Episode 5 - Grandfather: Journalist, Diplomat, Soldier, Spy, and KCIA Chief Investigator
Grandfather was a chief investigator in the KCIA. According to Grandma, his original dream had been to become a prosecutor. Nothing special about the reason—he'd graduated from law school with solid grades, so the judiciary caught his eye. But back in the days of absolute evaluation, the judicial exam was notoriously brutal. The cocky law student couldn't clear the hurdle.
He kept failing, drifting through years as a ronin exam-taker, until family pressure broke him. He ended up flipping through the newspaper's job ads. That's when a 27-year-old's eyes landed on [Century Culture Publishing General Clerk Grade 7 Civil Service Open Recruitment].
Public service is the dream job now, but back then, to a law grad like him, it was like offering poison to a horse. Still, a 27-year-old exam ronin couldn't be picky about hot or cold rice. He boarded the bus from Seoul Station—where he'd gone back and forth during college—to the exam site in Yemun-dong.
He arrived at the KCIA's Yemun-dong headquarters. That's where his 30-year journey with the company began. From joining in 1970 to honorable retirement in 2001. Five promotions, two name changes for the agency: KCIA, Agency for National Security Planning, National Intelligence Service.
He spent three decades in national intelligence, navigating a life too twisted to call merely "bumpy." By the time he neared sixty, that 27-year-old kid walked out to applause from the staff. A successful life, if you could call it that. He'd maxed out his pension eligibility, and his grown son—our dad—was a civil servant who could feed the grandkids. No worries about old age.
Just one issue: his relationship with his only child, my dad, wasn't great. Not terrible, but just occasional calls and visits during holidays to show our faces...? I don't know why. It was their secret, carried to the grave by both.
"……."
Were Grandfather and Dad happy? Who knows.
I turned my head, scanning the crowded wine bar. Being in a foreign chain hotel, the first thing that jumped out were the suits—businessmen, no doubt. Exchanging cards and chatting was textbook entrepreneur behavior.
Couples enjoying intimate time in this mage tower resort, lovers on vacation maybe. True to its status as the mages' mecca, I spotted a wizard in a hooded short cape. Pinpointing identities was a breeze. Mages were the easiest—only they could wear hooded garb.
It wasn't some elitist mage superiority complex; it was local culture. Stemming from the Nastasya Treaty clause: "Mages shall, if possible, wear insignia proving their status."
Reasons abounded. In an era of easy ID forgery with bamboo tags, fake mage scammers abounded. Amid postwar chaos and shaky public order, mages needed to advertise their status to avoid trouble. One spell and even knife-wielding thugs would shit themselves, but responding to every hassle with magic was ridiculous. So hoods and capes became indirect proof.
No need to enforce it now with digitized public records, but tradition turned it cultural. Military mages wore them on duty; academy kids embroidered logos or faction symbols like school jerseys. Most had practical everyday spells, so folks wore them casually. My sister lounged in hers at home when too lazy to change—hot or cold weather be damned. I knew well.
"……."
Day drinking, maybe? Random thoughts flooding in. Or boredom from waiting.
Speaking of—where the hell was she? She'd told me to come here, then ghosted for over 30 minutes. No call.
"…Tch."
As impatience set in and I checked my wristwatch, a familiar voice came from behind.
"What're you thinking?"
Sophia.
"…Oh, you're here. Sit."
"Sorry I'm late. Traffic."
Sophia, with her press badge clipped to her chest, flashed a faint smile. I eyed the dangling ID swaying side to side and shot back.
"Bad traffic? Magic Tower doesn't have much."
"Nah, got pulled for a random check."
"…Ah."
"They thought I was a protester, rummaged my bag for flyers. Flashed the press pass, so an intel cop shows up grilling me—thought I was covering the demos."
"And?"
"Told 'em I was headed to the hotel, answered a few questions, let go. 'Wear the badge so we don't stop you again,' they said."
Hmm. Magic Tower cops running tight vehicle stops. Probably hunting protest ringleaders. Or panicking brass cracking the whip.
"They're nabbing cars now too? Broom fliers trip mana-trace scans, so protesters riding vehicles, I guess."
