A Web in Midwinter
Just because the most memorable incident occurred in Tottenham, North London, it didn't mean my soul-harvesting excursions during the year-end were confined to the vicinity of London. A memorable event did not necessarily equate to an important one. In the grand scheme of my future plans, the place that demanded my utmost attention this winter was Northern Ireland.
While harvesting the souls of back-alley thugs, including remnants of the old IRA in Northern Ireland, I had set a trap. The bait was none other than traces of magical weapons manufactured by the "Arsenal of Democracy." On occasion, I even left actual weapons behind at the scenes.
The prey meant to spring this trap were, of course, the Americans. As I had envisioned when seizing those enchanted revolvers at the Yokohama docks, I was systematically initiating operations to draw the Americans—the third-party casting voters—to my side.
The US Arcane Security Agency would be able to detect the US-made magical weapons I had stealthily planted through two distinct channels.
First, through the intelligence network they had embedded within the Irish-American mob back home. The mafiosi of the New World undoubtedly maintained connections to Ireland or Northern Ireland in one way or another, and it was only logical to assume that the American magical authorities utilized these established channels.
The chronic American affliction of "ignorance toward other cultures" wouldn't pose much of a hurdle here either, given the shared Anglo-Saxon heritage and English-speaking environment.
Furthermore, a tight-knit relationship existed between the US Arcane Security Agency and the British Ministry of Magic. Since the last World War, Anglo-American cooperation had spanned every conceivable field, and the magical domain was no exception.
Therefore, it wouldn't be surprising if some competent Yankee managed to connect the dots between the various recent incidents in the UK to glimpse the larger picture.
Yet, the final picture they assembled would be heavily distorted, its warp and weft hopelessly tangled. I was certain that no matter who came looking, they would find it impossible to grasp the true scale of my syndicate, let much less uncover my identity.
While this applied to almost any nation, the United States was particularly paranoid about the emergence of any major power outside its sphere of influence. Since they would only be able to observe a distorted, blurry image of the phenomenon, there was no better trap than this to pique their curiosity and fear, ultimately dragging them to the negotiating table.
Of course, setting a few traps didn't mean I intended to bring the Eagle to its knees right away. The disparity in our weight classes was far too vast; making a premature move might result in me getting swallowed whole instead. It was enough to simply play nice with the Eagle, occasionally whispering sweet nothings to coax it into tearing at the Russian Bear's wounds.
The final trap was laid on the very last day of 1997. I had confirmed that an official from the US Arcane Security Agency was invited to a New Year's Eve gala, a gathering of individuals who prided themselves on their high social standing. Upon reviewing the guest list, I was slightly surprised to find it teeming with unexpectedly heavy hitters.
"I can understand the American, but why is Benjamin Ashford here?"
Delis, who had come up to my office to deliver her report, replied.
"Well, he is the scion of a highly prestigious family among the British elite, after all."
"True. The house of Lord Dunhaven would be influential in Britain even if he weren't the Minister of Magic."
It was true that the class structure within the British Empire had fractured significantly since the dawn of the modern era. Many of the old nobility had fallen, and the vacuum they left behind was filled by the capitalists who had risen as a new class since the Industrial Revolution.
But the overwhelmingly wealthy were a different story. They had monopolized the wealth flowing in from the colonies, shamelessly expanding their real estate and estates, ensuring their fortunes showed no signs of dwindling. In a way, the average status of today's British peerage felt even higher than in the past. Having purged the lesser nobility, the average standing of those who remained had only risen.
The family of Benjamin Ashford, who was attending the gala with his entourage, was one of those families that had amassed wealth in such a manner.
Delis offered her advice, her voice tinged with concern.
"Still, I highly recommend avoiding any immediate conflict with the Ministry officials, including the Marquis's grandson. It's not a question of whether we can win or not—"
"I know. You're telling me not to cause too much of a scene in the middle of London, right?"
"...Yes, Lady Yerina. The perfect opportunity for you to secure a quiet victory will surely present itself."
