No Strings Attached (3)
"Long time no see, friend. Would it kill you to write in plain text instead of code? Deciphering it was a real pain."
"Friend, my foot. I only did it because I knew your organization was more than capable of cracking it."
Matthew W. Lewis, whom I met in a pub in Dublin, Ireland, looked even more haggard than when we had first met.
"Well, a simple monoalphabetic Caesar cipher isn't exactly unbreakable. Though I didn't expect to use the phrase 'long time' so soon."
The reason for his haggard appearance was obvious.
"Yeah, things are a total mess back home right now. Opinion has shifted to the idea that the Syndicate might be a far more competent group than we initially thought."
I calmly accepted a glass of apple juice from the pub owner and took a sip.
"Flattery will get you nowhere, you know. But tell me, did things blow up as spectacularly as I think?"
A few days ago, the first reports of the Lewinsky scandal had finally broken in the United States. The revelation that a White House intern had been working her tongue under the desk in the Oval Office had shocked the entire nation. Ah, and "working her tongue" wasn't exactly a metaphor. She had literally, physically been licking away.
If Afghanistan was the original Taliban state and South Korea was the Confucian Taliban state, then America was simply a Christian Taliban state. While there were countries like France, where politicians practically treated a promiscuous sex life and extramarital affairs as a virtue, there were also countries that immediately cited the Ten Commandments and screamed bloody murder at the slightest transgression. Furthermore, Bill Clinton was a Democratic president. To his Republican rivals, the excuse of "so what if the president had an affair?" wouldn't fly for a second. The Republicans would undoubtedly latch onto the moral issue and draft articles of impeachment.
In the original history, they actually went through with it, didn't they?
Of course, everyone knew that getting dragged down just for some infidelity was absurd. But because he committed perjury to cover up the scandal, the moral issue escalated into a real legal one, which would eventually lead to the House of Representatives passing the articles of impeachment.
Following the original timeline, the Senate wouldn't acquit him until February 1999. Giving myself a generous estimate, that left a whole year. During this time, a dark cloud would hang over the US Arcane Security Agency's ability to project influence abroad.
I intended to seize this window of opportunity to rapidly expand the Syndicate's influence.
The American mage gulped down his pint of beer.
"Things are incredibly chaotic right now, Irene Varez."
I chuckled and asked back.
"Irene Varez... I see you still don't even know my real name."
Of course, I couldn't rule out the possibility of a bluff, but his response made me lean toward certainty. The Arcane Security Agency didn't even know my cover identity. I had half-expected this, which also meant I hadn't been entirely sure until now.
My confidence rested on three main pillars. First, intelligence sharing between the US and the UK wasn't so seamless that they operated as a single body. Second, the UK's fundamental lack of a national registry system. And finally, the fact that the man set to inherit the British Ministry of Magic was an absolute idiot.
Unless they were the same country, smooth and seamless intelligence sharing between even the closest allies was next to impossible. Honestly, it was hard enough even within the same government. While it wasn't completely impossible for the US Arcane Security Agency to access the British Ministry of Magic's archives, finding meaningful information within a limited timeframe was a different story altogether. On top of that, the UK didn't even have a national registry system. Unlike a highly controlled state like South Korea, tracking down 'Irene Lonska' without concrete leads would be an uphill battle, even if they knew of the Syndicate's existence.
The lack of a national registry in the UK was precisely why I hadn't bothered to hide my face or use any disguise during my first meeting with Matthew W. Lewis. The only time my face had ever been captured was on a few outdated security cameras at the British Museum. How could they possibly identify me with just that? Unlike the future that had now become my past, they couldn't exactly feed the footage into an AI for big-data facial recognition.
