Ch.75Episode 5 – Journalist, Diplomat, Soldier, Spy

The desert heat was scorching.

The distant foreign land, Africa’s summer, had a different flavor from Korea’s sweltering summer weather where you’d be drenched in sweat just standing still.

I began speaking as I draped my jacket over the desk.

“So, how’s life abroad treating you?”

“It’s fucking terrible.”

“What specifically is terrible about it?”

“The food doesn’t suit me. My stomach’s always upset. It’s hot. Mosquitoes swarm even with a net. Get diarrhea if you drink the wrong water.”

The Asian man sitting on the bed stuck out his lips like a duck and grumbled. I offered words of comfort along with the gift in my hand.

“It’s the job you chose, isn’t it? I brought a carton of your favorite This cigarettes, so just tough it out.”

“Oh shit. Nice, nice. Let me smell that domestic scent after so long.”

The Asian man who had been sprawled out like a dead mouse suddenly jumped up and tore open the packaging. He put a cigarette between his lips and bobbed it up and down while looking at me.

I naturally took out my Zippo lighter and lit it for him. The Asian man inhaled deeply like a traveler who had found an oasis, then held his breath. After his Adam’s apple moved up and down, the chain-smoker savored the taste for a while before exhaling with a grin.

“Nothing beats domestic cigarettes. The ones here smell like buffalo burps—can’t stand them!”

“Sheesh. You should quit smoking. You go through two packs a day, no wonder you can’t save money. Tsk tsk.”

I pulled up a chair. There was a bag on it with large letters spelling “PRESS.” I moved the cumbersome bag aside, sat down, and faced the Asian man.

The Asian man puffed on his cigarette and asked me:

“So. What disaster brought you here this time?”

“Same old, same old.”

“Is your executive director here too?”

“Come on. Let’s not try to know too much. Why do people who should know better keep prying? Professional habit?”

“Security my ass… When I was your age, I was dragged to the Defense Security Command, got slapped around at the Agency for National Security Planning! You punk.”

“You became a journalist when it changed to the National Intelligence Service, what Defense Security Command are you talking about?”

“It’s just a figure of speech, just a figure of speech!”

“Yes, yes. I understand. Anyway, since I’m seeing you after so long, let’s hear some world news, Mr. Hong of the international desk at our Korean newspaper.”

I crossed my legs with my usual grin. The Asian man looked at me and grumbled sullenly.

The war correspondent asked:

“What do you want to know?”

“You know the Shinkorobi mine in the southern Katanga province here?”

“…Shinkorobi? The uranium mine? Sure, I know it. But why?”

“I was wondering if you knew anyone at that mine.”

“Most war correspondents here go to the east, not the south. You know that. Where the rebels are swarming. But the south is government-controlled territory, right? Why would I go there? Besides, the uranium from there goes north—”

“That’s enough.”

I cut him off.

“Do you know someone or not?”

I took out a wad of dollars from my pocket and waved it tantalizingly. The war correspondent gulped as he stared at the money fluttering before his eyes.

“Y-yeah, I don’t know anyone now, but give me some time and I can connect you.”

“How will you connect me?”

“There’s a local in the capital who runs a tourism business. He’s from the south. If you want, I can connect you not just to Shinkorobi but all the way to Fungurume.”

“How much should I give you?”

“One week. Just give me one week.”

“I’ll give you three days. And I don’t need Fungurume. That’s Chinese territory. I only care about the reds.”

I stuffed the wad of dollars into the journalist’s upper pocket and got up from the chair. Then I gathered my jacket, preparing to leave.

As I buttoned up, I advised the war correspondent:

“Don’t dig too deep this time. It’s dangerous work. Just test the waters and hand it over to me. If anything happens, contact the embassy.”

“Alright, alright. You’re not my wife, so quit nagging…”

I smiled at his familiar grumbling.

I grabbed the doorknob to leave the room. And the moment I turned the handle,

The world flipped upside down.

Darkness engulfed everything.

A blackout.

Episode 5 – Journalist, Diplomat, Soldier, Spy

Following the journalist who had handed me his business card, I arrived at a building located in the central district.

I took the elevator with the journalist and walked through the door he opened for me.

It was an office.

And there, I met someone very familiar.

“Hey! Mr. Journalist!”

As I waved my hand cheerfully and raised my voice, everyone sitting in the office turned to look at me. Among the densely packed desks and documents, a completely bald middle-aged man looked my way.

He greeted me happily:

“Hey, you punk! How old do you think I am that you still call me ‘Mr. Journalist’!”

“Ah, come on. What does it matter? It’s just good to see you after so long!”

The bald journalist shouted to the other journalists around him:

“Hey! Pack up and go home now!”

“Yes, boss!”