"Right. I won't let an opportunity slip by when it comes, but I won't go jumping the gun when the time isn't ripe."
My primary objective, first and foremost, was to establish contact with the Americans. Even though I fully intended to swallow the British Ministry of Magic whole eventually, I couldn't let the tail wag the dog.
This was the conversation we had on the morning just before I left for Southampton to receive the CNC machine. It was proof that the various events of the year-end were not unfolding sequentially, but were instead tangled together and progressing simultaneously.
Of course, untangling these knots wasn't a matter of slicing through them with a sword like Alexander the Great; it required a meticulous, step-by-step approach. After pushing Delis and the intelligence department to their limits to gather information for another day or two, I finally secured an opportunity to slip into the high-society New Year's Eve gala in London.
It was a simple fact of life that for a substantial number of aristocrats to gather, chat, and enjoy the festive year-end atmosphere, an even greater number of the "working class" was required. The roster of servants hired from various agencies for this single day was a document Delis could easily lay her hands on with just a modicum of effort.
Given the sheer volume of staff, there were plenty of servants who shared a similar height and build to mine. As for hair color, I could easily fudge it by narrowing my targets down to blonde maids. The chest area... well, nobody would be looking that closely anyway, so I decided to gloss over that as well. If it became an issue, I could always prepare a loose-fitting outfit beforehand and store it inside the mouth of my shadow beast, Schattenmaiden.
My plan was to blend in among the crowd of hired help. Delis's face was far too well-known within the Ministry, making her participation impossible, but Pavel was within the realm of feasibility. I planned to disguise Pavel as one of the security guards hired for the event. The fact that he looked distinctly different from the average Anglo-Saxon Briton upon close inspection wasn't a major concern. After all, who actually looks at a security guard's face?
Thus, on the final day of 1997, Pavel and I packed outfits we could change into at a moment's notice and headed toward the manor in the London suburbs where the gala was to be held.
Matthew Wyatt Lewis, a secret agent of the US Arcane Security Agency, slipped away from the bustling crowd to sip his cocktail in solitude.
How on earth did I end up getting dragged to a place like this...?
Even though he was a secret agent, he wasn't a "black" operative who crossed enemy lines to kidnap, assassinate, or sabotage. He was closer to a "white" agent—an intelligence officer whose deployment had been openly declared to the British Ministry of Magic by his home government. The extent of his cover was merely a laundered affiliation to obscure his ties to the Arcane Security Agency.
Any nation with its head screwed on straight took precautions of this caliber. Since there was no need to reveal the existence of mages to the general public, masking their affiliation under a different government agency was common sense.
Of course, those in the know knew. That was undoubtedly why the British Ministry of Magic had invited him to this event. The ostensible reason was to get acquainted with the Marquis's grandson—the designated heir to the Ministry of Magic—during the New Year's Eve festivities.
Yet, Matthew W. Lewis found that very grandson—Benjamin Ashford—utterly insufferable.
It was a well-known fact that mages possessed youthful appearances. Discrepancies between their paper age and actual age were a dime a dozen. In other words, mages generally possessed far more gravitas and experience than their outward appearances would suggest.
And yet, the "heir" he had just spoken with seemed to possess a level of frivolity entirely unbecoming of his age. He strutted about with an air of triumph, acting as if the entire Ministry of Magic belonged solely to him.
Perhaps it was a reflection of his personal tastes, but the dress code for the female servants had been strictly designated as Victorian-style maid outfits. It seemed Matthew's observation of Benjamin leering at the maids carrying refreshments during their conversation hadn't been a trick of the light after all.
Well, it was understandable. He had been pampered and coddled since birth, receiving his magical baptism directly from his grandfather, the current Minister of Magic. Ever since Lord Dunhaven lost his son to Nazi bullets in Normandy, he had doted on his grandson—his sole remaining bloodline—even more fiercely. Raised in such an environment, it was only natural that his insufferable "aristocratic" sensibilities had been magnified tenfold.