And the final reason was the administrative incompetence of the current Vice-Minister of Magic, Benjamin Ashford. For the Ministry, the fact that they still hadn't caught the thief who stole the modified Rosetta Stone was a massive humiliation in itself. It was even worse because the investigation had yielded absolutely zero progress, making the case look entirely hopeless. For a high-ranking official in power, digging through archives just to salvage some pride was a deeply wounding prospect. What if they searched and came up empty-handed again? If they were this reluctant to act within their own Ministry, would they willingly open their archives to a foreign magical agency?
Not a chance.
I had bet on the Ministry's self-preservation instincts and the incompetence of its leadership, and my gamble had paid off spectacularly. It was like playing roulette, but with every single pocket painted black. Inadvertently, I had received quite a bit of help from that satyr.
Matthew W. Lewis scowled at my smirk and replied.
"Even if we don't know now, it's only a matter of time. There isn't a problem in the world that can't be solved by throwing enough resources at it."
I clapped my hands together, changing the subject.
"Now, then! Shall we move on from gloomy topics like digging into my background and talk about something productive? Since you called me out first, does this mean we can finally make a 'deal' of some sort, my mutually beneficial friend?"
My "friend" let out a soft sigh and answered.
"Yes. I have information to offer, so I've come to negotiate. And this time, I have the full authority you were so worried about."
"Well, that's surprisingly progressive news."
"I told you. We've judged the Syndicate to be that competent."
The Americans wanting something from my organization was a welcome development. Normally, they would have contacted the Ministry of Magic. The fact that they hadn't meant there was a high probability that something dirty was involved. Not that I cared. Handling those kinds of matters was my specialty, after all.
I drained the rest of my apple juice and offered him another smile.
"Don't expect any miracles from us, though. As I said earlier, flattery won't get you a discount."
Negotiation, after all, was just a process of revealing cards and adjusting how much each side was willing to give. But instead of presenting his bargaining chip, W suddenly brought up something completely out of left field.
"By the way, Varez, are you drinking that juice on purpose?"
"...Where is this coming from all of a sudden?"
"I rented out this entire pub today just to host the Syndicate's negotiator. Yet, you're only drinking apple juice, which is about the cheapest thing on the menu."
Hmm, I suppose he could look at it that way. But my reason was incredibly mundane. I shrugged and replied.
"I'm not trying to spare your wallet. I just think it tastes good. Besides, I make it a rule never to drink alcohol on the job. Aren't you the weird one here, W?"
"I think a casual drink or two is fine, but I suppose you could look at it that way."
"And besides—" I held out my empty glass, took a fresh one, and gestured to myself. "—I have a delicate body, you know. I can't risk getting drunk and being carried off by an American with ulterior motives."
"My, my. I had no idea you thought of me as that kind of man."
"Your country's president is living proof of it. Every man with power will stick his dick in a pussy the moment he gets the chance."
It was a proposition that held true even if you substituted power with any other form of relative advantage. It was a sweeping generalization that painted all men as potential predators. Were there exceptions? Surely. So if your conscience is clear, just stay quiet.
"Ha." Perhaps because my choice of words had been so intense, the American offered a remarkably dry response. I paid it no mind and continued.
"Shall we get back to business, then? Since I can't expect to hear your valuable information first, I believe you should lay your demands on the table first."
"Very well." With that, W placed a photo on the table showing only the upper half of a man's body. The quality was atrocious, as if it had been taken with a cheap Polaroid. Blonde hair, blue eyes. Frowning at the vaguely familiar face, I asked,
"Who is this? It's blurry, but... he doesn't look Anglo-Saxon. Irish?"
"Spot on. His name is Declan Mackin. An IRA mage who died about half a year ago in Londonderry, Northern Ireland."
Ah, now I remembered. He was the man I had killed with my own hands. Masking my surprise and potential panic, I asked back,
"What's so special about a dead man? I assume you're not asking us to kill a corpse."
"Of course not. Because what we want to know isn't who killed him, why, or how."
"How curious. Usually, those are exactly the kinds of things people want investigated." I casually shifted my gaze to another photo he slid onto the table.
