Ch.400Episode 16 – The Six Million Dollar Man

# Who is Nayan Al Bas?

When I asked while sitting at the desk, Matt, who had just finished his briefing, answered.

“He’s like an old dragon.”

The screen projected with magical energy displayed information about a key military warlord. Matt enlarged the face of one elderly man among them.

“Despite being in his 50s, he’s a man with exceptional fundraising abilities. He’s also done a decent job of gathering high-quality personnel.”

My eyes caught a line written in the Royal Intelligence Service report. It was intelligence that he was using his college connections to recruit talent.

“His most outstanding field is accounting, which was his major. His specialty is laundering money through shell companies set up in more than five tax havens.”

The source of funds is illegal trade. They mainly deal in minerals like gold and silver mined from Hassan’s mines.

Matt said:

“Minerals are one thing, but the hottest selling item is, of course, drugs.”

The photo changed. A poppy field filling the prairie. It was farmland where drugs were cultivated.

“Hassan’s warlord’s main trading product is opium. Not only that, but they also produce cocaine. The opium here serves as the raw material for the synthetic drug ‘Kiss of Dreamare,’ so it trades at quite a high price in the Ivory Tower black market. Asen and Sanya make money in similar ways.”

“If he’s both the financier and recruiter, he must be a core figure in the warlord organization. Let’s go through Nayan to make contact with Nasir. Is that alright, Director?”

Leonie’s voice flowed from the communication equipment placed on the desk.

-‘Yes.’

I nodded with a cigarette in my mouth.

“Good. Let’s continue talking about Nayan. An accountant who rolls money extracted from junkies. What else is there?”

“He has a close relationship with Nasir. For Nayan’s 55th birthday, he gave him those expensive griffin claws as a gift.”

Bill, who was drinking coffee, continued:

“He’s also quite virile, with three wives and seven children. He’s rich in daughters. Six of them are girls.”

“What about the son?”

“He’s an elite who studied abroad. Nayan cherishes this child and sent him overseas from a young age. Thanks to his successful father, he earned a bachelor’s degree in journalism.”

“Living the high life with drug money. Meanwhile, some people are dying from drinking water crawling with parasites.”

Matt and Bill, who had run several operations on the Mauritanian continent, exchanged jokes with a bitter edge.

I checked the photo of the man said to be Nayan’s son. It was a photo taken during his study abroad days, and he looked like someone who would prefer sports to studying.

Matt pointed to that photo with his chin.

“He may be a playboy, but he’s an intellectual. We recently received intelligence that he’s learning the ropes under Nayan.”

“What area is he in charge of?”

“Public relations.”

So that’s how he’s using his journalism degree.

“If we approach through the son, it’ll be easier to recruit Nayan. Of course, blackmail would work too.”

“Blackmail without backup…”

“I’m just talking about contingencies.”

The intelligence officers seated around the safe house continued their discussion about the direction of the operation. They also discussed how to gain the trust of the Hassan warlord and how to use the warlord.

After more than an hour of such meetings.

I, having just emptied the ashtray and inserted a new cigarette, threw out an important question.

“What if they don’t cooperate?”

“……”

“What do we do if Nayan Al Bas or Sheikh Nasir Al Hassan refuse or fail to follow instructions?”

In the deep silence.

Leonie answered from beyond the communication equipment.

-‘Then we kill them.’

Episode 16 – The Six Million Dollar Man

Just like in Middle Eastern cultures, the Mauritanian continent has common customs. One is the culture of hospitality, offering tea and refreshments to guests.

“Tea? Coffee?”

“Coffee would be nice.”

I readily accepted the tea offered as a guest’s portion. In this place where honor is valued as much as life, refusing the host’s goodwill would be an act of insulting the other person.

The attendant handed us two cups of coffee made in the traditional Mauritanian way. Sand coffee, brewed using hot sand. Just moistening your lips with it was enough to fill your mouth with a subtle fragrance—a bewitching charm.

“The Mauritanian continent has long been famous as a producer of premium coffee beans.”

Nayan Al Bas, holding his coffee cup, opened with a light tone.

“How is it?”

“Excellent. This is the first time I’ve encountered such an aroma in my life. It’s as remarkable as its renowned reputation.”

“…Hmm.”

At the praise from a foreigner’s mouth, the old man’s expression softened.

In the Mauritanian continent, which runs on honor, there is no better compliment than praising the other’s honor.

He seemed quite pleased with my enthusiastic reaction to being served rare refreshments. Nayan Al Bas wore a subtle smile as if he had expected this.