"Didn't stop me."
"Diplomatic plates."
Sophia chuckled lightly, settling in. Untouchable rides, huh. Didn't know diplomats got that perk. Toyed with importing foreign luxury cars with diplo tags like North Korea—flip 'em for profit. But nah, even intel plays outside the law sometimes; that'd be too shameless.
As my idle fancy wandered, Sophia smoothly ordered a drink and eyed me.
"So… why'd our defense attaché summon me outta nowhere?"
"You know why."
Info swap, obviously.
I slid my glass aside and broached it. "Need info. Your agency's file on a local national."
"Verbal requests are tricky."
Sophia, Patalia National Security Agency investigator, smiled. Lips up, eyes flat—classic bullshit detector.
"You know the rules. Defense attaché—you get it."
"Proportionality principle?"
Proportionality principle. Like markets rule economics, this governs diplomacy: quid pro quo. One-for-one exchange.
"Right. Something given, something returned."
And since intel covers diplomacy, defense, security, it holds (mostly) in our world too. Breaks when treating the other side like chum. Big dogs bully minions—Cold War staple, no East-West divide.
Fancy talk: "Can't share sensitive intel beyond cooperation scope." Blunt: "You don't need it—buzz off," "Know your place."
CIA pulled it on French DGSE, UK MI6, West German BND. KGB on East German Stasi, Chinese MSS. Thug shit, but superpowers could punch any jaw.
Korea's agencies caught US shade on North Korea ops. Partly capability gap—US launches satellite fleets; we juggle scraps across NIS, intel commands, foreign ministry, unification ministry. Tech intel devours budgets.
Of course.
"Naturally."
"Thanks, Merlo."
Patalia matched Abbas—no superpower flex possible. To ask, I had to offer equal value. Rules.
"What info you after?"
"Hmm…."
Sophia made a gross nasal hum, slithering gaze on me. Tapped the table, opening.
"First… update on that favor?"
"Retiree issue? Reported up the chain."
Sophia had asked me to lift Military Intelligence's tail on Fabio Verati. Technically, her NSA asking my agency via her—agents represent bosses abroad.
I'd blown it off casually. No showing, so stone-faced lie.
"Op's on hold, I'd say. Under review."
"Review?"
"Backing off, hunting new routes."
I ran the op, got real-time reports—but ignorance is bliss.
"Dunno details."
Clueless, totally.
Ridiculous clown act, but intel structure enables it.
"You know official vs. unofficial covers have separate tracks? Ops, reporting lines… I hear whispers, can't confirm."
Intel officers and case officers overlap yet differ. Similar jobs, detail gaps. Simply: intel doesn't know case ops; case doesn't know intel. No comms for security. Only top brass sees all field reports—from very high up.
So unless special, me as intel not knowing op progress? Normal.
Sophia nodded, buying it.
"Got it. Thanks for the favor."
"What're friends for."
Thank you more.
"That's your only question?"
"For now…?"
Sophia kept smiling, eyes dead. Unreadable, ominous extra words—shady as hell.
Whatever I thought, she ignored. Pity-face on, she traced her glass rim.
"What info you need?"
"Francesca Lanieri."
"……."
"Alchemist of the Lanieri family, leading the elemental school. Your file on her."
Her finger slowed microscopically. She circled the rim casually, but I caught it. Eyes shut briefly, pondering, then:
"Curious about her? Why?"
"Meeting soon."
"Official? Or personal?"
I skipped answering. She was intel; no booze dulled her. We infer from scraps. She'd dodge vaguely, as always.
"Hmm… Merlo, that what I think?"
"Probably."
"Yeah…?"
Sophia tapped the rim—nail on glass, sharp in silence.
"……."
In the quiet, I recalled my prior judgment, eyes closed. Conversation's end was set.
And as expected.
"…Merlo."
"Listening."
"Sorry. Can't do this one."
Sophia smiled apologetically.
"You know why."
"Roughly."
"Really sorry. Regulations tie my hands."
"……."
"Sharing watchlist intel's above my paygrade."
Deal dead. Intel fail.
"Understood."
As planned.