Episode 5 - Journalist, Diplomat, Soldier, Spy
"Why'd you call me here?"
In the dimly lit press office, Dmitri—who'd dragged me out here—had been hauled off somewhere by the suits. Sophia, bold as brass, had claimed his chair and flashed me a soft smile. She leaned back in it fully and replied.
"Looking sharp? Almost didn't recognize you. Must be the military attaché gig. Getting the VIP treatment, huh?"
"Cut the bullshit and spit it out. What do you want?"
I picked up the pistol on the desk, then the glass beside it, and said, "Here to hassle me for skipping dues?"
"Dues? We're not in some alumni club…."
Sophia chuckled like a snake slithering through mud. She grinned with that same old cocky confidence.
"Still a pain in the ass, I see."
"Keep it up and I'll cry."
"……."
"Kidding."
Sophia drawled her nonsense with a lazy air. I brought the glass to my lips and glared at her. Loose screw attitude. Bold smile. Alluring looks.
"……."
Sophia's outward vibe was that of a captivating woman, but once you knew what lurked beneath that smooth skin, she was just plain creepy. If I had to categorize her, she'd fit right in with Veronica's type.
She was.
I set down the untouched glass and said to her, "Why are you here?"
Sophia flashed her press badge. "Work. You know I'm a civil servant."
"Spy, you mean."
"Isn't an intelligence agency a government organ?"
The spy smiled at the spy across from her.
Sophia. Patalia Republic state-owned enterprise overseas branch, Empire liaison. Patalia Republic major press outlet, Magic Tower special correspondent.
And intelligence agency spy.
"Wanna step out for a sec?"
"……."
She was an old acquaintance of mine.
Episode 5 - Journalist, Diplomat, Soldier, Spy
State-owned enterprises and press outlets are darlings of the intelligence world. Not because they hand over juicy intel, but because the covers they provide are just too damn good. In plain terms, it's easy to get legit fake IDs through business cooperation.
A big, shiny office is the perfect hideout for a spy. Just look at Korea—back when it was the Korean Tobacco & Ginseng Corporation, KT&G and top press orgs cooperated with the NIS and Army Intelligence for ages. Same overseas. Russia's quasi-state Aeroflot (private but 51% government-owned, so basically nationalized) works with FSB, SVR, GRU. U.S. airlines help the intelligence community with "safe overseas trips" for their staff.
It's so obvious that counterintel agencies worldwide keep a sharp eye on foreign state firms and media to block enemy ops. But only on watchlisted suspects—no way they monitor every single foreigner. Spies don't walk around with badges on their foreheads; can't surveil them all. Diplomatic posts are another story.
"How's the military attaché life?"
"You know damn well—why ask?"
"I'm a journalist."
"Want an interview? File a formal request."
The spy posing as a journalist smirked at my curt reply. Sophia, press badge pinned to her chest, took a deep breath and asked, "Nice night air, right?"
"Don't breathe. Wasting good oxygen."
The military attaché and the journalist traded dumb banter as they strolled the night streets. Suits cleared the path ahead, more suits trailed behind, and a van crept along the adjacent road, shadowing them.
I scanned the suits surrounding us and asked Sophia, "Who are these clowns?"
"My team. Special correspondents."
Spies, in other words. Specifically, intel officers under Sophia posing as journalists. Not exactly news to me—I'd clocked it already. Her answer ran counter to what I'd really meant, and she knew it. We weren't the type for games.
"You still with the Joint Intelligence Bureau?"
Sophia was military intel. Precisely, Patalia Republic Armed Forces High Command, Joint Intelligence Bureau. Last I saw, she was a lieutenant. Probably deputy team lead. We'd met during ops contact with allied agencies in the Empire. It'd been three years since I left overseas ops, so she might be a captain by now.
"Nah, retired."
Out of the military.
My brain kicked into gear at her answer. Military intel is sectoral—hard to rehire on skills and experience, so retirees jump at special hires from other agencies. Meaning Sophia wasn't military intel anymore; she was with someone else.
The realization hit, and a company name slipped out. "National Security Agency?"
"Yep."
Her reply was instant, but no details followed. Asking about affiliations is a huge no-no in intel circles. Best not to tell or ask if you wanna stay alive.
So I didn't dig deeper and switched topics. "What're you doing here?"
"Investigating. You?"
"Same old military attaché stuff."
A military attaché (posing as one, from military intel) gathers military intel. My mission was tracing spy networks, which counted, so no real lie. She knew the score anyway—no point in belaboring it. We didn't drag the convo out.
Instead, we bullshitted as we walked. Intel-style, of course.
"Magic Tower's buzzing lately? Diplomacy too. Your company's swamped, right?"
"Empire and Church throwing down? Bound to be noisy. No terror attacks like old times is the real miracle."
"Oh yeah, Foreign Ministry says local radicals are stirring."
"Extremists? We haven't heard."
"Got an urgent memo earlier. Protest soon? Saintess entry and whatnot."
"Guess we'll get ours too."
We chatted on various topics as we walked. Time passed; the sun—or whatever mysterious orb it was—set, leaving only streetlamp glow to light the dim streets. As darkness deepened, so did the convo's edge.
"How'd you know about Dmitri?"
"Met him in the Empire a few times. You introduced us—why ask?"
"Not that. He's our asset—why's your shop handling him?"
