The B-loot-ish Museum, Part 1
The day after I returned to London, Pavel shared a story that seemed to be connected to my Charm. I had a vague idea of why Pavel was telling me this instead of Delis, whom I had originally tasked with the matter, but it wasn't particularly important, so I let it slide.
"So, Pavel, what do you think?"
"As an individual, or as the syndicate's security chief?"
"Both. Speak freely."
When it came to operations that demanded the full strength of the syndicate, gathering feedback from my subordinates was essential. Even if the end result was me overriding their objections to push my own agenda, there was a vast difference between knowing other perspectives and being completely blind to them.
Pavel pondered for a moment before speaking.
"As an individual who has watched over you for more than a decade, my lady... my heart says you should go. You have suffered so much since childhood because of those eyes. Even your current travels are far from ordinary."
How could a life where I had to constantly watch where my gaze landed ever be called normal? Digging up memories from before my life was upended in more ways than one, I recalled a pedophilic, would-be rapist who tried to unleash his lust on me the moment my father's back was turned. Of course, his limbs were promptly—and physically—severed, serving as a stark demonstration of just how far the syndicate's first leader's wrath could go.
In any case, the conclusion that we should investigate the land and our bloodline, rather than treating this as an isolated case, carried significant weight. Magic was not exempt from the laws of Mendel and Darwin. If the magic flowing through one's veins was treated as a hereditary trait, it was only natural to assume that the Bloomfeld bloodline had begun developing a resistance to Charm to counter my ancestors. But—
"There's one thing that bothers me."
The problem was that there was no guarantee we would find the answers we sought in Kaliningrad or the former East Prussia. Even back when the syndicate maintained decent relations with the Soviet of Materialists, I recalled not finding a single human immune to my Charm. We had tested my gaze against countless races and ethnic minorities across the vast Soviet territories, and yet we had come up entirely empty-handed. It was only natural to wonder if digging through East Prussia now would yield anything different.
"And... there's no guarantee that everyone of Delis's bloodline is immune to Charm either."
A few of Delis's relatives lived right here in London. While preparing the operation to swallow the IRA, I had occasionally made eye contact with them, pretending it was just a passing glance. The results had been disappointing. In the entirety of the British Empire, Delis was the sole anomaly. So, while it felt foolish to get discouraged after only two months, it was true that I had half-abandoned the search. I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear along with that rational conclusion and asked the next question.
"Now, the next part. What do you think as the security chief?"
"As security chief, I am skeptical. With our current capabilities, there is no guarantee we can safely extract any forces we dispatch to the Eastern Bloc."
It was unlike him; usually, he would declare, "I will make it happen," no matter the task. That meant he judged it to be virtually impossible. I pressed further.
"What if I go myself?"
"Absolutely not. If you do, my lady, you would essentially be ordering me to derelict my duty."
"Tsk, I know. No need to be so sensitive over a hypothetical."
Going myself would indeed be difficult. The British Ministry of Magic was one thing, but the Soviet of Materialists and their lackeys in the Soviet communist government were constantly looking for any opportunity to capture or kill me. The memory of torturing the communist Kim Philby—the last of the Cambridge Five—both physically and spiritually, suddenly flashed through my mind.
'There is no need to deliver the message yourself. My death will be the most certain messenger of all...'
It was irritating that things were playing out exactly as that dying man had predicted. We had fooled the Ministry of Magic and the Metropolitan Police, but his prophecy warned that we wouldn't be able to deceive the Soviet of Materialists. If anyone asked if I would lose, I would answer that I would win. However, in a clash of raw power, both I and my syndicate would be dragged into the light. All our efforts to pull the strings of the world from the shadows would go up in smoke. It was a battle where we stood to lose far more than we could gain. Thus, for now, there was nothing to do but voice the conclusion I had already reached.
"Right. It's out of the question for now. Maybe later, but at least for now, we have a mountain of work ahead of us."
The list of relics to plunder from that massive museum of stolen goods was already prepared. We couldn't afford any more delays.
"Then... I assume there are no changes to the plan?"
"Yes. Make sure the men are thoroughly trained by then."