At the bald man’s command, numerous journalists packed their things and rushed out of the office. In the vast, now-empty office, only the bald man and I remained.

I grabbed a random chair nearby and sat down. I glanced at the nameplate on the desk.

“Wow… Social Affairs Department Head? Last time I saw you, you were just a reporter. You’ve moved up in the world!”

The bald man sat down across from me with a smirk.

“Did you think I’d just drown and die?”

I looked at him with a grin.

“When I heard you were arrested by the police, I thought you’d be found as a corpse somewhere in a river estuary.”

“Oh my… damn it.”

“Did you enjoy your prison food?”

“What prison food? How should I deal with you? Huh? I can’t even beat you to death.”

The bald man picked up a cane beside him and spewed affectionate profanities.

“Why are you carrying a cane? Did you hurt yourself hiking?”

“My knee’s shot, you punk. From getting beaten by the police.”

The former major newspaper social affairs reporter, now an imperial journalist, tapped his right knee with his fist.

I leaned forward to examine his leg drooping under the desk. After a moment’s consideration, I asked him:

“Kneecapping?”

“Yeah.”

“Must have hurt.”

“Thanks to that, I’m crippled. Lost my job too.”

“At least you’re not in a wheelchair! As long as you didn’t die, it’s all good!”

“Oh thank you so much…!”

The social affairs department head of some newspaper bent his waist until his nose nearly touched the desk.

“Thanks for poking at my wounds the moment we meet after so long, you little shit!”

“What are friends for?”

I sat across from the newspaper department head, cackling.

It was truly an irreverent sight—a middle-aged man and a bright young man behaving this way—but I didn’t mind.

“Well. It’s really good to see you after so long…”

A social affairs reporter from one of the Kien Empire’s top 5 major newspapers,

Now a social affairs department head at a minor Matap newspaper,

A hardliner who hanged politicians and bureaucrats with their own neckties through investigative reporting,

An anti-establishment journalist marked by the Imperial Guard Bureau because of it,

Dmitriye.

“Have you been well?”

“How could I be?”

“You look it.”

He is my informant.

*

My long relationship with Dmitriye began at a café in the eastern part of the Empire.

At that time, I was an intelligence officer in the Imperial Division of the Overseas Operations Department of the Military Intelligence Agency, and he was a fresh-faced social affairs reporter for a major local newspaper.

The reason I met this gentleman was, of course,

“Military procurement corruption.”

“Ah, right. That company that swapped electronic components and halved the radar performance.”

For military intelligence gathering.

“They were complete lunatics. The Defense Ministry’s order was to achieve 80% domestic parts, but they only managed 30% and substituted the remaining 50% with foreign parts.”

“Right, now I remember.”

At that time, the Imperial Army was in the midst of a military modernization project, and several Military Intelligence Agency spies, including myself, were gathering information about the project and looking for opportunities to sabotage it.

Of course, that operation was scrapped. Not because of the meticulous counterintelligence activities of the Imperial Guard Bureau and the Counterintelligence Command, but because of this journalist sitting in front of me.

“It wasn’t just us back then, right? Fatalia, Rushan, Kashbia. You were all busy stirring up trouble in various places. I think your homeland was among them too?”

“Latuan? Why would that be my homeland? I’m an Imperial citizen.”

“Your birthplace is Latuan, isn’t it?”

“How long ago did I get my citizenship…”

Dmitriye calmly denied his roots. He picked up a bottle of liquor, filled a glass, and then put the bottle to his lips and drank directly from it.

“Hey, if you drink from that, what am I supposed to do? Am I supposed to use my mouth too?”

“Fuck off and just drink this. If you don’t like it, go buy another bottle, or drink this.”

“Ah, fine. Give it here.”

In the darkened office, I took the glass of liquor offered by Dmitriye, who sat with his back to the setting sun.

It was the perfect time to get drunk. It was also an appropriate time for a person to relax.

“Back then, we sat and drank like this too, right?”

“Yeah. That was the first time I drank alcohol in a café in broad daylight.”

Dmitriye was in the midst of an investigative report on military procurement corruption, and an intelligence officer at the diplomatic mission obtained that information. Since it was clear that the prosecution would investigate once the report was published, the Military Intelligence Agency, which was planning to interfere with the project, connected me, a low-level agent, with Dmitriye.

I met him at a café and told him not to write the article, and he agreed but then published a five-column article on the social affairs page that evening, exposing the corruption to the world.

In other words, I was backstabbed.

“I told you not to write it.”

“Are you in your right mind?”

“Damn it…!”

As a result, numerous foreign intelligence agencies, including the Military Intelligence Agency, had to abandon their operations and withdraw. I was severely reprimanded at headquarters because of it.

The military boot hit my shin so accurately that I limped for a while.

