Episode 5 - Journalist, Diplomat, Soldier, Spy
"So, what is it you wanted to say?"
"Let's step outside the hotel. There might be ears around."
"Isn't the inside usually safer than the outside?"
"This is the Magic Tower."
Episode 5 - Journalist, Diplomat, Soldier, Spy
A park near the hotel. Priestess Rebecca of the Inquisition led me there.
"This spot should do."
"It doesn't seem like the best place for a secret conversation."
"At least it's safer than inside the hotel."
We walked along the gravel path in the park, chatting as we went.
"We've got tails. Plainclothes unit."
"I know. It's more like protection than surveillance."
Even under the watchful eyes of plainclothes police, Priestess Rebecca remained utterly composed, treating the cops blended into the crowd like just another part of the scenery.
Anyway.
I strolled the park with Priestess Rebecca, mulling over what I knew about her. The mint-haired priestess with her haughty aura. Secretary to Inquisition Chief Pedro. The agent who dragged me to him whenever the mood struck. A double agent turned by a disguised spy. A silent shadow who rarely spoke. A doll-like figure whose inner thoughts were impossible to read.
That was the image of Priestess Rebecca from the Inquisition. Hard to pin down her character.
People like that were usually a pain to deal with. And I wasn't thrilled about tangling with her type either. Building rapport with someone whose motives you couldn't fathom was a dangerous game.
If she weren't so deeply tied to Pedro, I would've avoided her like the plague.
With the crunch of gravel under my shoes as background noise, I asked Priestess Rebecca about Pedro's well-being.
"How's the Director doing?"
"He's still in good health. He's considering retirement given his age, but even if a successor is named, he won't step down right away."
"I heard he's planning to stay on as an elder statesman."
"Yes, as you said. He'll probably offer advice on operations now and then as a senior advisor."
"Good to hear."
Rebecca relayed Pedro's latest in a calm tone.
For the record, "Director" was just a casual stand-in. With potential eavesdroppers around, calling him "Chief" would've screamed Inquisition Chief. "Director" didn't quite fit his age either—no way was I calling him "President" or "Chairman"—so I fudged it just enough to be understood. Names meant nothing in intel circles anyway.
Point was, Pedro was doing fine.
We wandered the park, making small talk. The early evening park buzzed with people, so no one gave us suspicious looks.
It was a diverse crowd. Couples snapping photos against a backdrop of flaming maples. Photographers out for shots of the park's vistas. Families on outings, parents gripping kids' hands. A mage drawing eyes with sleight-of-hand spells. A bard singing with a self-playing harp. And so on.
Amid the throng: two spies hiding in plain sight, trailed by intel cops in mufti.
"This neighborhood seems pretty well-off. Upscale area?"
"Trinity has always been the heart of the Magic Tower. Still is."
It wasn't exactly the capital, but Trinity was undeniably the Magic Tower's hub. Truth be told, I had zero interest in the Tower, so I was clueless about the local scene. Rebecca seemed to know her stuff, though—not surprising for an Inquisition agent.
"So, who ransacked my room?"
"As I said before, it wasn't us."
Priestess Rebecca denied any Inquisition involvement. Coming from her, alone without other agents, it rang true—they weren't behind the search.
"Hmm…."
That left someone else. No key gear stolen, no bugs planted, so I'd have to investigate this one slowly.
I scanned the surroundings and shifted topics.
"Fine, whatever. But what's with all that gear? You didn't bring guns and vests just to sightsee, did you?"
"I see no reason to explain that to you, Major."
Rebecca clammed up on the guns and body armor. It wasn't like I didn't know—they were for killing or something close. But I needed the why.
"Per the Inquisition's request, we're handling Saintess Lucia's protection from our mission."
"……."
"If shit hits the fan, we need a chain of command to respond, right?"
At the behest of the Inquisition and the Church's Foreign Ministry, Lucia was under Abbas intel protection. But if her "entourage" (read: Inquisition plants) caused a scandal and hit the press? The blowback lands on us. Like it or not, we'd tacitly shouldered their security.
What I really wanted to say wasn't "Don't fuck around," but "If you're gonna make trouble, at least give me a heads-up so I can prepare."
Rebecca pondered a moment, then started opening up bit by bit.
"We need results too, you know?"
Words from the mouth carry weight.
Every intel agency's goal is safeguarding national security and boosting competitiveness. Domestic and foreign intel gathering, covert ops, counterintel investigations, security info collection, tech protection, support for overseas businesses, protection of citizens abroad, and more. Duties vary by division, but the endgame is preempting external threats to protect the nation.
