The White Niggers of Eire (2)
The man who had been Director Tsoy of Szczecin-Oder Logistics in the hotel lobby became Pavel Nikolayevich Tsoy, Head of Security for the Northern Covenant Syndicate, the moment he returned to his room and closed the door.
'This is harder than I thought...'
As he had mentioned to Lady Bronska before, it was a role he had played a few times in the past. Yet, despite his mental preparation, hiding his true self was never easy.
Perhaps it was because he considered himself upright by nature—an ironic thing to say for someone who had thrown his lot in with a criminal organization. Even so, the only reason he willingly played the deceiver was his absolute loyalty to the young lady.
On the surface, the Soviet Union claimed to embrace all ethnic minorities, but it was Great Russian Slavs who truly held the reins of the country. Furthermore, the General Secretary of Steel had actively implemented forced deportation policies to dilute the "ethnic identity" of these minorities. To the state, those who pledged loyalty to their ethnicity over the Party and the Motherland were nothing but obstacles to a unified Union.
For Pavel, Primorye—the far eastern edge of the Union—was a world away. He knew only a couple of basic words in Koryo-mar. Yet, he could not hide his slightly yellow skin. Because of this, trading blows with those miserable Slavic bastards had been a daily routine. That said it all.
The one who had given him a new life when he was barely scraping by, and who had even provided him with a mentor he could trust and follow, was none other than Willo Bronsky, the former leader of the Syndicate. Perhaps the man had seen something in him, for he had gone so far as to personally have him trained in advanced martial arts and marksmanship.
His vision had proven correct, and thus Pavel Nikolayevich Tsoy became the Syndicate's strongest fighter. It was around that time that Willo entrusted him with the close protection of Lady Yerina Bronska, whom the leader cherished more than his own life. Entrusting his only daughter to a youth who had barely turned twenty was a testament to his boundless trust.
Therefore, he had to dedicate everything to the leader and the young lady. His very soul belonged to them, and now that the young lady had become the leader, that devotion was stronger than ever. Under the circumstances, it was only natural for him to murmur to himself.
"Master Bronsky, just how far ahead were you looking...?"
Naturally, there was no answer. Even so, Pavel recalled the young lady he used to know. On the very day the Syndicate's headquarters in Kaliningrad was raided by Spetsnaz lackeys acting on Stalin's orders, Lady Bronska had changed completely.
Whether she had turned to the dark arts because she was pushed to the brink, or whether the crushing weight of inheriting the organization had forged her anew, he did not know. But one thing was certain: despite all the adversity, she was still the master he was destined to serve.
After watching the will left on the DVD, the young lady had begun reforming the crumbling organization piece by piece, like someone who had returned with all the answers. It was from that moment that she entrusted heavy responsibilities to the four executives who had escaped Kaliningrad with them, while simultaneously wielding magic to sharpen the blade of purge. Anyone who refused to recognize Yerina Willovna Bronska as the rightful leader of the Syndicate was utterly swept away.
While it was hard to attribute it solely to a single individual's capability, placing the right people in the right positions to ensure the purge swept evenly through the entire organization was undoubtedly a display of her extraordinary brilliance. Only then was the Syndicate truly ready to welcome its second leader.
Yet, he knew. Beneath that ironclad leadership lay the young lady's true self, fragile and poised to shatter. He knew she suffered from sleepless nights, haunted by the subconscious memories of the day the organization burned. He knew that was precisely why she cut back on sleep, throwing herself tirelessly into administrative affairs.
How could he not know? Ten years was more than enough time for anyone to understand a person, let alone for him, who had served her closest. The young lady would often say, "Shouldn't I be the one working the hardest? If I do less than you all, what would everyone think of me?" But he had not known Yerina Bronska for so short a time as to miss the hidden meaning behind those words.
The same went for the magic dwelling in the eyes she had inherited from her mother. What must it have been like for her only magic to activate independently of her will since childhood? It was only natural that keeping one foot in the magical world had become a trauma. Thus, the fact that the young lady—who used to avoid meeting people because of it—now used that magic so freely meant she was undoubtedly enduring a heart-wrenching agony every single time.
Yet, he could not bring himself to stop her, for he had read a resolute determination in those eyes that seemed to hold burning embers. A determination that said, 'I will never again let other people or other organizations dictate our lives.' To fulfill her will, he had to give his absolute all. Though Master Bronsky had never wanted his daughter to be entangled in such danger, there was no turning back now.
At the end of this journey, the young lady and the Syndicate would stand with the entire world beneath their feet. Moreover, when the leader herself was not hiding in the shadows but stepping onto the front lines, it would be absurd for him, who had held the position of Head of Security for over a decade, to stand idly by. Since the master of his soul, Yerina Bronska, had made her decision, he had no choice but to follow.
Right now, she was likely having a private audience with the highest-ranking official present at this meeting, the Quartermaster. She would undoubtedly lock eyes with Quartermaster Connor McDermott repeatedly to break down his mental barriers. Knowing that her trauma would flare up each time she did so, it was truly a task impossible without extraordinary resolve.
"Do you think you can manage it? The schedule seems quite tight."
The dim, warm wooden lighting cast their shadows side by side. On the other side of the bar, a solitary bartender was wiping down glasses.