"Understood. Leave it to me."
As soon as we returned to London, I had tasked Pavel with training the strike team for the assault on the British Museum. Whipping his subordinates into shape was probably much more comfortable for him than playing the part of a businessman. With the Ministry of Magic's attention diverted to Northern Ireland, the British Museum would be left with minimal security. This brief window was our only opportunity. While conventional guards might be reinforced, as long as the number of wizards was reduced, Pavel and his security team could handle it without me even having to step in. Just as my people trusted me, I trusted them. Respect was a two-way street.
Pushing aside the news that had briefly stirred my heart, I turned my gaze to the television.
"Pavel, sit down next to me. Let's hear what our Iron Lady has to say."
It had already been two days since the event the IRA called Operation Demetrius, and the British called the Belfast Terror. It was Monday evening, the scheduled time for our dear Prime Minister's address to the nation.
"Hmm...?"
Showing such weakness was unlike the Prime Minister I knew. The title of the Iron Lady wasn't earned for nothing. Sure enough, Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher clenched her fist, shifted her tone, and continued her address, which now sounded more like a rallying speech.
A chuckle escaped my lips when the Prime Minister used the phrase "opium den." To think that people who knew exactly how evil opium was had sold countless tons of it to the Qing Dynasty 150 years ago.
In truth, the chaos the IRA sowed was a blatant violation of international law and the Geneva Convention. Indiscriminate attacks on civilians. And their habit of immediately decapitating prisoners whenever they caught them. If the Islamic fundamentalist terrorists who would emerge a few years later saw this, they would have given them a standing ovation. So, the Prime Minister's denunciation of the IRA, even going so far as to elevate the British soldiers to "heroes," was a truth-bomb grounded in reality. Of course, the reality was simply that they had fallen victim to my Charm.
...She certainly doesn't mince her words.
It was definitely the Margaret Thatcher I knew. Throwing around provocative insults like "outdated" and "childish." If the IRA leadership were watching, they would be absolutely furious. Even that pig Connor McDermott would have held me at a hotel bar for hours, venting his rage. I could only think that I had done him a favor by sending him to hell early.
Yes...!
How hard had I worked just to hear those words? A declaration that they would focus their attention on Northern Ireland rather than England, or more locally, London. Now, not just the British but the entire world's eyes would be fixed on Northern Ireland for the foreseeable future.
The rising crescendo of the address was now reaching its climax. If the screen were showing a public rally instead of a press conference, supporters and detractors would probably be clashing in a chaotic brawl right about now.
Her choice of words, evoking Churchill, was clearly intended to reduce the IRA to the level of the Nazis in the minds of the British public. It wasn't entirely inaccurate either; the IRA had historically collaborated with Nazi Germany during World War II, attempting a "stab in the back" against the British Empire. Even though the independent Republic of Ireland had maintained a neutral stance leaning toward the Allies, the IRA had been willing to borrow foreign power to force their demands.
As the TV screen transitioned, I muttered a brief critique.
"Harsh rhetoric aside... well, it's a predictable speech."
"Predictable, yes, but also exactly what you were waiting for, my lady."
I gave a soft grunt of agreement and nodded. Of course, the date of our raid on the museum would only be finalized after we confirmed that the British troops had actually crossed over from Great Britain to Ireland.
I caught a drifting thread of thought. It was a mental inventory of the daggers I would use to strike at the British Museum. Aside from the shadow hand with a mouth, the blood-sucking relic knife, and my most crucial weapon, Charm, there was one more card up my sleeve. It was the method of crafting artificial relics, a technique I had refined while subjugating Northern Ireland. It was a wisdom forged by periodically gnawing on and burning the souls of traitors.
Of course, I already knew several spells for manipulating relics. Given my profession before I ended up in this body, it was only natural. Grinding down the Spiegel to fashion it into a necklace or locket was, in a narrow sense, part of that expertise. Imbuing small lead bullets with magic was also well within my capabilities, even if it took some time. However, the crafting method I had recently mastered was slightly different, as it combined the best traits of both organic and inorganic materials as magical mediums. I was referring to the creation of golems—forged by grafting human souls onto inanimate objects.