On the wall hung a massive beast’s claw. It was the claw of a griffin, designated as a specially protected species by the International Magic Organization. Under the claw decoration, a local woman was heating sand, burying her palms in the sand while muttering in a small voice. Though I hadn’t been formally introduced to her, her attire and demeanor exuded the aura of a shaman.

I pretended to drink coffee while quietly thinking.

“……”

According to intelligence leaked by the warlord duo I met yesterday, the Al Bas tribe maintains its own shamans. However, according to military intelligence, the Hassan warlord does not separately train magicians or shamans.

Why? Because magic and shamanism are disciplines that require significant investment even in developed countries with established educational infrastructure. Therefore, warlords cannot systematically train combat magicians and shamans, leaving them no choice but to bring them in from outside.

In other words, this shaman is an outsider employed by the tribe itself.

“……”

If she’s an outsider, there’s a high probability she’s from a different tribe, meaning she won’t be loyal to the Hassan warlord. Being employed for money, she could potentially defect if someone pays more than the warlord.

What’s the intention behind bringing such a person to a meeting with a war correspondent? It might seem like a complex question, but there was no need to think deeply about it.

I had an escort beside me. If a war correspondent hired someone as a bodyguard, that bodyguard would likely be a magician. They probably brought the shaman assuming this.

In other words.

These bastards are still suspicious of me.

*

Though I’m under suspicion, the operation hasn’t failed yet.

The fact that they showed hospitality despite being suspicious means they’ve accepted us as guests.

In regions where hospitality customs are deeply rooted, hosts must protect their guests. So while I stay here as a guest, the Al Bas tribe won’t be hostile to me. Perhaps bringing the shaman wasn’t due to suspicion but to display his power.

Come to think of it, it was the same last time. The forces that detained us at the checkpoint were the Al Bas tribe’s royal guard.

Typically, the more dictatorial a warlord is, the more they tend to invest in their royal guard. Giving good equipment to combat units risks a coup. Of course, there’s also the leader’s indulgence in luxury.

From that perspective, it’s possible that Nayan, who actively invests in his royal guard, brought the shaman here to display his power.

As I was guessing Nayan Al Bas’s intentions, he suddenly spoke while drinking his coffee.

“I heard you’re a journalist. What brings you here?”

I placed my pen and notebook on the desk and responded.

“For reporting, of course.”

“Reporting?”

“Yes.”

As if on cue, the story I had prepared for my cover identity flowed from my mouth.

“I came to understand the causes of the military confrontation between government forces and tribes, and to see the reality here.”

It was a common reporting motive.

The tribal chief of Al Bas wore an enigmatic expression at the news that a war correspondent had come to cover the civil war area. He remained silent as if lost in thought, then briefly closed his eyes.

“The reason for fighting the government… Well, obviously it’s because the government made wrong decisions, isn’t it?”

“I’d like to know specifically what those wrong decisions were.”

“That’s not difficult to explain.”

Nayan Al Bas began explaining why local warlords oppose the government. His explanation was lengthy, but the gist of his argument was that ‘the government is at fault.’

“Government forces have been oppressing our tribe for the past decade or more. They’ve systematically discriminated against us for not belonging to the mainstream.”

His claims didn’t end there. The warlord’s executive stood before the war correspondent to denounce the government’s barbarism.

“Not content with that, they used military force to suppress the voices of those who opposed discrimination. Government forces entering our tribal territory engaged in looting, arson, abuse, and rape.”

Looting, arson, massacres, and rape by government forces. A common repertoire in third-world countries.

Nayan Al Bas passionately described how barbaric the local government was. And like all warlords, he claimed the legitimacy of their struggle.

“So how could we not resist?”

“You exercised your right to resist to protect yourselves. Is that a correct understanding?”

“You understand perfectly.”

I inwardly sneered as I took notes of his words. I remembered intelligence that the Hassan warlord had sent armed units to massacre people, claiming they were annexing another tribe’s territory.

The source of the intelligence was an article reported by a war correspondent a few years ago. According to data shared by the Russian Federation’s Intelligence Bureau, the Hassan warlord had committed similar acts in Asen and Sanya territories over the past few years. Matt, the Royal Intelligence Service’s operation team leader, likened it to ethnic cleansing.

Of course, whether these bastards were conducting ethnic cleansing or resisting the government was none of my business. I exchanged questions and answers with the tribal chief of Al Bas, befitting my identity as a war correspondent.

“I understand that government troops are stationed in the nearby area. Do you, Nayan Al Bas, consider the government troops a threat to the tribe’s safety?”

“‘A blade held to our throat’ would be an appropriate expression.”

“I hear there’s a massive alliance led by the Asen and Sanya tribes in this area. What do you think of them?”

