Ch.405Episode 16 – The Six Million Dollar Man

As the sun began to tilt westward, an ominous wind started blowing, eventually bringing thunder and lightning.

The one fortunate thing was the weather forecast predicting no rain tonight.

Even amid the fierce gusts, the local weather bureau’s forecast still indicated clear skies.

In the early evening, as the crimson sunset lay down upon the earth beneath a deep navy-blue sky like a blanket, our visitor arrived with a flash of dry lightning.

Episode 16 – The Six Million Dollar Man

If you ask an intelligence officer stationed abroad when their most perilous moment occurs, most would answer: when making first contact with an agent who has completed their mission.

But if you twist the question slightly and ask what the most common danger is, people would respond:

The moment you encounter a local civilian.

This might seem like a puzzling answer to people living in an era of travel YouTubers, rising average incomes, and overwhelming accessibility to information and travel.

They might question why it would be dangerous, considering all the various episodes floating around the internet about conversations, meals, and shared accommodations with locals met by chance while traveling.

However, for intelligence agencies, going abroad is official business quite different from travel, and due to the nature of their identity, most foreigners they encounter in the field are considered to be connected to counterintelligence agencies.

The vast majority of intelligence officers regarded any contact with civilians as dangerous.

My thoughts weren’t much different.

During my time at the Intelligence Service, my first post was China, a country notorious for its high-intensity counterintelligence, and Russia was the same, with the successor to the KGB—the pioneer of socialist state counterintelligence—operating there.

In my decade-plus career in intelligence, most countries I visited had either experienced or were experiencing socialist regimes, and countries other than allies didn’t particularly welcome foreign visitors with black hair.

So, a significant number of civilians I encountered were informants connected to counterintelligence agencies. Sometimes I was even directly confronted by primary staff rather than subcontractors, with China being one such example.

In that context, Africa and the Middle East were relatively better situations. These were regions where state-led surveillance systems hadn’t taken root.

Rather than counterintelligence agencies supported by governments, the armed groups that had a tight grip on territories were more frightening.

These experiences remained valid even now while working at Military Intelligence.

It was true in the Kiyen Empire and on the Mauritanian continent. Especially here, where most locals were either con artists or bastards, the lessons learned from the Third World were proving effective.

Perhaps that’s why…

“……”

When I faced a local who knocked on my lodging door in the early evening, I couldn’t manage to put on a bright expression.

*

While inspecting the SUV, I bluntly questioned the resident who had come to see me.

“Have we met before?”

“No.”

The local man answered in a deep voice. Though skinny and lanky, there was a sense of spirit in his voice and eyes that marked him as a strong man.

I didn’t know his name. He had never introduced himself in the first place. Still, I clearly remembered the role he played in the village.

“You’re the militia leader, correct?”

The man nodded once.

Given the characteristics of the local country, where more than four major tribes coexist, one would need to learn at least five languages to communicate smoothly with all citizens.

However, people with a certain level of education could converse using Mauritania’s official language.

I was someone who could speak the official language of the Mauritanian continent reasonably well. This was because during my Middle Eastern assignment, I had learned Fusha (Modern Standard Arabic) and mastered various regional Ammiya (Arabic dialects).

So I threw out a topic with fairly decent pronunciation. And the man responded in the official language with a distinct rural accent.

“You seem well-educated. You even speak the official language.”

To my question, asked with a tone of curiosity, the man opened his mouth.

“Missionaries who came to the village when I was young taught me. They were people who taught letters to children who couldn’t receive formal education.”

“Ah, I see.”

By missionaries, he probably meant clergy from a religious order.

The fact that religious orders dispatch clergy and monastics around the world for missionary work is information known even to those uninterested in religion.

I don’t know where these missionaries worked or what activities they conducted. However, I did know they were captured and executed by government forces—headline news that made global headlines about three years ago.

As is typical in countries with established state religions, here any religion other than Al-Yabd is subject to persecution.

In a region where many governments sentence apostates and clergy of other faiths to death—the maximum legal punishment—it wasn’t difficult to imagine what fate those missionaries met.

Of course, the deaths of missionaries meant nothing to me.

What mattered was that the militia leader and I could communicate without an interpreter.

And that he was the third visitor to come to us today.

I opened the conversation while tossing a wrench into the toolbox.

“You’re here about the magician, right?”

“……”

“The elder and the village chief already visited earlier. Both made the same proposal.”

This man’s purpose in seeking me out would be the same as the village chief and elder.

My prediction was correct.

The militia leader, who had been meeting my gaze as if gauging my thoughts, nodded heavily and parted his lips.

“I heard about your conversation with the village chief earlier today. That you’re leaving the village tomorrow.”

“That’s right.”

“Could you possibly stay in the village longer?”

The third visitor made the same request as the two previous visitors. And my answer was identical to what I had given them.

“That’s impossible.”

Before the militia leader could begin his argument, I cut him off and provided a plausible reason.

“I still have other places to cover.”

I refused the visitor’s request on the grounds that I had numerous areas left to report on—a refusal reason fitting my identity as a war correspondent.

However, the actual reason for leaving the village was utterly simple. I had already collected the information I wanted.

Despite the warlord guides’ dissuasion, I had come to this rural outskirts to reconnoiter the government forces’ outpost stationed at the border.

The government forces’ outpost was threatening enough that Nayan Al-Bas, a senior member of the Group 3 warlord faction, described it as “a blade hanging at the throat.”

I came to gauge the government forces’ armament level to determine how they might affect “the business” and how to support the Group 3 warlords so they could face the government’s mechanized units.

And that intelligence had already been transmitted to Military Intelligence.

“Unfortunately, there’s nothing more for me to learn here.”

