Friends with Benefits, Part 3

The right to forge one's own destiny belongs solely to oneself. And yet, I am the only one who has been delegated to act on that right. A single proxy is more than enough. Just as I whispered to Delis when I granted her a new life, we must never again allow others to toy with our lives, our emotions, and our fates—or those of the people we cherish. In that regard, the Soviet Union and the Soviet of Materialists are not the only ones who must be barred from deciding the fate of myself, my people, and our syndicate. The United States and their Magic Defense Agency are no different. Unless, of course, I am the one deciding their fate instead.

Matthew W. Lewis spoke slowly. "Are you saying you don't need our help? Irene Varez, you were the one who brought up the word 'independence' in the first place."

When former colonies seek help to escape the clutches of imperialist nations, they generally turn to one of two powers. They either cozy up to the Soviets and join the Red Team, or they beg the 'world's policeman' and join the Blue Team. Since our syndicate is comprised of defectors from the Soviet Union, our choice of benefactor should have been obvious. However, I have absolutely no intention of being bound to either side. I prefer a relationship with no strings attached, so to speak.

"The United States needs its safeguards too, after all," I replied. "How could you rashly commit to supporting an organization you only met today?"

One of the glaring flaws of democracy ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠is that decision-making takes an eternity. Unless Bill Clinton decides to issue an executive order, any action regarding my organization would first require a deep, exhaustive investigation into the Northern Covenant Syndicate. Only then would a proposal on whether to support us—and by how much—even make it to the table. Climbing up and down the bureaucratic ladders of the Magic Defense Agency and the executive branch would take ages. Six months, perhaps even longer.

There was another factor that introduced even greater uncertainty. A factor that, in my estimation, would soon plunge the United States administration into utter chaos. Isn't it about time for the world to find out that some intern has been blowing the President?

The exposure of the Lewinsky scandal—which would birth the legendary line, "Oral sex is not sex"—was less than a month away. Personally, I couldn't care less whether the leader of the free world was stuffing his member down Monica Lewinsky's throat or anywhere else. If the President of the United States said it wasn't sex, then so be it. But as the head of a syndicate, it was a different story. How could the Magic Defense Agency remain unaffected when a sex scandal was about to tear through the entire nation? It was only wise to avoid making any concrete promises with the Americans until the dust settled.

Without waiting for his response, I let loose a rapid volley of words. "I have been granted full negotiating authority by the syndicate. I told you, didn't I? I am the negotiator."

"But I don't believe you, 'W', can offer us anything of substance right now."

"Speak softly and carry a big stick. But right now, you can't offer either, can you? So how can we possibly grow closer?"

Speak softly and carry a big stick; you will go far. "President Theodore Roosevelt was entirely correct, but at this moment, any promise we receive would be nothing but empty words, wouldn't it?"

"So, for now, I think we should be content with having opened a channel for dialogue. We can discuss what mutual benefits we can offer each other as we go."

From Matthew W. Lewis's perspective, refuting my words was no easy task. Thus, his response was a polite concession. "I suppose that is fair. So, you dragged me six hundred miles to a Mediterranean beach just to end things like this today?"

—Or so I thought, until my mood suddenly plummeted. "...Did you say miles?"

"Hmm?" He looked genuinely clueless as to what the problem was.

My expression hardened instantly, and I turned back to face him. "Kilometers, not miles. Do not let that barbaric system of measurement cross your lips in my presence ever again."

"Barbaric...?"

What a pitiful creature, brainwashed by a wicked system of measurement since his brain was soft and impressionable. I could tolerate almost anything from Americans, but this was where I drew the line. This wasn't just a matter of personal irritation; it was a practical issue that actively degraded operational efficiency. I suppose they hadn't felt the sting of it yet because their satellites hadn't started crashing into each other. Still, I trusted I wouldn't have to repeat myself. Returning to my ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠seat, I casually crossed my legs.

"Well, as long as we can observe these simple rules, we can be friends who bring each other mutual advantages. Shall we say... friends with benefits?"

"..."

I chuckled softly and headed toward the back door of the VIP room—a route that kept my path entirely separate from the front door Matthew W. Lewis had entered through. I had delivered my message, and he had surely understood. "It was a pleasure meeting you today. Please convey my regards to your headquarters, and we shall be in touch."

I waved my hand as I slipped out of the room. "Oh, and feel free to contact me first if an emergency arises. For instance... if your President runs into a bit of trouble with his partner?"

Immediately after the door clicked shut, Lewis—under the alias 'W'—was escorted out of the VIP room by my waiting subordinates. He offered no resistance. My men guided the American with the utmost politeness, and rather than making a futile scene, he seemed more focused on warily eyeing the spot where I had vanished. Perhaps it was a wizard's intuition. Even though I had introduced myself as a negotiator, his suspicious gaze wasn't going to fade anytime soon.

After all, one's aura speaks volumes. Be it appearance or presence. Even considering that mages aged remarkably slowly, I still looked far too young. It was only natural for him to assume that my years walking the path of magic were incredibly brief compared to the established elite. Under such circumstances, a young woman sitting in the negotiator's seat of a transnational criminal syndicate? It was bound to raise eyebrows. There was a reason why martial artists warned to beware of women, the elderly, and children. The same rule applied to the society of mages. And I happened to check two of those three boxes.

Returning to my previous room, I watched the CCTV feed as Matthew W. Lewis was escorted out of the casino. I mused that, for a first meeting, this was a decent success. We hadn't ended up at each other's throats, and I had left a sufficiently striking impression on a key figure of the Magic Defense Agency. Although it was regrettable that I had to reveal our syndicate's reach extended all the way to Marseille, my calculations showed it wasn't a devastating loss. With a sense of quiet satisfaction, I returned to our headquarters.