Exiled Empire press social editor Dmitri was straight-up a Military Intelligence Bureau asset. Informant, basically. Foreign agencies knowing about him was fine—standard in the Empire to cooperate when needed.
The issue? Why National Security was running him, not Military Intel.
Sophia answered flatly. "You guys dropped the ball post-op; he almost rotted in jail. We bailed him."
Military Intel abandoned the asset; National Security scooped him up. I was speechless. No defense—truly none.
Whether Military Intel even knew he'd been nabbed was secondary. National Security poaching meant we'd straight-up neglected him. Stealing assets breaks intel etiquette. They wouldn't have without confirming we did nothing.
"Aigoo…."
I couldn't hide my dismay, rubbing my face. Heard our Empire net collapsed after the op officers got nabbed, but not this bad.
"No wonder the cussing."
"What can ya do? No bandwidth for assets when you're scrambling for your own staff. We were the same."
"Imperial Guard fucks did a number. Real pros."
At least we traded for our nabbed officers—small mercy. Released all spies Agency 1 grabbed because of Agency 2's fuckup; both lost face. Agency 2 took the biggest hit losing overseas nets, but the Empire's dirty laundry aired continent-wide, so Agency 1's hurting too. Prelim probes incoming; heads'll roll.
Anyway.
The streets had gone full dark. Amid the blackness, sparse streetlamps pushed back the void with warm mana glow. Foot traffic down to a countable few; we ambled the night.
I followed Sophia around a corner into an alley and tossed out, "So what'd you drag me here for?"
"Needed privacy. Here we are."
She unfolded a pristine folding chair—way too clean for a back alley—and said, "Sit."
Her sheer audacity left me dumbfounded. I scanned the shop signs, confirmed the suits guarding the alley mouth. Dead end inside; entrance blocked.
"…You messing with me?"
"Who knows?"
"……."
"Sit first. Got something to say."
* If you named the top three intel agencies around here, these always make the cut: Kien Empire's Imperial Guard. Church's Inquisition. Abbas Kingdom's Royal Intelligence Bureau. Plenty of others, but none match their clout. History alone spans centuries. Inquisition's a sore subject, but Imperial Guard and Royal Intel lead modern state intel. Tons of achievements, experience, know-how. They rule the continental intel game.
Chasing hard: Kien Army Recon Command, Counterintel Command. Kien Police Intel. Abbas Military Intelligence Bureau. Lushan Federation Total Intel Agency. Patalia Republic's National Security Agency, etc. Newer kids, but they've racked up wins in the spy wars.
Some have deep roots too. During Magic Tower-Church wars, Military Intel and Recon ran Army Intel ops supporting the Tower. Learned that in intel school. Bloody as hell, though. Tons died on both sides. Official count: hundreds of officers KIA since founding. Add informants, ops, assets? Thousands. Maybe tens of thousands. Korea reported 7,726 North infiltrators KIA; local agencies probably match or exceed.
Anyway. Shortest history: Patalia's National Security Agency. About 70 years old.
"Decent gig. Company housing, fat salary, good perks."
"Yeah, sure. Sounds great."
"Wanna switch? Allies—no big issue."
"Fuck off."
"Gotta have one to fuck…."
The National Security spy fired back with a sleazy grin. Top-tier psycho among the crazies I've met. Even Veronica couldn't top her.
I shifted in my seat with a sigh. "Lord, what'd I do to deserve this shit?"
"What? Found religion? Not praying to the Heavenly Lord, so probably a cult…."
"Yeah, the type fistfighting over scripture in Jerusalem."
Sophia nodded calmly, playing along—or ignoring the nonsense.
"So, what's the point?"
"In a rush? Your schedule's free today."
"How the hell you know that?"
She waved her press badge with a bright smile. "Journalist."
Someone at the embassy leaked to the press. Fine. Attachés are diplomats. Happens. I'd call Internal Affairs later.
I nodded, mouth opening. "No rush? Cool, lemme make a call."
Pulling my comms from my inner pocket, a suit reached to stop me.
"Put the phone away."
"What? You got a van—someone's gotta pick me up. I'm an attaché, soldier even if diplomat. Gotta report if I'm wandering."
Already beat from grunt work, my temper flared. Sophia waved the suit off mid-rant. I dialed staff.
"Yeah, it's me. Out nearby—can you pick me up later? No, not far. Twenty minutes. Bring the van, not sedan. Big one. Wanna lie down. Yeah. Shop name's nearby—hurry."
Named the front shop and hung up. Sophia scratched her cheek boredly. "Tired much?"
"Yeah."
"Crash at our safehouse nearby."
"Crazy? Got a prime Tower hotel—why your dump?"
No reason to ditch luxury, nor want to. Not with pickup crew incoming.
Pocketing my comms, she grinned slyly. "Fine. Swing by sometime. Or buy dinner. Major now—your treat."
"Soldier's pay for eating out? Anyway, spit it out. No circling."
"Got it."
Sophia leaned forward from the backrest.
"…You still Military Intel?"
"Yep. Attachés are all Military Intel. Nominally embassy."
"Right. One favor."
"Explain first."
"Obviously."
She nodded, lit a mana cig from her pocket, and smiled. Here we go.
"Military Intel and Royal Intel. Drop your current ops."
"What the—"
"Magic Tower rep, Fabio Verati."
The National Security spy said.
Sophia warned. "We're retired—don't fuck around. Back off."