When I complained about this, the social affairs reporter who had screwed me over laughed maliciously.

“But I was taken in for questioning by counterintelligence and the Guard Bureau, so let’s call it even.”

“I told you not to do that… Why did you have to stir up the hornet’s nest and get yourself in trouble…”

“Hey! How could a journalist sit on a scoop? Do you know the feeling of stopping the press to insert a breaking story?”

“Sigh.”

“And how much information have I given you? How can you say that? And why aren’t you drinking the alcohol I gave you?”

“I’m savoring it.”

“Bullshit. Then give it to me, you punk.”

“Hey! Come on.”

Hardheaded bastard.

Anyway, Dmitriye was my long-time informant and one of the few people who knew I was an intelligence officer.

Roughly speaking, the civilians who knew I was a spy were Dmitriye, Veronica, and my blood-related brother and sister. In other words, my true identity was a secret even from my parents.

Yekaterina, an agent of the Imperial Guard Bureau’s 1st Department, probably knew, but she likely wouldn’t remember. After all, she was kept awake for over a week. I deliberately did that. Usually, in such a state, eight or nine out of ten people would suffer from short-term amnesia. I know because I’ve experienced it myself.

Dmitriye, holding the liquor bottle, asked me a question:

“Hey. By the way, is Frederick your real name? You definitely told me your name was Merlo before.”

“I don’t know. I have more than one name.”

“You spy bastard. This is why they say you should never trust a spy.”

“You’re just figuring that out now?”

“I keep forgetting. I’m getting old.”

We exchanged nonsense in the sunset-lit office, and I savored the aroma of the whiskey Dmitriye had given me. I couldn’t help but exclaim in admiration—it was clearly an expensive liquor that I could never even imagine affording.

“Wow…! You’re drinking such fine stuff now. Must be making good money these days?”

“How much do you think a marked and fired man gets paid?”

“Still, going from a junior reporter to department head is a promotion.”

Dmitriye, who once changed the world through investigative reporting, “was” a social affairs reporter.

More precisely, he’s a dismissed journalist.

Because he dug into the corruption and private lives of politicians and bureaucrats, published articles about social movements, and exposed the shameful face of society in detail, he was fired from his newspaper.

It was a common occurrence for anti-establishment journalists.

The dismissed journalist-turned-department head sighed with resignation.

“I ignored the reporting restrictions, so it couldn’t be helped.”

“What did you do after you quit? Did you come straight to Matap?”

“No, I tried various things with fellow colleagues… then got marked by the police. Well, I was released due to insufficient evidence after questioning. I fled to Matap after that.”

He meant that he was arrested by the political police while working with other dismissed journalists.

When he said he was “questioned” and released due to insufficient evidence, it meant they tortured him but couldn’t find anything to pin on him, so they just kicked him out. And the dismissed journalists for whom “evidence” was found during questioning would now be in prison, so Dmitriye was a lucky man.

To be blunt, what he had done could have reasonably resulted in him being assassinated on the street.

It’s the kind of story you’d expect in any dictatorship, but it was reality. That’s just how the world was.

“Hmm…”

I picked up a newspaper from the corner of the desk and examined it. Resolution urging the reinstatement of dismissed journalists, demands to stop the suppression of opposition figures, petition for the release of prisoners of conscience, and so on.

I could roughly guess what Dmitriye was doing here.

So I asked:

“Why did you call me?”

“Huh…?”

Dmitriye, his face flushed red from alcohol, looked at me.

“Well, just. I saw you on the news passing by and thought we should meet.”

As Dmitriye said this, he glanced at his watch.

Seeing this, I smiled slyly.

“Who are you waiting for? Why do you keep looking at your watch?”

“…”

I grabbed the gun tucked inside my jacket. The possibility that Dmitriye, an anti-establishment figure, had sold me out to the Empire was infinitesimally small, but you never know. That’s why I hadn’t drunk the alcohol.

Just as I was about to pull out my gun,

“Put the gun away, will you?”

A thin voice came from behind me.

I turned around. At the far end of the dimly lit office stood a figure.

That figure slowly approached.

And only when my eyes adjusted to the darkness and the sunset slightly pushed back the gloom could I be certain that the person walking toward me was a woman.

I recognized her.

“…Hey, what day is it today? We’re having a reunion here.”

“I know. I didn’t expect to see you in a place like this either. You must be surprised too?”

Finally, she emerged from the darkness. And looking at me, she smiled gently.

“It’s been a while, Merlo.”

“…It’s been a while, Sophia.”

In the sunset-lit office.

I met old friends there.

“…Do you work here?”

“Yes, I’m here on business.”

“…Official? Or unofficial?”

“Who knows…?”

An informant, and a foreign spy.