A Puppet's Independence Movement (2)

A few days after I turned everyone in the pub into magical mutes on the night of the hunt, I received a sudden request for a business meeting from the IRA's Belfast logistics chief. I had no reason to refuse. I knew exactly what I could extract from this private audience. Of course, granting his wish—"I hope we can meet again"—in this particular manner wasn't exactly to my liking.

And so, we met at a fine dining restaurant in Belfast. I locked eyes with the logistics chief and gave a polite, welcoming nod.

"It has been a while, Mr. McDermott. I must apologize first; Executive Director Choi is currently away at our headquarters, so I had to come in his stead."

A lie, of course. Pavel was currently in his hotel room, handling security department affairs remotely.

"Ah... no need to apologize. While it would have been wonderful to see the Executive Director, our conversation won't change just because you came in his place."

"Thank you for your understanding."

"Mmhmm. Besides, didn't the Executive Director say so himself last time? That you two share even corporate secrets, so I should feel free to speak comfortably with you."

In fact, the man seemed to prefer my presence. There was a reason he had immediately changed the meeting venue to a fine dining restaurant with a strict dress code the moment I offered to go instead.

I had no reason to waste a gaze so slick with lust, so I had readily accepted and picked out a suitable evening gown. Unlike that night in Londonderry when I hunted the mage—a memory that remained vividly intense—there was no risk of me getting drunk and making a fool of myself today. This entire setup was entirely within my domain.

I sliced a piece of filet mignon, brought it to my mouth, and asked, "So, what brings you to request this meeting today...?"

"Ah, yes. To get straight to the point, I wanted to see if we could reverse a portion of our previous transaction."

It was exactly what I had expected. Rybakov, who had infiltrated the IRA long ago, had already tipped me off. Even so, I feigned ignorance and asked back as if hearing it for the first time.

"Reverse the transaction... I see. That sounds as though you want us to redirect a portion of the bombs back to Belfast. Am I understanding you correctly?"

I instantly wiped the soft, pleasant smile from my face, replacing it with a cold, professional business mask. Demanding the return of goods after a transaction was already finalized, without any justifiable reason, was nothing short of tyranny. But as I had also learned through Rybakov, they were planning to manufacture that "justifiable reason" somehow.

"Ahem. Well, the truth is, it seems a significant number of defects were discovered in the batch we transferred to your company. If those bombs fail to detonate in actual combat, wouldn't it severely damage your company's credibility?"

So that's their angle. I let out a low, troubled sigh before replying.

"If that is the case, does that not mean you failed to conduct proper quality control before handing the goods over to us? I believe we previously discussed how trust is our most valuable asset."

"I understand completely what you are trying to say. Of course, we perform rigorous inspections at every stage of production, but it is only natural that our defect rate is higher than that of 'legitimate' manufacturers, is it not?"

Expecting military-grade quality control from a mere armed group—or to put it more bluntly, a terrorist organization like the IRA—was indeed unrealistic.

"But we approached the IRA, which is a relatively large organization, precisely to avoid such issues."

"Ugh..."

"As you must know best, Mr. Logistics Chief, if we wanted unverified goods, there are countless suppliers out there who could provide far larger quantities at a fraction of the price."

To put it bluntly, it was a perfectly reasonable question: *In an industry where trust is everything, why the hell did we even come to you if you're going to pull this?* Since it was the undeniable truth, McDermott replied with an apologetic look.

"Yes, your point is entirely valid. That is why—precisely because of that—we want to take full responsibility and provide comprehensive after-sales support, even if it is a bit late, before your company faces any embarrassment in the field."

"'Even if it is a bit late,' you say."

"We will pay the contract penalty in installments as specified in our agreement, and we can compensate you with an equivalent volume of goods in the future. Wouldn't that be fair?"

He was clearly desperate. His intention to take back the bombs and use them to blow up the Ministry of Magic and its lackeys was painfully transparent. If they succeeded in their grand uprising with the returned bombs, they could simply restart their production lines later to replace the "defective" goods. And if they failed? By then, the very foundation of the IRA would be shattered, so why would they care about honoring a compensation agreement?

If that happened, Szczecin-Oder Logistics would suddenly find itself holding a massive pile of bad debt. We would either have to swallow our tears and cut our losses, or desperately pray for the IRA's resurrection just to get our money back.

This was indeed an industry where everyone sought only to rip each other off. The very reason people constantly preached about "trust" was, paradoxically, because trust didn't exist here. They wrapped themselves in the grandiose name of a republican army, but they still couldn't escape their true nature as a terrorist group.

"This is highly problematic. Couldn't your after-sales support be handled in Szczecin or Warsaw? As for the Polish border checkpoints... we can arrange forged identities for your people."

"That is impossible. We cannot simply send our specialists alone. If we include security details and replacement personnel, we are talking about dozens of people."

How amusing. They had botched their end, yet they held their heads high with such arrogance. I took a sip of the Coca-Cola that had been served instead of wine and continued.

"So, in the end, you are asking us to turn our ships around immediately. Naturally, this is on the condition that you will cover all costs for unloading and reloading the cargo, correct?"

"Of course we will. Where are the bombs located right now?"

Feigning a moment of hesitation, I replied, "As we discussed when we signed the contract, we opted for a two-track transport route. The northern shipment should have passed near Copenhagen by now, and the southern shipment likely just cleared Gibraltar."

