence overseas ops, Empire desk. He was a green social affairs reporter at a major local paper.
Why'd we meet? Obviously for military intel.
"Procurement scandal, right?"
"Yeah, that company swapping components, halving radar performance."
"Total psychos. Defense Ministry ordered 80% domestic parts—they did 30% and filled the rest with foreign knockoffs."
"That's right. Coming back now."
The Imperial military was deep in high-tech upgrades. Me and a few Military Intelligence spies were gathering intel to sprinkle some spice. But the op tanked—not from Imperial Guard or counterintel ops, but this reporter right here.
"Wasn't just us back then, huh? Patallia, Lushan, Kashbia—quality chaos everywhere. Your homeland too, probably?"
"Latuan? That's not my homeland. I'm Imperial."
"Born there."
"Citizenship's old news..."
Dmitri casually denied his roots, topped off his glass, then chugged straight from the bottle.
"What, drink after you? Am I a pig trough?"
"Fuck it, drink this. Pissed? Go buy one or suck it up."
"Fuck. Gimme."
In the dark office, lights off, I took the glass from sunset-backed Dmitri. Perfect hour to get buzzed, loosen up.
"We sat like this boozing back then too, right?"
"Yeah. First time pounding drinks in a cafe midday."
Dmitri was deep in his procurement exposé; our embassy intel guy caught wind. With prosecution incoming post-story, Military Intelligence hooked me up to him as a lowly agent. I told him at the cafe not to run it. He nodded, then that evening splashed a five-column piece exposing it all.
Backstabbed, basically.
"I said don't run it."
"You sane?"
"Son of a...!"
Foreign intel outfits like ours folded and pulled out. I got my ass reamed at HQ—military boot to the shin, limped for weeks.
Spilling that gripe, the guy who'd screwed me smirked sleazily.
"I got grilled by counterintel and Guard, so call it even."
"I said don't... why stir the hornet's nest for glory..."
"Dude! Reporter scores a scoop—how could I sit? You know the thrill of halting presses for it?"
"Sigh."
"And the intel I fed you? Worth a fortune. Drink up already."
"Savoring it."
"Bullshit. Gimme then, shithead."
"Heh! You rascal."
Hothead asshole. Anyway, Dmitri's my longtime informant—one of the few civilians who knows I'm intel. Civilians in the know: him, Veronica, and my booze buddies Jerry and Adela. Even my parents don't know my real gig.
Ekaterina from Imperial Guard Division 1 might, but probably forgot. Kept her up over a week sleepless on purpose. Nine times out of ten, short-term amnesia hits. Personal experience.
Dmitri, bottle in hand, tossed a question.
"Hey, Frederic your real name? You told me Merlo before."
"Who knows. Got a few."
"Tch, spy fuck. Never trust spies."
"Figured that out now?"
"Keep forgetting, age."
We bullshitted in the sunset office; I savored the whiskey he passed. Prime stuff—way beyond my paygrade.
"Damn... sipping the good shit now. Raking it in?"
"Blacklisted and canned—how much you think?"
"Still, reporter to chief? Promotion."
Dmitri the world-changer was a social affairs reporter—was. Fired for digging pols' and bureaucrats' dirt, private lives, social movements, baring society's ugly underbelly. Classic anti-regime fate.
The ex-reporter chief sighed resignedly.
"Couldn't dodge the press clampdown."
"What after quitting? Straight to Magic Tower?"
"Tried stuff with old colleagues... cops pegged us. Me? Insufficient evidence, walked after questioning. Fled to Tower after."
Huddled with fired reporters, nabbed by secret police. "Questioned" then cut loose on no evidence meant tortured but no hook, so booted. Ones where "evidence" popped mid-grill? Jail now. Dmitri got lucky. His antics could've gotten him street-bombed legit.
Dictatorship cliché, but reality. World is what it is.
"Hmm..."
I picked up a paper from the desk corner. Demands for fired journos' reinstatement, halt dissident crackdowns, amnesty petitions. Got the gist of his gig here.
So I asked, "Why'd you call me?"
"Huh...?"
Flushed from booze, Dmitri eyed me.
"Eh, saw you on the news passing by. Thought, why not meet."
He glanced at his watch. I grinned.
"Waiting for someone? Why check the time?"
"......"
I gripped my concealed pistol. Odds of anti-regime Dmitri selling me out to the Empire? Near zero. But shit happens. That's why no drinking.
As I went to draw—
"Put the gun away?"
A thin voice from behind. I turned.
Dim office corner. A doll-like figure stood there. It approached slowly.
Eyes adjusted to dark, sunset pushing shadows back—I confirmed it was a woman.
I recognized her.
"...What the hell? Reunion central today."
"Tell me about it. Didn't expect you here. Surreal, right?"
She emerged from the gloom, smiled at me.
"Long time, Merlo."
"...Yeah. Sophia."
In the sunset office, I met old friends.
"Working here?"
"Yeah, on assignment."
"Official? Or off-books?"
"Who knows...?"
Informant. And foreign spy.