And agencies have slogans. Words carry weight. Politicians' pledges hold visions; CEOs' mottos embody philosophies. So what do intel slogans hold? Aspirations. The ideals they strive for. That's the goal orientation baked in.
That's why the old KCIA—National Intelligence Service under the old regime—hung "We work in the shadows to protect the light" at their gate. Most agencies spout wordy, cringey crap, but the Central Intelligence Agency and National Security Planning Agency nailed the intel essence.
Maybe from his pre-Korean War intel days. Kim Jong-pil nailed that slogan. Good or bad.
Anyway. National security and competitiveness—that's the mission. First task: intel gathering.
"Firefighters put out fires, cops catch crooks after crimes, soldiers defend in war. But intel prevents incidents before they happen. We're not responders—we're preventers."
"Couldn't agree more."
A punch might let you win after taking a hit, but in intel, one blow often leaves you crippled. Worse, you might not even know you got hit. Even "successful" responses mean bigger losses—that's intel life.
Rebecca hit on exactly that.
"Suspicious activity in the Magic Tower."
"Suspicious how? Source?"
"All-source."
I racked my brain quick. All-source: HUMINT, SIGINT, OSINT, cross-verified. High hit rate—solid foundations.
Issue was having the chops to collect and analyze it….
"First ping from the consulate in Nastasya."
An agency like the Inquisition had that capacity in spades.
Rebecca approached a street vendor, serene as ever.
"One lokum, please."
"Right away! To go?"
"Yes."
She'd been talking, then abruptly ordered food.
"Want one?"
"No thanks. Just brushed my teeth."
"Then have some tea. One milk tea—two spoons honey, one sugar. And marmalade."
Brushed teeth, then orders a sugar bomb? And without asking me? Shady vibe, but the owner prepped it openly in plain view, no funny business.
I steeled my face and took the milk tea. Tea wasn't the priority.
"So, what'd you find?"
"Suspicious moves centered on immigrants."
"Immigrants?"
"Yes. Businessmen, students, scientists, salarymen. Diverse backgrounds and nationalities made links hard, but analysis ties most to the Magic Tower."
"……."
Sounds familiar.
I tucked away the unease and spoke.
"Gathering intel?"
"Yes."
"Certain?"
"Would we come here on a hunch?"
"Fair point. What kind?"
"Varied. Science, magic, economy, society, politics, diplomacy, defense, security. Mostly economic and industrial ties."
Dead certain tone.
"The bosses want us to crack this for results. That's why we're here."
I sighed involuntarily.
"Aigoo…."
Mage bastards pulling global shit. Multiple ops too. Military Intelligence, Royal Intel, National Security, Imperial Guard, Empire intel, Inquisition—half a dozen agencies swarming the Tower already.
If only they hadn't gotten sloppy.
I rubbed my stiff neck, glancing around.
"Here to investigate?"
"Building a net first, then handing off to nearby embassies. Can't wrap this quick."
Recruit assets in the Tower, link to local missions. Spy net build—the toughest op.
"Tough setup. The Church has no foothold in the Tower, right?"
"We'll find a way. We're just not there yet. If it fails, it's God's will."
"Ah, sure…."
Pure zealot mindset. You can borrow from Arabs, but not buy them—faith makes recruitment hell.
Yet they snagged her. How'd Pedro do it? Hypno app?
Mid-ramble, a thought: Maybe even this is an act.
Act?
A hypothesis flashed.
"Today's aid convoy attack—was that a false flag?"
"Hard to say. Investigation ongoing."
Rebecca's poker face neither confirmed nor denied. With crowds around, caution made sense—but given her role, it was as good as admission.
"…Impressive. How do you handle the fallout?"
"Just precautions. Gotta have insurance, right?"
Rare smirk tugged her lips.
"Like now."
"……."
She wiped the smile, popped a lokum, turned to the vendor, and crossed herself.
"That's all I can say. Getting late, eyes everywhere."
"…Shall I set up a meet?"
"As rivers flow to the sea, if our paths don't end here, opportunity will come. I'll head back."
Rebecca dropped culty nonsense, added "Sort your trash properly," and walked off toward the hotel.
I watched her vanish into the crowd, then eyed my untouched milk tea.
Examined the paper cup, separated holder from cup.
"……."
Stared at the holder awhile, then glanced at the vendor.
The owner, packing up, met my eyes, tapped his chest, and made a small sign of the cross.
I chuckled in disbelief.
"…Fate my ass."
Inside the paper cup holder: locker address and code.