Shock and Awe (1)
Early April on a Florida beach left nothing wanting for wandering around in a swimsuit.
There were fewer people than at peak season, and the water ran a touch cold, but the air temperature was perfect. Since I had no intention of splashing around in the surf anyway, the chill of the sea barely registered as a problem.
My meeting with W was set for evening. I strolled the sparsely populated Florida shoreline under the midday sun, sunscreen applied with military thoroughness so that even the heat of the light barely troubled me.
Cardigan, blanket, and hair all streamed after the wind. Salt-laced sea breeze tickled the bridge of my nose. Sandal prints pressed deep into the sand only to be erased moments later by the soft, surging wash of the waves.
I turned my back to the sun and slid my sunglasses up. At the far right edge of my vision stood a pair of subordinates who looked entirely too fond of each other, arms linked and clearly enjoying themselves. Delis had probably been planning this the moment she heard the date and place.
I wasn’t about to blame her. The organization wasn’t so ironclad that a little rest was forbidden. And it wasn’t only Delis. Perhaps I myself had been craving this sort of break.
Locked in a back room doing nothing but magical research; when not that, poring over documents; when I stepped outside, either eliminating the organization’s enemies or spinning schemes to operate in the world’s shadows. Everything that could be called daily life had been dark and grim. A few hours of this kind of rest were welcome even to me.
That didn’t make the embarrassment of the clothes vanish, but it was… tolerable enough.
Back in the hotel room, I finished my shower, changed, and gradually prepared to meet the American.
“Identity doesn’t seem compromised, the subordinates have blended in cleanly. Even allowing for the fact that this is the Americans’ home ground, it looks solid.”
“You needn’t worry about rear support at all. We’ve coordinated the schedule with the Hong Kong side so the incident will break at the most dramatic possible moment.”
Time for both Delis and me to return to our real work.
Fortunately—or unfortunately—the meeting place was the hotel bar, so I could shed the bikini and dress as I normally would. Embarrassment was something I thoroughly detested.
I met Matthew Wyatt Lewis of the Magic Defense Bureau just as the sun was beginning to sink westward.
“It’s been a while, W. How have you been?”
The American I faced across the continent looked much the same as before.
“Ah, you’re here. Irene Varez. If you’re asking how I’ve been, there’s nothing particularly worth answering.”
“Hmm. So that’s how you’re going to play it?”
I’d hoped for a little small talk—while fishing for information, of course—but he threw up a wall of iron.
The impulse to use Charm and pry something loose lasted only a moment. This was the Americans’ home ground. Charm wouldn’t work properly on a competent mage, and if W showed any abnormal reaction, more than a few Magic Defense Bureau agents would come charging in ready to kill me.
Then I’d have no choice but to call my own people. The leisurely Miami hotel would likely end up awash not in ocean but in blood.
We hadn’t bared our teeth at each other yet, but the situation could tip that way at any second. I had no desire to end this tightrope walk with my own hands. Turning the Americans into enemies offered zero profit.
So I put on a faintly disappointed expression, pulled out a chair, and sat with a little bounce. As always, I ordered apple juice. Anything with alcohol was out.
At the same time I slid a document envelope across to W. I’d worn gloves so no fingerprints would remain; no need for telekinesis.
“This is…?”
“First, the final report on the artifact you requested—Baramil. You seemed to want the real thing as well, so I managed to include a fragment.”
It was a casual offer, yet W already looked as if he could barely restrain the urge to tear the envelope open on the spot.
“Oh…? An actual fragment inside…?”
I could feel him fighting the impulse with every ounce of will, mindful of surrounding eyes. I gave a short laugh.
“Open it right here. It’s relevant to what we’re about to discuss.”
The moment my not-quite-permission fell, Matthew W. Lewis ripped the envelope open. The first thing he drew out was, of course, the artifact fragment sealed deepest inside.
The piece sealed in the ziplock bag was genuine—part of the real Baramil. I hadn’t expected a crude fake to fool the Americans, so I had actually cut a section from the blade and placed it inside.
Finger-joint size. The original Baramil was already large for a dagger, so a piece that big was substantial enough.
When I first cut it free, the blade fragment still carried the same power as the original—true article through and through.
Of course, it was a severely degraded piece.
Performance couldn’t be identical. Even the severed fragment still held Baramil’s authority, but that authority scaled with the fragment’s volume.
I had no intention of handing the Americans even a scrap of magical evidence. Archaeological analysis I would tolerate; magical analysis I would not.
So I had taken measures on the detached Baramil fragment—measures that cleanly erased every trace of magic dwelling within it.
Matthew W. Lewis lifted the piece with telekinesis, turning it this way and that as he asked,
“I don’t sense any magic. Is this genuine, Varez?”
