Episode 5 - Journalist, Diplomat, Soldier, Spy
Spy craft has its techniques. Tricks to evade surveillance from intelligence and counterintelligence agencies, ensuring smooth and secure operations. Spy techniques are so refined they can fool even trained professionals. Setting up safe houses next to slaughterhouses, hiding orders in trash cans, stashing cameras in cigarette packs, hollowing out random rocks to plant bugs. Spies will do anything if it means deception.
Success was secondary; failure meant life or death in this line of work. That's why I always stored my gear in predetermined spots and angles, and placed a hair across my clothes. So I'd know if someone searched my room.
That had changed. Someone had ransacked my room.
Episode 5 - Journalist, Diplomat, Soldier, Spy
The fact that some unknown intruder had searched my room was shocking, but I wasn't rattled. I'd half-expected it and prepared mentally. I wasn't just some grunt—I was a military attaché, hanging around the continent's hottest potatoes. Every intel agency was bound to watch me.
Above all, I was an active-duty soldier. Someone who could peek into military secrets anytime. An active-duty soldier managing military and diplomatic secrets, buddy to the Hero. Only an idiot wouldn't bite.
Even if they couldn't recruit me, they'd at least probe. Success meant scooping up all sorts of secrets.
The question was who had searched my room.
"...Who the hell?"
It had only been a month since I'd ripped apart those Imperial Guard reactionary bastards who tried to take my head on Military Intelligence's orders. The Inquisition had officially intervened here (announced as a solo Inquisition op), and the Imperial Guard had turned a blind eye to Military Intelligence's assassination plot unofficially. The continent's top two intel agencies had backed off and yielded, all watched by every other agency on the continent.
Of course, no intel bureau pegged me as Military Intelligence based on that. All military attachés were managed by military intel regardless of origin, so most figured it was just the kingdom saving face with a hardline stance.
Thus, most agencies had decided to surveil without touching me for the time being. This wasn't speculation—it was official, from analysis of intel acquired by Military Intelligence's overseas division. No doubt about it. Military Intelligence's capabilities weren't to be underestimated, and top analysts were usually spot-on.
So the info that most agencies wouldn't touch me was basically fact.
Yet some crazy bastards had searched my lodgings now? Even lawless intel agencies wouldn't call this rational. They should've watched longer and moved slower—blood on the blade hadn't even dried yet.
"......"
I sat on the hotel bed, mulling it over. Who searched my room? Who could search it?
I pondered long but drew no conclusion. This was the Magic Tower—Hong Kong, Berlin, Istanbul, Vienna of spycraft. Too many suspects.
"...Or maybe housekeeping?"
In my deliberations, it hit me: maybe hotel staff had cleaned. So I went to the front desk.
"Yes, how may I assist?"
"Can you tell me if anyone entered my room today?"
"Ah, did you lose something?"
The staffer smiled brightly. I lied.
"Yes."
"Per policy, we'll compensate—"
"No need. It wasn't important. Just who entered."
"Understood. One moment."
I waited quietly in the deserted lobby. Results came soon.
"Sir? No one's entered your room since check-in."
"No housekeeping or anyone with a key?"
"Per government request, no housekeeping for security. Keys aren't given out for guest safety."
"......"
Definite intruder.
*
I never found the culprit. Small mercy: only my room was hit.
"Nothing changed in yours?"
"No, sir."
Pippin and Jake nodded in my room. Both in comfy casuals, prepping for bed.
"Sure?"
"Yes. Checked multiple times."
No signs in their rooms. I sighed in relief on the bed.
"You okay, boss?"
"Yeah."
"What the hell is this...?"
"Dunno. Me neither."
Too many suspects to pinpoint. Could be Magic Tower counterintel, or a third-country agency. Hotel rooms weren't hard to breach.
But oddities nagged.
"Why just mine...? Yours are fine."
"No idea."
First: why only my room?
"Checked for bugs?"
"Yeah."
"Find any?"
"Nope."
Second: if they had time to rummage, why no bugs?
"...No clue how they bypassed this. Mana signatures differ per keycard."
Third: how'd they open a mana-locked door without a key?
"......"
Prime suspect: Magic Tower Public Order Security Bureau. Magic Tower's counterintel, survivor of Nastassya Treaty cuts. Hotel here had to cooperate if they pushed, and silencing was easy.
But low odds.
"Pippin, when's my meet with Public Order?"
"Two days."
They had a sit-down with me—unofficial with Military Intelligence. If they searched, it'd be for intel leverage. Common tactic; even NIS got caught raiding hotel rooms.
Problem: nothing missing from my room.
"No missing stuff, so why search?"
"Stole your undies?"
"Crazy bastard."
Maybe hacked my terminal like FBI double-agent busts, but key devices were at the delegation, rest in bag's hidden compartment. No tampering signs. My bag was Military Intelligence's latest decoy model—new, uncrackable.
"Jake. Can you check upstairs guests? Maybe alias."
"Tower booked the whole hotel exclusive. Just us."
"What? No other firms then."
Not Tower. Not other agencies. Who the fuck dared?
I groaned over the riddle. Silent Pippin spoke.
"Boss."
"Yeah?"
"Others here besides us?"
*
"So you're suspecting us."
"Yes."
"Hard to swallow."
Rebecca, Lucia's retinue leader and Inquisition chief's secretary, dismissed my claim. The mint-haired, haughty Inquisition agent eyed me from the hotel sofa.
"Why would we search your room?"
"Suddenly accused of B&E? I got a shock coming back to a ransacked room too."
"How upsetting. Tea?"
"Water."
Pippin's theory hit; only Inquisition disguised as retinue freely accessed sans Military Intelligence. Prime suspects.
"All gathered. Something good?"
"Relief schedule meeting."
"Aigoo, late night fatigue."
"Then leave."
Room full of a dozen Inquisition agents. My room hit, they huddle? Suspicious as hell.
I propped feet on ottoman, lounged.
"Lucia's relief head. Why you whispering?"
"Watch your words."
Rebecca and I stared down amiably. Our agencies behind us. Spy clusterfuck in tight quarters—counterintel would pop veins.
Rebecca set teacup on armrest, creamed biscuit, spoke.
"As you know, we're downstairs. Your room's up. Why go?"
"Stairs, ten seconds."
"Why suspect us? We're devout and pure."
"......"
I pondered Inquisition purity.
First: they called me post-terror to probe.
Second: lured solo for "info," strip-searched and pressured.
Imperial Guard deceived, but at embassy party, smooth talk. Inquisition rougher.
Third: branded Raoul links black mages. Military Intelligence wanted Raoul dead, others jailed minor charges—Inquisition executed citizens as black mages, supplied Raoul's "cover," egged saintess on camera for Tower humiliation, sicced imperial cops for preemptive arrests, sent spies to relief...
"......"
Craziest religionists I'd met. Worse than Islamist terrs. Good Inquisition chief was our spy.
"Anyway. Didn't enter?"
"No entry, no search. What gain?"
"...Hmm."
I trusted Pedro. Elite infiltrator decades, loyal. But as chief, might order search for cover. No real threat, but zealots unpredictable. Tension stayed.
Rebecca unflinching under my glare.
Then rear commotion.
"Look at this!"
Jake, rummaging closet, held something high. Eyes turned. A gun.
Tiny submachine gun. More and vest scattered on floor, hastily hidden.
"......"
"......"
"...Why's that in a hotel room?"
Rebecca, stone-faced till now, turned away like she'd seen filth.
"How'd you smuggle that in...?"
"...You know better than to ask."
"...Relief supplies?"
"......"
Silence affirmed.
"...Talk outside."
"Ah, yes. Sure..."