Having obtained the desired data, there was no reason to stay. This was a fact that even the warlord faction would understand.

But the villagers seemed to think differently.

“Please reconsider just once.”

The militia leader earnestly requested that I stay in the village longer.

Watching a man older than me bow so deeply made me feel strange.

But my position remained unchanged.

“You saw it yourself yesterday. The locusts that devour humans and gnaw at crops. We were lucky last time, but at this rate, it will be difficult to survive—”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”

I drew a firm line. There was no way I could help.

The militia leader’s face changed subtly, displeased with my answer, but that wasn’t enough to overturn my decision.

“You should ask the Al-Bas tribe for help instead. Since the leader of the honorable Hassan tribe is close to the Al-Bas tribal chief, that person must understand honor as well. He would gladly help you.”

Rather than persisting, go to the warlords for help. This was my suggestion for the third time.

“Isn’t this region Al-Bas tribal territory to begin with?”

“They won’t help us.”

“Because you’re migrants from another tribe?”

“Yes.”

This too was something I was hearing for the third time today.

The residents who settled here were not natives of this region.

Originally, they belonged to a tribe other than Hassan. When goblins waving the banner of the Red Revolution and the local government waged a bloody civil war, they fled their homeland and migrated here. This happened well over 20 years ago.

People fleeing civil war were common enough, so that alone wouldn’t have been a problem. The issue was that just before leaving their homeland, they stole supplies confiscated from foreign aid organizations by the warlords and fled.

In this land where honor is valued as much as life, dishonorable actions become targets of social condemnation. They even endanger one’s life.

Killing someone in a duel to protect tribal honor, or a father beating his son to death for dishonorable conduct like inconveniencing guests—these were phenomena occasionally seen in the Middle East.

But stealing others’ belongings and fleeing one’s homeland? This goes beyond dishonorable—it’s a decision that leaves one with no defense even if murdered.

That’s why the Al-Bas tribe ostracized the residents who settled in the border region. They would spare their lives but left them to fend for themselves regarding survival. And in the middle of the desert, no less.

In other words:

The villagers had nowhere to turn even when their lives were in danger.

Their home tribe was bent on revenge, and the tribe that accepted them didn’t even acknowledge people who had abandoned their honor.

In the end, they had no choice but to beg for help from a foreigner they’d never met before.

“At this rate, we’ll all die. Please help us just once.”

“……”

The militia leader persistently clung to his request, asking me to change my mind.

“It’s not just the monsters. Border raiders have also begun to rampage.”

“I’ve heard about that too. Orcs who have tamed indigenous creatures are raiding villages.”

“Goblins are also a problem. Remnants who survived the civil war still remain in remote areas beyond the reach of government forces. Even the warlords can’t handle this situation.”

“Yes, I know that too. And I hear there are armed robbers operating near the village recently?”

“……”

The militia leader, who had been talking non-stop, suddenly fell silent.

I turned to him and asked again.

“Am I wrong?”

“…What you’ve heard is probably correct.”

His answer was markedly different from his previously confident demeanor. I nodded silently and held my tongue.

“You must have many concerns, leading the militia.”

The militia leader simply nodded in response. His expression wasn’t particularly bright, but he was a man who hardly knew the meaning of giving up.

His attempts to persuade me continued.

First, he appealed to emotion, then he proposed a deal.

“I promise we’ll treat you with the utmost hospitality while you stay in the village.”

“I’m sorry, but I think I’ve already received more than enough hospitality.”

“How about money?”

The man discreetly proposed a transaction.

He led me past the huts where residents lived to a storage shed. Inside was a money bag containing a substantial amount of cash.

The militia leader said this was the wealth the villagers had accumulated over the years.

Next to the bag filled with worn local currency and mixed foreign currencies from around the world were similarly shaped bags piled up. Glancing at an open bag, I could see it was stuffed with crisp bills.

Even at a glance, it was a significant sum.

“I’ll give you this. In return, please stay in the village.”

“……”

“There’s no need for Mr. Asud to stay in the village. As a journalist, you must have business elsewhere. I’ll give you all this money. But in exchange…”

He carefully opened the zipper and lowered his voice. Then he made his clandestine request.

“We want the magician to remain here.”

This was the main point that all three visitors wanted to convey.

They wanted Camilla to stay in the village.

The reason was easy enough to guess without much thought.

-Tsssk!

The sound of a lighter echoed through the shabby storage shed.

With the lit cigarette between my fingers, I savored the deeply inhaled smoke.

“……”

My answer came as the well-burned cigarette was being crushed under my shoe.

It was already the third time today I had given this answer.

*

When I returned to the lodging, deep darkness had settled around us.

Dry thunder and lightning shook heaven and earth, while Camilla lay quietly with her back turned, covered with a blanket.

I sat on the floor checking my equipment.

With a press of my fingers, the dust cover came off, and with a flip of my wrist, the bolt assembly dropped out.

After oiling the action parts and pulling the bolt a few times, the metal parts meshed smoothly like a beast’s teeth with a clinking sound.

Setting the rifle aside, I began checking the pistol.

The Eastern country’s pistol, modeled after the Kiyen Empire’s design, was heavier and cruder than the original. Still, being a gun, it fired properly.

“……”

As I laid out the magazines and loaded ammunition, I fell into thought. This happened as a hollow-point bullet clicked into place, its crude body gleaming in the dim light.

In a neighborhood where honor is valued more than life, how do people who have lost their honor survive?

The answer to that question would soon be known.

Click. After inserting a live round into the chamber, I approached the window.

“……”

As dry thunder and lightning roared through the sky,

The twilight that had settled at the border began to writhe.