Episode 5 - Journalist, Diplomat, Soldier, Spy
Bang-. A short honk cut across the quiet street in front of the hotel. My eyes landed on a black van with diplomatic plates. I naturally opened the door and slid inside, where a familiar old man greeted me.
"Heard you got shot?"
"...I won't even ask where you picked that up from."
I stared at the old man across from me with a look of utter disbelief.
"When the hell did you get here, Director?"
The sharp-eyed geezer grumbled curtly. "What, can't I show up?"
"...Jesus."
"Night air's chilly. Close the damn door."
Rattle. The door slammed shut with a loud thud.
Episode 5 - Journalist, Diplomat, Soldier, Spy
A commotion had kicked up, but time flowed on like a river. No media outlet reported the shooting in the heart of the Magic Tower. More precisely, they couldn't. Incidents in the shadows were kept under strict wraps by unwritten rule, regardless of nationality—and with the intelligence agencies involved this time, no press dared touch it.
So no one knew about the nighttime ruckus. People started their day as usual.
"...Yes, where should I put this?"
"This is a walkway, so over there."
Same for me. I'd gotten shot in the shoulder during the gunfight, stitched it up just enough, and reported back for duty. Not that "duty" was much.
"Next person, get ready."
"I'll check your belongings. Cooperate, please."
"Hey, you! Don't block the path—move it!"
Helping with Lucia's medical outreach.
"Where you headed?"
"Central library nearby. Wanna come?"
"Nah, still got some work. Want an escort?"
"Hmm... Do I need one just for magic practice?"
"I'll assign a mage then."
"Sure, sounds good. But can we check out the sewers while—"
"Absolutely not."
"Tch."
Assisting Camilla's magic practice.
"How's the protest situation?"
"Contacting their leadership. Reinforcements are controlling the scene."
"No terror attacks or flash mobs?"
"Nothing from our intel officers yet. We'll send official notice if anything comes in."
Touching base with intel police, sharing their gathered reports.
Beyond that, snapping photos with businessmen or politicians, holding meetings with Magic Tower officials, drinking with foreign defense attachés—petty errands like that. Nothing special so far. Just scraping by, more or less. Call it smooth sailing or slacking off; either fit.
But the defense attaché's office—Military Intelligence Bureau, to be exact—seemed to think my state was risky. They figured my cover was still intact, but with a guy who'd taken a bullet grinding through work, maybe force some R&R till I healed? That kind of bullshit kept floating my way.
I'm fine, though. Getting shot wasn't a big deal. I wasn't some wimp who'd whine about pain, and with manpower short, me bailing would paralyze ops. Plus Camilla and Lucia's issues. Someone had to handle it, and I was the only one, so grind on regardless.
That's how I bullshitted through the day. But Pippin and Jake thought differently.
"Sir, can't you rest now?"
"What're you on about?"
Jake glanced at me in the rearview via the mirror. Nominally and practically my deputy attaché, but with the best driving skills among us (trained in special forces), he doubled as chauffeur.
Anyway, Deputy Attaché-cum-Driver Jake gripped the wheel and spat it out. "You look like shit. One poke and you'd drop."
"That bad?"
"Yeah."
"Fuck..."
Sighing at my luck, I turned to the analyst in the passenger seat. "Pippin, got makeup?"
"Makeup? Why the sudden need?"
"...No way you're powdering up? A guy?"
Pippin and Jake lost it over nothing. Wondering if I had those tastes, saying they'd respect it despite the insanity—total nonsense. I just wanted to borrow some makeup, not get labeled gay. Then it hit me: local culture's just like that.
I sighed deeply and took back my words. "Not that. Just fixing my face with makeup, you idiots."
Makeup wasn't just for show. It altered appearances, so intel agencies used it on everyone. Sure, some squirmed at guys powdering up, opting for clothes or accessories instead. Like movies: flip jacket in an alley, slap on glasses, new face. Real techniques. CIA even advertised it.
Anyway, I took Pippin's kit and worked my mug back to normal. She shook her head watching. "Why not just rest?"
I eyed the passenger seat while dabbing on. "Why keep scratching the scab?"
"You've done enough, sir. A few days off won't tank overseas ops..."
"Found those hotel raiders with guns yet?"
Pippin and Jake clammed up. I kept powdering, blush circling my cheeks. "Snap out of it. We haven't even tailed 'em."
"......"
Painful truth. Their mouths stayed shut, mood tanked. What could I do? Nearly died; they weren't kids. Time to toughen up.
I checked the mirror, packed the kit. Decent result. "What're the staff up to?"