After concluding that pleasant first meeting with our mutually beneficial friend, I slowly began reorganizing the syndicate and reinforcing our defenses.

"Yes, right there. You don't need to aim the blood droplet perfectly. You just need to imprint your ownership onto the stone."

"Actually, the blood isn't the important part—it's the soul. The key is using this relic knife to shave off a fragment of your soul and graft it onto the improved Rosetta Stone." This was the process of distributing hundreds of newly processed, improved Rosetta Stones to every member of the syndicate.

"I shall now present the syndicate's financial status as of the end of last year. This is the sum of the funds processed through fifty-three shell companies across eleven countries and territories, including the British Virgin Islands, Austria, and Labuan, Malaysia."

"The following is the list of laundered, liquid assets that can be deployed at any time, anywhere..."

This involved routing investment returns and other illicit business revenues through Szczecin-Oder Logistics, then employing creative accounting to deceive the relevant authorities.

"In South Korea, President Park Byung-hwi, currently serving his eighth consecutive term, continues to demonstrate his robust political grip. In particular, having successfully weathered the foreign exchange crisis during his first year in office, he seems to be ushering in a second 'New Community Movement'—the Saemaul Undong."

"One manifestation of this trend is the so-called Gold Collecting Campaign. South Korean citizens are voluntarily donating their household gold to help overcome the financial crisis."

"It appears to be a strategy relying heavily on national sentiment—a byproduct of a totalitarian mindset where citizens are expected to step forward 'voluntarily' whenever the state demands it."

"Regardless, gold is gold. We should be able to siphon off a portion of it through Ham Cheon-ho and Cheonma Sangsa. There is no need to bring him to London; instruct him to utilize the funds locally."

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

"Furthermore, we have detected traces of some of the gold flowing into an underground uranium enrichment facility in Pyongsan, North Hwanghae Province."

"It appears they intend to use it in place of copper for certain high-precision components. If you authorize it, we can attempt to gather further intelligence, keeping safety as our priority."

This was the task of injecting cash to sustain the footholds and local collaborators our syndicate had scattered across East Asia.

"Next is the intelligence regarding Japan. Through a publishing house acquired under one of our shell companies, we have resumed the publication of the Akahata (Red Flag) newspaper, starting on New Year's Day of Heisei 10 (1998)."

"As previously reported, we cannot expect immediate profitability. However, since Lady Yerina instructed us to focus on raising awareness rather than generating revenue, we proceeded accordingly."

"The Akahata, once the official organ of the Communist Party, had its publication suspended due to crackdowns by the Japanese government. But things will be different now."

"Distributing it solely to the addresses of underground communist party members risked triggering another crackdown, so we have instead placed copies randomly in high-traffic areas throughout Tokyo's twenty-three wards."

"Despite their pretenses, the papers vanished in the blink of an eye. It ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠seems everyone secretly harbors a love for communism."

And finally, there was the covert maneuvering to help the Red Princess of Yamato secure political influence independent of the Imperial Household Agency or the Japanese Imperial Family.

Every single one of these was a seed I had painstakingly sown with my own time and effort. I could only hope they had fallen on fertile soil, destined to yield thirty, sixty, or even a hundredfold.

Among the operations that flowed seamlessly through the New Year was placing Ham Cheon-ho's child—whom we held hostage from South Korea—into a boarding school somewhere in England. I didn't bother looking up which school it was. Did Hong Taiji ever truly care about how Crown Prince Sohyeon spent his days? I simply assigned the task to the Human Resources department and let them handle the details.

Looking at the list, it seems I've accomplished quite a lot.

Yet, the workload felt significantly lighter than before. Perhaps flying halfway across the globe and forcing myself through jet lag to conduct business had raised my tolerance. My speed in processing the documents piled on my desk was steadily increasing. Fortunately, the rate at which the stack shrank was faster than the rate at which it grew.

It was around the time the mountain of paperwork on my desk had been reduced to a mere hill. I was working in my office as usual—meaning that with a single stroke of my pen, the lives of dozens of people and hundreds of thousands of pounds were being scattered like autumn leaves. Aside from these mundane affairs, the only noteworthy detail was the rare, thick blanket of snow that had settled along the banks of the River Thames.

The quiet of my routine was broken by a knock on the office door. It was Delis. "Lady Yerina, may I enter?"

"Delis? It's not time for your regular report. Well... come in anyway."

As always, Delis entered with a soft creak of the door, dressed in a sharp, well-tailored suit complete with a jacket. The necklace resting against her chest added a subtle touch of individuality. She walked toward me, her heels clicking against the floor, before hesitating slightly.

"Actually... I came to see you because there is something I must tell you."

"Yes, what is it?" I wondered what could possibly make her hesitate so uncharacteristically. I tilted my head in curiosity, but the answer she gave made it immediately clear why she had been so reluctant to speak.

"I received a confession."

"A confession...? A confession of love? From Pavel?" I asked, my brow furrowing.

"It is indeed that kind of confession... but the person who sent it is entirely different."

"...?" By now, it was safe to say that everyone in the syndicate knew about the relationship between the Head of Security and the Head of Intelligence. It wasn't exactly something to boast about, but it wasn't something we actively hid either. Therefore, it was highly improbable that anyone within our organization was foolish or brazen enough to make a move on our taken Head of Intelligence—

"It is from Benjamin Ashford—the heir apparent to the Marquess of Dunhaven, and simultaneously the heir apparent to the position of Minister of Magic of the British Empire."