“Asen and Sanya? Vexing fellows.”

When the names of the tribes leading Groups 1 and 2 came up, his response was displeased. Nayan waved his hand as if it was troublesome.

“Sanya is one thing, but Asen had quite a close relationship with us. Being neighbors sharing a ‘border.’ Bint’s relatives often came over to visit.”

Bint. Sheikh Bint Al Asen, the leader of the Asen warlord.

When a familiar name came up, my mind started racing. The Asen tribe and Hassan tribe are in competition, but they don’t actively oppose each other. This is because the Asen warlord itself advocates a moderate stance of ‘Mauritanian continent centrism.’

Therefore, unlike Sanya, which has extremely different tendencies, Asen and Hassan have active exchanges. The leaders of Asen and Hassan even have personal connections.

After gathering this information, I asked a few additional questions. Despite the interview lasting only 30 minutes, quite useful intelligence snowballed.

“……”

Nayan Al Bas responded diligently to the interview.

For someone who was cautious enough to bring in a shaman, Nayan revealed quite a lot of decent information. While it’s natural for him to leak information since I approached as a war correspondent, his attitude of sincerely answering even trivial questions was unexpected.

I interpreted this as the Hassan warlord’s desire to avoid isolation. It seemed like he wanted to access information from outside his territory, and even from foreign countries, through the hands of a war correspondent.

Perhaps just by providing external information, I could form a decent relationship. After all, information is one of the reasons warlords cooperate with foreign intelligence agencies.

Of course, I couldn’t tell if this was the intention of the entire Hassan warlord or just Nayan Al Bas’s personal wish.

Additional information is needed for an accurate judgment.

“Thank you for accommodating my interview.”

As I stood up from my chair, greeting him, Nayan Al Bas asked if I needed anything.

“Is there anything you need?”

“Ah….”

Pretending to ponder, I spoke after a brief pause.

“Would it be possible to meet Sheikh Nasir Al Hassan?”

I was asking him to arrange a meeting with the leader of the Hassan warlord.

To this, Nayan, Nasir’s cousin and the leader of the Al Bas tribe, said:

“That’s impossible.”

I figured as much. Why would he take a foreigner he just met today to see the leader?

It was worth a shot, even though I knew it was unlikely. I gracefully let go of the notion. After all, I had something else I wanted to ask him.

“I’d like to stay here for a few days to report. Could I possibly get the tribal chief’s permission?”

“That’s possible. You can start right away if you wish.”

As expected, Nayan Al Bas readily agreed.

It wasn’t an unreasonable request, and after refusing one request, it wouldn’t look good to refuse even a minor one.

Having achieved the desired result, I smiled brightly and expressed my gratitude.

“When do you plan to start reporting?”

“Since I need to do preliminary reconnaissance, today might be difficult… How about tomorrow?”

Preliminary investigation is essential for an operation that stirs up a civil war area. If I were alone, I could move right away, but I had Camilla with me.

But the sooner the better, given the tight schedule.

“Then come after the dawn prayer tomorrow.”

Tomorrow’s dawn prayer is at 5 AM. I need to come here then.

I need to conduct terrain reconnaissance under the pretext of reporting and find ways to build rapport with Nayan Al Bas.

He would easily agree if I arranged a meeting on the grounds of providing what the tribe needs. No one dislikes gifts, and in this barren place, even drinking water is scarce. Water and antibiotics would probably make satisfactory gifts.

“I’ll prepare in advance.”

“I understand.”

“Or how about staying the night in our guest room?”

If there’s no special reason, it would be proper to stay in the room provided by the host. Refusing the host’s goodwill is itself a breach of etiquette.

But if time is really tight, it’s okay to decline.

“That’s alright. Thank you, but I’ll just accept your kind thoughts.”

I bowed my head in greeting and was about to leave.

However, at Nayan Al Bas’s next words, I had to stop my steps toward the outside.

“Ah, if you’re planning to roam the tribe’s territory, I’ll assign someone who knows the geography well.”

“A person, you say?”

The tribal chief of Al Bas nodded.

“Both geography and tribes. Having grown up under me handling tribal affairs since childhood, there’s nothing about Al Bas that this child doesn’t know.”

If it’s someone with a lot of information about the tribe, I’d welcome that. They’d be worth recruiting as an informant.

But Nayan’s explanation didn’t end there.

“Moreover, being similar in age to the journalist, communication will be much easier. This is also a child I trust and believe in. Thanks to living abroad for a long time, they’re also good with foreign languages.”

“…Ah, I see.”

Somehow, the more I heard the description, one person came to mind.

