Episode 5 - Journalist, Diplomat, Soldier, Spy
After hearing what the reporter, diplomat, soldier, and spy investigator had to say, my first suspicion naturally fell on the National Security Agency. Sophia had openly admitted she was handling the "investigation," and she'd warned Military Intelligence and the Royal Intelligence Bureau to back off the Fabio Verati case. All his relatives were Patalians anyway, and he himself was ex-National Security Agency. So it stood to reason that the group tailing his youngest daughter was Patalia's National Security Agency.
But apparently...
"What did you say?"
'Uh, well, here's the thing.'
There are no absolutes in this world, it seems.
'Looks like the ones ransacking No. 51 right now are from the Empire's intelligence agencies.'
"...I'm heading there now."
I excused myself from Lucia and the Inquisition folks, then bolted out of the restaurant. I grabbed a taxi, headed to the address relayed over the secure line, scoped out the area for a good while, and slipped inside the building.
It was an office—our Military Intelligence cover site for this op. That's where I got the sitrep.
"Photos of the suspects spotted tailing No. 51's contact."
The Counterintelligence team's boss spread a bunch of photos across the table. The surveillance target in her school uniform, suits loading her into a car, and four lurkers watching the vehicle.
The investigator tapped a heavily zoomed shot. "Here. See the radio the guy in the passenger seat is holding?"
"Yeah."
The man in the passenger seat of that Jeep- or UAZ-like SUV was peering at Fabio Verati's youngest daughter through binoculars and a radio.
"That's Empire-made gear," the Special Operations officer chimed in. "Short-range work radio. Mostly used by police command and field agents. Military imports a few units too. Counterintelligence Command loves 'em."
"......"
Civilian radio. Tech here's analog, most likely. Digital's coming out now, but it all goes straight to frontline units. Too damn expensive otherwise. No encryption on that radio in the photo, basically. Tune to the right frequency, and you can eavesdrop.
"Not the encrypted kind if it's civilian-grade?"
"Right. We tuned a car radio to their freq on-site and snagged about nine seconds of chatter. Ready to play—hold tight."
"Got it."
I flipped through the other shots. Mostly the youngest daughter, burly guys pegged as her nannies, and the lurkers circling.
While I was at it, the Special Ops officer pointed one out. "These bodyguards? All got military vibes."
"...Ex-military?"
"Guard protocols match some spec-ops regs. No blind spots. And check this."
He indicated their outfits and ride. "Uniform clothing and vehicles. Most paramils can't sync gear like that, but well-drilled small units—platoon or squad level—standardize everything."
"Thin evidence."
"Look at the car. Heavy tint, extra mirrors, trunk's got a spare tire and jerry cans. What nanny hauls a kid around in that? Adventurers, maybe."
"......"
"Plus, No. 51's a civil servant. Kid's in academy prepping for uni. Overkill sticking two beefcakes on her. Magic Tower security's iffy overall, sure, but her routes are middle-class hoods—decent cops, no sketch zones. Parents there don't bodyguard kids as a rule."
Damn detailed intel. Like he'd lived it.
"You know the Tower well?"
"First posting. Got buddies doing security post-discharge."
Spec-ops buddies, probably. Special Activities guys re-up with Royal Intel or Cabinet Security, not private firms. Had to be military spec-ops.
Anyway, solid info from the officer. Vet insights beat any snitch's whispers.
Veronica was a case in point.
"Same logic: lurkers look ex-military too."
"Empire military...?"
"Waiting agent found cig butts at their ditch spot. All military-issue, Empire contract smokes."
Mid-chat, the investigator handed over an envelope while sorting pics. Couple butts inside—saw 'em too often in the Empire to miss the brand.
"Akhtonak."
"You know it?"
"Yeah. Knew some soldier types, one chain-smoker. Stuck to these."
Couldn't miss a source's brand—I'd fronted him packs when his stipend ran dry.
No need to dig further.
"Patch me to HQ."
Empire's tailing Fabio Verati's youngest. Case closed.
*
'Empire, huh?'
"Yes, sir."
Military Intelligence cover office. Deepest, darkest room. Chatting with Clevins over the comm gear.
'Listened to the tape. Empire tongue, Empire gear, Kien features. Gotta be theirs.'
Clevins accepted reality, cool as ever. Then hit me:
'Which outfit, you figure?'
"Dunno, sir."
Empire's got two military intel arms: Counterintelligence Command for security, counterspies, domestic intel. Recon Command for overseas ops and foreign works.
Issue: which one's on Verati? Not Empire turf here.
"Both active at the Tower, far as I know."
'Spot on. Both operate there.'
Tower's political, historical, diplomatic quirks. Built on imperial backing ages ago; early emperors treated it like a half-autonomous zone. Then the emperor picks the fuzzy middle—neither annex nor free—and croaks.
Empire's classic hereditary absolute dictatorship.
'...Yeah. That emperor was current one's granddad. Can't just scrap Gramps' laws.'
"Dictatorships gonna dictate."
Hereditary tyranny hates reform. Power's in blood, not the man. Paranoid dictators pass it on to dodge postmortem shade.
But kid inherits, tweaks Dad's legacy? Boom—opposition drags the corpse out for desecration. Obvious.
Stalin and Mao proved it. Khrushchev and Deng pinged 'em post-mortem.
Empire too. Emperors rarely touched predecessors' laws sans ironclad excuse. Self-sabotage otherwise.
So Empire intel—domestic or foreign—plasters Tower with agents. No laws, their playground.
"...Hmm."
China's NSA staffs Taiwan, HK, Macau special desks. Why this circus?
Daydreaming, Clevins' voice snapped me back.
'Affiliation don't matter. Counterintel or Recon, pick one. Not Imperial Guard, anyway.'
Rock-solid tone. Source of that certainty?
"How can you be sure?"
'You got ears? We got ears too.'
"Meaning?"
'Planted a red in the Empire embassy last month.'
Turned an embassy staffer. Or double-agent.
"When the hell?"
'Guard foolery made one flip. Flew with the ambassador last time. Stalled promo, money talked. High Military Magic Research leak came from him too.'
"...Pardon?"
'Eh, not huge. Drop it.'
Clevins brushed off flipping an Imperial Guard agent like pocket lint, switched gears serene.
'So, plan?'
Not a reprimand—demanding countermeasures.
'Docs say NSA and Empire lapped us. They'll snag No. 51 first at this rate.'
"That so?"
'We're late to the party. But you're not just gonna twiddle thumbs while they swarm, right? Got a play, spill.'
"......"
'I see that look. Guessing your angle.'
Not demanding—leading questions. Spycatcher instincts.
Clevins had my number.
Fine then. "Yeah, sure."
"How about we kidnap her?"
*
Plan's simple: multiple agencies chasing? Latecomers like us leapfrog by grabbing first.
"He won't go down easy. Got escape routes, sure."
Ex-intel types don't. But options exist.
"Target the easy mark: a relative. Loves his kid, from what I see. Won't bolt solo if she's snatched."
Never seen parents ditch kids and run. Family leverage is classic handler control. Tried-and-true.
"Won't abandon her. Grab the kid, he'll crawl to us on his knees."
Asked Clevins, "Thoughts?"
'......'
"Colonel?"
His take: succinct.
'...Figured. But hearing it? Pure batshit.'