“You’ll see when you read the report. The IRA remnants apparently decided they would rather die than hand the artifact over, so they tried to burn it.”
The fate of Baramil that I had my subordinates fabricate ran as follows.
First: as the Americans expected, the IRA remnants had indeed possessed it.
Second: my organization, contracted by the U.S. Magic Defense Bureau, had clashed with those remnants in Northern Ireland, cornered them, and finally driven them into one place.
Third: the prolonged fighting made the remnants realize we were after the artifact, so they tried to burn it with magically conjured fire to keep us from seizing Baramil.
—That was the scenario I had spun.
I couldn’t stage something so elaborate against real IRA remnants, so the Equinox mages of our special task force had played the opposing force instead.
W flipped through the pages of the report I indicated. The final report contained photographs of Baramil at the moment of discovery, so meticulously staged they were indistinguishable from reality.
“Taken immediately after recovery, I take it. This wavering… magically conjured flames?”
“So I’m told. Fire that burns souls rather than oxygen. Because of that, most of the unique magic engraved on the artifact dispersed.”
“This is… troublesome, I suppose.”
The original contract with the Magic Defense Bureau had included an additional reward if we delivered the actual Baramil. What I was offering was a real fragment, yes—but a castrated one stripped of every important magical function. Any corresponding compensation would be calculated with that in mind.
I sipped my apple juice and answered,
“Still, you’ve confirmed the artifact’s complete destruction, haven’t you? The reason America farmed this out to the Syndicate was to keep the relic out of any hands that weren’t American, right?”
“That’s true, but…”
The Americans’ reason for outsourcing to us was obvious: If I can’t have it, no one can. A thoroughly selfish impulse, and a thoroughly appropriate one for imperialists. My organization had simply confirmed for them that the relic was gone forever.
“If it still bothers you, investigate as much as you like. Analyze the fragment to your heart’s content. If you want, I’ll even put you in remote contact with the operatives who took part in the IRA remnant cleanup.”
“If you’re going that far, I have nothing more to say. I’ll gratefully accept it.”
With that, the first contract we had ever received from the Americans—the Baramil job—was closed. Not a spectacular overachievement, but they would verify soon enough that we had carried out the assigned mission without fail.
Having opened the conversation this way, I casually laid the next matter on the table.
“By the way, I’m sure you Americans already know where I’ve been and what I’ve been doing lately?”
“…You’re seriously asking the person involved to confirm that right now?”
“Why not? We both know the score. Nothing wrong with confirming it, is there?”
Irene Varez was the only contact the U.S. Magic Defense Bureau possessed regarding the Northern Covenant Syndicate. Like it or not, if the Americans wanted to talk to my organization, they had to go through me. Their intelligence assets aimed at the Syndicate therefore had no choice but to focus on me. In a sense, I was the person who drew every eye.
I knew it, so I always watched my behavior. Because I had to remain conscious of American scrutiny, even contact with outsiders had to be handled carefully once I left the organization’s London base. I never said it aloud, but in Hong Kong as well I had only made external rendezvous after confirming the complete absence of surveillance or intelligence.
So I asked W outright.
You must have known where I was. Aren’t you curious what I was doing there?
Matthew Wyatt Lewis shot back,
“So if I ask, will you answer? Or were you simply offended that we were watching your movements in the first place?”
“Even if I am offended, what am I supposed to do about it? It only means you still don’t fully trust us, and if we’re going to build a constructive, cooperative relationship with the Americans, this kind of verification is something we naturally have to pass.”
Storming out in a huff here would be the move of an amateur. Believing that declaring I wouldn’t negotiate would make the other side hungrier only works when the other side is the one who needs something.
The Americans needed nothing. If my organization declared a break in relations, they would simply erase us cleanly and push into the London area themselves.
So for now I would humor them. Surveillance had been expected, and both I and the organization had worked hard not to let my true identity slip. Nothing major to worry about.
W gave a hollow laugh.
“Haha. You’re coming on rather avant-garde. Fine—then I’ll ask without beating around the bush. Irene Varez, why did you go to Hong Kong?”
I answered with a light smile at the corner of my mouth.
“Simple. It looked like the communist reds were cooking up some kind of terror in Hong Kong. I went to check it out myself.”
“Commies?”
“The reason I came here was to pass on what my organization and I confirmed with our own eyes—”
At that point I turned my gaze to the small television mounted in the bar. By now the news should be arriving.
“—but it seems we’re already too late.”
Hearing the news spill from the television, I cheered silently. The subordinates had handled the job properly.
So this was how a black hand operating across the entire world felt. Somehow the apple juice tasted even sweeter.