Someone knowledgeable about tribal affairs, trusted by the tribal chief. Similar age to me. With a background of living abroad.

No way. It couldn’t be.

With a lingering doubt, I asked the tribal chief. It was out of a slight concern.

“By the way, who is this person?”

Nayan Al Bas answered.

I had a suspicion.

And it was confirmed.

*

In the parking lot of a mart near the safe house provided by Victor, I climbed into the driver’s seat after leaving the pharmacy.

“Did you find it?”

Camilla, who was lying face down in the passenger seat, asked with an expectant expression, but I shook my head.

“Seems like they don’t have antibiotics here either.”

I had visited every visible pharmacy to find antibiotics, but for some reason, antibiotics were nowhere to be seen.

“I heard they haven’t been stocking antibiotics for days. Apparently, the government is preemptively taking all the quantities produced at the factory.”

“The government? What about aid organizations?”

“It seems aid organizations are also having difficulty securing antibiotics. With the Sirens being so rampant… The transportation costs have skyrocketed, making it burdensome.”

I shared the information I had heard from the pharmacist with Camilla.

I had just come from asking the pharmacist about the situation, giving him 30 shillings despite his attempt to shoo me away as if annoyed.

“This is all I managed to salvage.”

I showed Camilla a bundle of antibiotics I pulled from my pocket. Camilla was startled and questioned me.

“I thought you said there were no antibiotics?”

“I bought what the pharmacy had hidden away. All together, it’s 500 shillings.”

The antibiotics hidden by the pharmacist barely filled both pockets of my coat. With 500 shillings, one could buy a box of antibiotics in Abas. Yet the pharmacist sold ‘a few bottles’ of topical antibiotics at the price of a box.

It was an outrageous price gouging. Is this what they call creative economy?

Camilla examined the antibiotics with a serious expression. Furrowing her brow, she groaned.

“Hmm… It seems difficult to distribute this to all residents… It’s woefully inadequate.”

“We barely have enough for ourselves to use.”

We ultimately failed to obtain antibiotics for bribes. More precisely, we only secured enough for our emergency use.

Camilla, waiting in the vehicle, opened her terminal and shared new information. It seemed intelligence had come in while I briefly visited the pharmacy.

“There’s new information. Today around 5 PM, the local government spokesperson made an announcement.”

“What kind of announcement? Don’t tell me they’re distributing antibiotics?”

“No. Due to facility aging and related issues, there are problems with electricity and magic supply, so they’ll suspend all regional power and magic supply from midnight to 5 AM the next day.”

Damn it.

“Until when will they cut the supply? From when…”

“Next week.”

“For a week?”

“The supply will be cut starting next week. Indefinitely.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

They can’t supply medicines, and now they’re cutting off electricity and magic? This is truly maddening.

Meanwhile, Camilla offered words of comfort, saying we should be grateful that the water supply hasn’t been cut off. Is that really what she should be saying right now?

I momentarily thought it might be better to send Camilla to a facility. If she could boil water with magic to turn turbines, we could at least produce electricity, if not magic. Of course, even I recognized this as an unrealistic fantasy.

Having filled the SUV with food and water from the mart, I drove back to the safe house. It was the way home, but my mind was uneasy.

Despite proper sidewalks, there were crazy pedestrians walking on the road, illegally parked vehicles playing Tetris with the space, and deer wearing human masks jumping out from between vehicles parked on the shoulder whenever you least expect it. From a driver’s perspective, these infuriating individuals popping out from everywhere kept me on edge. As a result, I had to mutter curses from time to time.

“Frederick.”

“Yes.”

“I’m curious about something. When you were talking with the tribal leader earlier. Why did you make a displeased expression when they said they’d assign someone to you?”

Hearing Camilla’s words, I recalled what had happened around lunchtime.

When Nayan Al Bas suggested assigning a guide, I cheerfully agreed, saying that would be fine, though I didn’t mean it. I thought I had hidden it well, but Camilla had noticed.

“The guide assigned by Al Bas is someone I know.”

“Someone you know? You mean you’re acquainted?”

“Not exactly. It’s someone I’ve seen a few times during company briefings.”

I murmured the name of the guide assigned by the tribe.

“Farid Al Bas. Nayan’s only son.”

Farid. Camilla repeated the name.

“What kind of person is he that makes you react like that? I’ve never seen you make such an expression.”

How should I express it so Camilla would easily understand? I know a lot about Farid, but summarizing it in one word wasn’t easy.

I thought carefully. What expression would be appropriate?

After pondering for a while, as I reduced speed and turned the steering wheel to avoid a herd of livestock spilling onto the road, I spoke.

“A womanizer?”

“Oh shit.”