"This is an artifact Declan Mackin possessed. The quality being what it is, it's hard to see... but you can at least tell it's some kind of dagger."
How could I not? It was currently tucked away in my own coat pocket. An artifact capable of severing and dispersing souls—not quite a national treasure, but certainly a highly potent weapon. Declan Mackin, the IRA's resident playboy back then, had truly been a giving tree. Suppressing a sudden urge to laugh, I spoke up casually.
"I take it the artifact vanished into thin air after his death? You want us to find out where it went?"
"Yes. If you accept, we will provide some of the intelligence our country has gathered on the Soviet Union. Naturally, there will be additional information if you actually bring us the physical item."
I twirled a lock of my hair around my finger and asked,
"Hmm, there are two things about your offer that I don't quite understand."
"What do you mean?"
"First, why aren't you doing this yourselves? It's an open secret that America casts a long shadow over Ireland."
"..."
Without waiting for an answer, I pressed on.
"And second. Even if we do secure the artifact, what's to stop us from just running off with it? I highly doubt the United States would commission such a task without some kind of safety net."
This confirmed it. Assuming Matthew W. Lewis was telling the truth—or at least a reasonable approximation of it—the Arcane Security Agency had absolutely no idea that the Syndicate had taken over the IRA.
Do these bastards really know nothing at all?
The thought crossed my mind. They didn't know about Yerina Bronska, let alone Irene Lonska. Aside from Marseille, did they know anything about the actual reach of our organization?
It seemed W had decided to build trust by speaking the truth, at least for this occasion.
"Some time ago, the IRA carried out simultaneous bombings across Belfast, including at City Hall. Are you aware of this?"
"How could I not? Didn't heroic British soldiers crash a helicopter right into the building where the IRA leadership was holed up?"
That had been nothing more than a self-staged play I orchestrated using Charm. But there was no way an outsider could know that.
The American replied,
"Then you must also know that the British government and the Ministry of Magic have been trying to wipe out the IRA ever since. Because of that, our Irish-American informants and other HUMINT assets inside the IRA got swept up and eliminated in the purge."
This, too, had been my doing. I had used Delis to manipulate the Ministry, allowing Rybakov and the other Syndicate executives to swallow the IRA whole. To think that a move I had made as a matter of course would return to aid me so immensely half a year later.
The reason the US couldn't officially ask the British government to back off was likely because those informants had been planted covertly without the UK's knowledge. Truly, the international stage was a wild jungle where you couldn't trust a single soul. Romance and savagery were separated by a paper-thin line.
"Mhm. So you're outsourcing the job to us?"
"As for the possibility of you and the Syndicate running off with the artifact once you find it... of course we've considered it. We chose you as a partner because we calculated that the benefits outweigh the risks."
"And what does that mean, exactly?"
"It means you should keep this in mind: we tolerate the growth of the Northern Covenant Syndicate not because we can't wipe you out, but because we have no reason to."
What a cheap threat. I burst into a fit of laughter.
"Ahahaha! Is that a threat? I suppose it's a highly effective one, given the difference in our weight classes."
"Think what you like. Choosing which path is more profitable is entirely up to you, the Syndicate's negotiator."
In the end, the simplest methods were always the most effective. If the Arcane Security Agency threw caution to the wind and cooperated with the Ministry of Magic to pressure us, surviving would be incredibly difficult. He thought he was forcing a choice on me, but my decision had been made from the very beginning.
I feigned submission to his thinly veiled threat.
"Very well. Since I have full authority, I'll give you my answer right here."
"And that is?"
"We'll do it. I must admit, I'm quite curious to see what kind of information the Eagle will bring us."
The feeling wasn't bad at all. He probably believed we were in a free relationship with no strings attached, but in reality, I was the only one holding the strings. Beyond mere anticipation, I felt a surge of excitement. It was truly hilarious to watch him try to order me around, completely oblivious to the fact that he was nothing but a puppet.