"Monitoring duties. Room 51's holing up in the delegation's on-call room now."
Fabio Verati'd vanished. Should've roughed him up on his way home, bagged him in a van. Lingering fucked it. Empire pricks always meddle.
"Reschedule?"
"Nah, hold off. Just surveil."
"Yes, sir."
"Any intel on the assailants?"
"Nothing yet. Empire delegation, Tower—all silent."
"HQ?"
"Assessing via attaché. Directives came, no fresh intel."
Sigh. Digging again. Thirsty dig wells—that's the game.
Mulling my sad lot, I pulled the burner phone activated that morning en route. "...Where?"
-'Office. Why call, you prick?'
"Ten minutes. Booze on me—haul ass under the bridge."
*
"What? You networking with press?"
"Yeah."
Quiet restaurant. Private room in a fancy district, met Dmitri.
"Why ask outta nowhere?"
"Why'd I ask you?"
Social affairs editor, cane and overcoat neatly aside, eyed me sourly. "Not selling intel again?"
"Don't be cold. 'Selling' what..."
"Same diff."
I topped his glass to soothe his pout. Not daytime drinking age, but requests like this needed booze in this culture. Ex-empire major paper's social desk vet Dmitri took the pour and opened up.
"What now?"
"Any reporters with military ties?"
Not every hack has army connects. But politics or social desk? Different story.
"Be specific. Defense industry? Policy think tanks? Gotta know departments to hook you up."
Dmitri sipped, game to hear. I paused, teased, clinked glasses. Clink. Short ring. He downed it smooth; I set mine down, cut to chase.
"Looking for ones tied to special ops."
"Pfft—!"
Dmitri spewed booze. On my face.
*
Special Ops. Special missions. Unusual tasks. In Hanja cultures—Korea, Japan, Taiwan, China—"special ops" often meant state or military intel. Special ops units, agencies. Handled intel, counterintel. Predecessor to GID was Security Command, once called Special Ops Unit.
Kien Empire same. "Special ops" meant Imperial Guard nine times outta ten, or army Recon Command, Counterintel Command.
"You—cough! Fuck, what'd you say?!"
"Reporters with special ops ties. Or anyone who knows 'em?"
Like most authoritarian dictatorships, empire viewed "special ops" dimly. Coughing fits, Dmitri muffled with a hanky, waved no.
"No, no—special ops is off-limits. Absolutely."
"C'mon. Scared?"
"You psycho...!"
"Chicken."
I got it, words aside. Dmitri had bad history with Counterintel. Broke military supply scandal sans precensorship, got dragged to their basement. Ignored guidelines. Month-plus sleep-deprived statement-writing. No beatings, but torture-lite. Sleep denial's standard prep.
Just exposé, so light. Government/military critique? No way statements only.
I understood. Fully. But not my problem.
"Dmitri, help this once."
"Nuts? Me with counterintel?"
"Recon Command this time, not counter."
"Fuck—that's the same!"
Dmitri refused military trial. "You, hand on heart: cops got you marked; poking special ops won't change shit."
"Cops stay domestic; special ops cross borders!"
"Dude, security didn't chase over borders."
"What?!"
Right—no GID here.
"Tch... Sit."
I tapped opposite seat, cracked fresh bottle, coaxed spooked editor.
"Not handing serious secrets."
Glug. Amber swirled; I flashed five fingers.
"Five guys. Just basics. No deep dives—roles suffice."
Passed glass, opened bag. Pulled montages from briefcase. Hotel raiders' sketches.
Dmitri glanced. "...These dangerous?"
"Nah. They'd never know a reporter's sniffing."
"How sure?"
I crooked index, trigger-pulled. Answer enough.
Dmitri still wary. Big bear build, surprisingly timid. But he delivered, so irresistible offer.
"Those resolutions you ran."
"......"
"Halting dissident crackdowns, reinstating fired press, political prisoner releases. Need backup, right?"
Like foreign MPs' statements. Tacked on—he knew.
"...Sure?"
"No empty promises."
"......"
Fired-press vet pondered. Briefly. Gulped glass, grabbed bottle, chugged, face-planted table. Ugly for his age, booze-puke. But some things needed liquid courage; I waited silent.
Long quiet, weak mutter. "...I'll do it."
"...Good."
Patted elder reporter's shoulder, left.
That night, intel committee MP tabled empire human rights resolution for next session. Dmitri's intel drop: four days later.
The CIA ad mentioned in the novel was uploaded to the official CIA YouTube channel in June 2020. No Korean subs, but English ones—worth a watch if interested.