A flicker of dismay crossed McDermott's face. They were undoubtedly much further away than he had anticipated. Both routes were nearly three thousand kilometers away by sea.

Naturally, this was also a lie. While we had split the shipment into two tracks, half of it was sitting in our safehouse in Greenwich, London, and the other half was in a rented warehouse right here in Belfast. We could retrieve them in three or four days. I had no intention of keeping my word on things that couldn't be verified, either.

Feigning innocence, I added in a bright tone, "I hope this is resolved as quickly as possible. The market we are targeting right now is like an ocean turning redder by the day. The later we enter, the higher the chance we'll only end up wounded."

In an era where the term "red ocean" did not yet exist, explaining it like this was the best I could do. Fortunately, the logistics chief wasn't stupid enough to miss the metaphor, and he seemed to grasp my meaning immediately. I continued chewing my steak nonchalantly, lost in thought for a moment.

The real reason this man needed the bombs was to gain a decisive advantage in the upcoming offensive against the British in Belfast. But looking at the IRA as a whole, were they truly so desperate that they had to claw back the very weapons they had sold to my organization?

No, that can't be it.

Common sense dictated that no sane military force would sell off the very weapons they needed for an active battle. Such idiots only existed in the northern half of the Korean Peninsula. Therefore, what McDermott truly needed was "firepower he could deploy freely without seeking approval from his superiors." The batch he had sold to us in the first place must have been of that nature.

A means to carve out a path when the war reached a stalemate, like clearing a clogged artery. If he alone possessed the means to turn the tide while the other commanders were running around in confusion, the lion's share of the military glory would inevitably fall to him. If he could secure a higher rank within the IRA, whatever debt he owed our organization would practically write itself off.

"Hmm..."

It was laughable. I could understand the "win it back and pay it off" mentality—the kind of reckless gambling logic Hitler himself might have used. But it left a bad taste in my mouth. Perhaps I was overestimating myself, but I suspected that my Charm played a significant role in McDermott's current train of thought.

The desire to achieve military merit and climb the ranks was natural. But what was I supposed to do when his motives carried a creeping undercurrent of wanting to show off his capabilities to me? He was like a male ape trying to impress a female. I could practically feel his burning desire to use this transaction as a stepping stone to build a more "constructive" relationship—both with me personally and with Szczecin-Oder Logistics.

I questioned myself: Was Charm really a magic that influenced the subconscious to this extent?

As a mage, I should have been delighted. It meant the magic bound to my body was elevating to a level comparable to a national relic. But as someone running an organization in the shadows, I couldn't afford to celebrate blindly. What if my own subordinates fell too deeply under the influence of Charm and began a feverish, destructive competition for my favor?

An uncontrollable power is nothing but a curse. Wearing sunglasses didn't completely block the passive effects of Charm, either. If I couldn't find a clear solution soon, I would eventually have to record all my directives on a camcorder or rely entirely on video calls. I needed to develop a separate spell to suppress and control Charm as soon as possible.

Still, for the time being, it was a blessing that McDermott had become my near-perfect captive. Feigning a phone call to Pavel—my ostensible superior—to obtain his approval, I agreed to sign the contract with the newly added clauses. Furthermore, while I was at it, I intended to dangle one more carrot for McDermott, who was practically trembling with gratitude at having secured his independent firepower.

"Irene Lonska... Is this your name?"

McDermott stared intently at my signature at the bottom of the contract. I shrugged lightly and replied.

"Yes. Even with delegated authority, I couldn't very well forge the Executive Director's signature here. It seems you've learned my name by chance, Mr. Logistics Chief. Could I ask you to keep it a secret?"

The Charm I subtly flared as I spoke served as a safety lock to ensure McDermott's lips remained sealed forever. Even if he did speak, it wouldn't matter much; I would crown Rybakov as the new leader of the IRA long before the Ministry of Magic's reach could extend deep enough to leak my name.

From Rybakov, I had already received intelligence that the IRA had no intention of canceling or postponing ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠their offensive, despite losing their greatest magical asset. Their fury over their comrade's brutal murder had now become a rallying cry, transforming their planned terror attack into a "righteous uprising." The void in their magical forces would apparently be filled by hiring mercenary mages from the outside.

Thus, pretending to yield to McDermott's desperate pleading, I promised to do everything in my power to deliver the cargo before the offensive. This would serve as both a debt of gratitude and a very real shackle on him. To his eyes, it surely looked as though the delivery date I selected had just happened to fall before the launch of their operation by sheer, fortunate coincidence.

After signing the papers, I returned straight to the hotel and received ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the updated operational plans from Rybakov, which had been altered due to our new agreement. The documents clearly showed that McDermott's role in the upcoming offensive had grown significantly. I forwarded these documents to Delis. Delis would edit and process them into a report to be submitted to the Ministry of Magic.

The intelligence—revealing that an IRA offensive involving mages was imminent, complete with their internal troop deployments—would secure Delis's position within the Ministry of Magic beyond any doubt. To reap multiple layers of profit from a single piece of data... it was a highly satisfying feeling.

"Is that so? Rather than catching minor small fry, they would rather absorb the initial losses to reel in the big fish. It seems to align perfectly with your expectations."

The report Delis delivered, full of deep humility, was highly satisfying. Yes, let them bare their fangs at each other to their hearts' content. How deep must the venom of this gu poison be, brewed and festering over hundreds of years? All I had to do was stir the pot from the shadows and reap the sweet rewards.

Now, kill each other.