"I'll have to look into it more closely with my staff, but it shouldn't be impossible. But tell me, why on earth do you need to stockpile so many explosives?"
We were in the hotel bar. It seemed all other patrons had been cleared out, leaving no one but the bartender and the two of us. Seeing how he had insisted on bringing me here immediately even after confirming I wasn't an adult, his intentions were as transparent as the ice in his glass.
It was almost absurd how casually he treated me, just because Pavel had told him he could. Even if I, as a secretary, was Director Tsoy's subordinate, I certainly wasn't Connor McDermott's. In any case, he was just a trivial human being I would never have to see again after this.
I tilted my glass of apple juice—a rather funny phrasing—and continued.
"It's a project the Director is pursuing with the tacit approval of headquarters. I believe he is looking into export routes to the Middle East."
It was a cover story, of course, but a highly plausible one. McDermott smirked, showing no sign of suspicion.
"Afghanistan, then."
"No comment on that part."
When I locked eyes with him and offered a slight smile, he grinned foolishly, his face practically screaming that he had figured it out. I could clearly feel his gaze drifting from my face down to my chest, and then to my legs. He probably thought he was being subtle, but when you're the one being stared at, it's impossible not to notice.
I let it slide. Considering the influence my Syndicate would gain with every layer of suspicion this man shed, he could harbor whatever lustful thoughts he wanted. McDermott spoke up.
"I've heard the Soviet forces pouring into that region are no joke. If you're planning to supply the Mujahideen, wouldn't that mean a Polish organization is essentially stabbing the Soviet Union in the back?"
A valid point. Even as his mental barriers were melting away like ice in real-time, he still managed to offer a fairly sharp deduction. But in the criminal underworld, there was no such thing as a homeland.
"The Director prioritizes other values above all else. Besides, you'd have to be an idiot not to enter that theater of war right now."
In short, 'Why wouldn't we enter a market with guaranteed profitability?' Was that explanation enough? He nodded as if he understood.
"Haha, indeed. We tried to establish a connection ourselves, but opening a trade route with the Middle East proved incredibly difficult. Even Muammar Gaddafi seemed rather lukewarm about it."
"It makes sense, considering the land routes through the Caucasus and Central Asia are much easier to penetrate than the maritime routes via the Indian Ocean."
"It's not a bad deal for us either. This is certainly better than letting it sit as dead stock."
On the surface, it was a transaction where nobody lost. The IRA could clear out the massive stockpile sitting in their warehouses, and Szczecin-Oder Logistics could acquire a large quantity of explosives to sell to Afghanistan. Meanwhile, the Northern Covenant Syndicate—which had supposedly never set foot in Belfast—could quietly siphon off the explosives needed for their raid on the British Museum. I felt a faint, secret gratitude toward these generous givers.
"Well... there's also the fact that there aren't many suppliers who can meet both our quantity and quality demands. And in this industry, trust is everything, isn't it?"
"Trust, you say?"
It was quite amusing to see him lean in slightly, his interest piqued. It was hardly appropriate behavior for a man of his age toward someone young enough to be his daughter, but I replied as if I didn't mind.
"Of course. After all, you've steadfastly maintained an armed struggle for decades, haven't you? Blowing up a royal yacht and launching mortars at the door of Downing Street are feats not easily achieved."
I had no particular feelings about them blowing up Louis Mountbatten, the uncle of the Prince Consort, but the mortar attack on Downing Street was a bit of a shame from my perspective. Because of that incident, the front door had been replaced with reinforced steel, and various layers of magical wards had been heavily applied. For someone like me, who was considering a decapitation strike against the Prime Minister in an emergency, it meant one less option—so there was no way I could look upon the IRA with genuine favor. Regardless, they were excellent examples to flatter him with. McDermott's hollow chuckle was proof enough.
"I appreciate the high praise! It would have been even better if we could have shared a proper drink...!"
I had done more than enough to deepen our rapport. Now, the Quartermaster would undoubtedly write only favorable things in the report he submitted to his superiors, exactly as I wanted. I had no desire to linger. Standing up from my seat, I asked casually,
"Shall we go sign the documents, then?"
McDermott looked thoroughly disappointed. The actual figures were supposed to be negotiated by the working-level staff, so his insistence on personally negotiating at the hotel bar made it painfully obvious what he was actually disappointed about. Gulping down his glass of whiskey in one go, McDermott set it down and asked suggestively,
"By the way, are you really not going to tell me your name?"
He had been pulling this nonsense since earlier. I responded with a polite, apologetic smile.
"I'm afraid no one knows it except for the Director and the Chairman. Please just think of me as a passing stranger."
What did a high-ranking officer of the Provisional IRA matter? He was nothing but a pawn on the board. There was absolutely no need to give my name—real or fake—to a small fry like him. Nor was there any reason to leave a paper trail. Since the "Director" and "Chairman" were ultimately Pavel and my father, it wasn't even much of a lie. McDermott stood up with me and spoke.
"A shame. I hope we meet again. And next time, I hope you'll share your name."
"I only wish to maintain an excellent relationship with the Provisional IRA, and with you, Quartermaster. I, too, would want nothing more than that."
A good relationship didn't necessarily have to be an equal one. Without even realizing it, the IRA would soon find themselves beneath my Syndicate.