He could understand it, but he certainly couldn't respect it. Matthew had played along for the sake of diplomacy, but he couldn't help but sigh inwardly. Was this really the man destined to oversee the magical affairs of the British Empire, the United States' most critical diplomatic partner? And in the midst of the current international climate, where the Soviet threat was only mounting rather than receding?
To make matters worse, hadn't those damn Reds suddenly erected some sort of national barrier about three months ago? They hadn't even finished analyzing what that barrier was, yet the Marquis, as if senile, was preparing to hand over his seat to an heir like this... The more Matthew thought about it, the more his blood boiled.
And that wasn't all. Word was that the IRA was acting up again in Northern Ireland. Perhaps they were embroiled in some internal feud, but individuals previously identified as IRA members had been turning up as corpses with alarming frequency lately. Autopsy reports had already concluded that magic was almost certainly involved in their deaths.
Yet, they were changing leadership in a crisis like this? At least the Marquis, despite his massive ego, was a man of proven capability. His grandson, however, seemed to have inherited only his grandfather's temperament without any of his competence. If there was any consolation, it was that the man possessed formidable personal combat prowess, even if he lacked charisma or leadership skills. In a one-on-one duel, Matthew's defeat would be all but guaranteed. It was only natural, considering he had been personally trained and baptized by the Marquis.
Tsk, aristocrats. It was absurd that someone could slide into a high-ranking state office without a single shred of merit, purely on the basis of a lucky birth. Did they truly not realize that the era where bloodline decided everything had ended over half a century ago? They ought to adopt a meritocracy, like the United States, the greatest and most democratically advanced nation in the world.
The Director of the US Arcane Security Agency was appointed directly by President Clinton—unlike the British Ministry of Magic, where neither the Queen nor the Prime Minister held any sway. The future of the free world—especially the future of its magical institutions—looked dreadfully bleak. And this was particularly troubling for the United States, which frequently collaborated with the UK.
"Sigh..." Matthew Wyatt Lewis let out a heavy sigh, carrying the weight of both nations' futures in his chest. Still, since he had been invited, he might as well drink his fill of the expensive liquor. He gestured to a female servant carrying a tray of refreshments a short distance away. Clad in a Victorian-style maid outfit that perfectly suited the "heir's" tastes, she scurried over.
"Would you care for a drink?"
"Yes, please." Matthew Wyatt Lewis handed over his empty glass, his eyes briefly lingering on the maid. It wasn't that he particularly wanted to stare, but she occupied the center of his field of vision, making it unavoidable. Her lustrous hair, cascading down to her chest and waist, caught his eye. It seemed blonde, yet depending on the angle of the light, it shimmered with iridescent reflections that made it look white or platinum blonde. Every movement of her hands and body exuded an innate elegance. Though he hadn't looked closely at her face, he wondered if she possessed a beauty that matched such grace.
"...Aren't you going to take it?"
Ah, he had been distracted for a moment. As he took the cocktail glass from her delicate hand, his eyes met the maid's. She had an appearance that could be described as a young girl—"youthful" felt less accurate than "childlike." But what caught his attention most were her eyes, which looked as though they held a swirling, blazing fire. It was a gaze that practically demanded one's attention.
"Ah, right. Thank you."
In the next instant, the girl brought a hand to her lips and smiled softly.
"Don't mention it. The pleasure is all mine, Matthew Wyatt Lewis."
"...!?"
Matthew snapped to attention. On British soil, no one should know his real name unless they were a high-ranking official within the Ministry of Magic... Startled, he dropped his cocktail glass. The glass shattered into a thousand pieces upon impact with the floor, splashing the liquid and reflecting the brilliant lights of the hall off the shards. Instantly, the attention of the surrounding guests focused on him. A low murmur quickly rippled through the crowd.
Matthew Wyatt Lewis paid them no mind, frantically looking around for the girl he had been speaking to just a second ago. But as if to mock her presence from moments before, the platinum-blonde maid had vanished without a trace. The only proof of her existence was a small slip of paper that had somehow found its way between his fingers.