Ch.89Episode 5 – Journalist, Diplomat, Soldier, Spy

My grandfather was a counterintelligence investigator for the Korean Central Intelligence Agency.

According to my grandmother, grandfather’s original dream was to become a prosecutor. There was no special reason; he graduated from law school with good grades, so becoming a judge or prosecutor seemed appealing.

However, the bar exam during the absolute evaluation era was notoriously difficult, and the confident law student couldn’t pass the threshold. The law graduate repeatedly failed and lived as a wandering exam-taker, until finally, unable to withstand family pressure, he found himself scanning newspaper job advertisements.

What caught the 27-year-old’s eye was:

[Public Recruitment Announcement: Grade 7 Civil Servant Position at Century Cultural Affairs]

Nowadays people say civil service is the best career, but back then, for a law school graduate, a civil service job was like an unwanted chicken—something you wouldn’t take even if given for free. But the 27-year-old exam wanderer was in no position to be picky, so he boarded the bus from Seoul Station, which he had frequented during his college days, to the Imun-dong test center.

The place he arrived at was the Imun-dong office of the Korean Central Intelligence Agency. That’s where his 30-year relationship with the company that would define his life began.

From his entry in 1970 until his honorary retirement in 2001, he received five promotions, and the agency’s name changed twice.

Korean Central Intelligence Agency.

Agency for National Security Planning.

National Intelligence Service.

After spending 30 years in the national intelligence agency and at the end of a life too tumultuous to simply call “winding,” the 27-year-old youth, now approaching his 60th birthday, left the company to the applause of his colleagues.

If success has a definition, his life was successful.

He had fulfilled his pension requirements, and his grown son was a civil servant capable of supporting his own children, so he probably had no worries about his retirement.

However, his relationship with my father, his only child, wasn’t particularly good. Not terrible, just occasional phone calls and meeting face-to-face during holidays…?

I don’t know why it was that way.

It was a secret between the two of them, and ultimately a secret they both took to their graves.

“…”

Were grandfather and father happy?

I’m not sure.

Episode 5 – Journalist, Diplomat, Soldier, Spy

I turned my head to look around the wine bar filled with people.

Perhaps because it’s a foreign hotel. The first to catch my eye are men in suits who appear to be businessmen. The way they exchange business cards while conversing is typical businessman behavior.

There are also couples enjoying intimate moments, perhaps visiting Matap as tourists, and given that Matap is a mecca for magicians, there are magicians wearing hooded short capes.

Identifying people’s identities was quite easy. Magicians were the easiest to spot, as only they could wear hooded clothing.

This isn’t some elitist consciousness shared among magicians, but rather a unique cultural practice of this neighborhood. More precisely, it was a culture that emerged from the Nastasiya Treaty clause stating that “if possible, magicians should wear a mark identifying themselves as magicians.”

There were several reasons for this.

In an era when people carried identification tablets that were easily forged, there were many con artists impersonating magicians to deceive people. With public safety wavering amid wars and revolutions, most magicians needed to outwardly display their status to avoid confrontation.

While showing magic once would make even an armed robber flee in their underwear, responding to every random provocation with magic would be ridiculous. So magicians indirectly communicated their status through clothing—specifically, hooded capes.

Now that public institutions are computerized, there’s no real need to follow this practice, but it has persisted so long that it has become an established cultural norm.

Even military and police magicians wear such capes on duty, and those in academies or university magic departments wear them with their logos or school faction emblems, like varsity jackets.

Most are practical items with everyday magic applied, so people wear them regularly. I know this well because my younger sister sometimes wears one around the house when she’s too lazy to wash up. And she’d wear it at home when the weather was too hot or cold.

“…”

Maybe it’s the daytime drinking, but I’m having a lot of random thoughts.

Or perhaps I’m thinking useless thoughts because I’m bored of waiting.

Speaking of which, where did she go after calling me here? She told me to come here, but hasn’t shown up for over 30 minutes. No call either.

“…Tsk.”

As I was growing tired of waiting and starting to feel restless, checking the time on my wristwatch, a familiar voice came from behind.

“What are you thinking about?”

It’s Sophia.

“Oh, you’re here? Sit down.”

“Sorry I’m late. Traffic was bad.”

Sophia, with a journalist ID badge on her chest, gave a slight smile.

I glanced at the swaying ID badge and asked her:

“Was traffic heavy? I thought Matap doesn’t have many cars.”

“Not exactly. I was delayed by a security checkpoint.”

“…Ah.”

“They thought I might be a protester and searched my bag for flyers. When my journalist ID came out, a detective from the intelligence division came to interrogate me, thinking I was covering the protests.”

“And then?”

“When I said I was heading to the hotel, they asked a few questions and let me go. They told me to wear my journalist ID to avoid being stopped at checkpoints.”

Hmm.

Seems like Matap police are conducting strict security checks. Probably trying to arrest protest organizers. Or maybe higher-ups are pressuring them.

“I hear they’re even stopping vehicles now? Protesters must be traveling by car since flying on broomsticks would trigger magical trace detection.”

“They didn’t stop me though.”

“That’s because you have diplomatic plates.”

Sophia sat down with a light laugh.

A vehicle exempt from security checks. I didn’t know diplomats had such privileges. I briefly considered selling foreign cars with diplomatic plates attached, North Korean style.

But the thought remained just that—a thought. Even though intelligence agencies operate outside the law, that would be too shameless.

While I was lost in useless fantasies, Sophia naturally ordered a drink and looked at me.

“So… why did our defense attaché suddenly call me?”

“You already know why.”

Information exchange, of course.

*

I moved my glass slightly to the side and began.

“I need information. Personal records on a domestic citizen that your agency has.”

“I can’t do that without something in return.”

Sophia, an investigator from Fatalia’s National Security Agency, smiled.

With only the corners of her mouth turning up while her eyes remained unchanged, it was quite an unsettling smile.

“You know the industry rules. As a defense attaché, you should understand?”

“The principle of proportionality?”

The principle of proportionality.

Just as markets are governed by economic logic, the principle of proportionality is observed in diplomatic circles.

Returning exactly what you receive. A kind of one-to-one exchange.

“Yes. If something goes, something must come back.”

And since intelligence activities encompass diplomacy, defense, and security, this principle is “somewhat” observed in the intelligence community as well.

This principle breaks down typically when one side treats the other as insignificant. It usually happens when internationally dominant intelligence agencies bully those they consider inferior, a practice that occurred throughout the Cold War in both the First and Second Worlds.

Elegantly put, it means “sensitive information beyond the scope of intelligence cooperation cannot be provided.” In plain language, it means “you don’t need this information, so don’t try to know it” or “know your place.”

The CIA did this to France’s DGSE, Britain’s MI6, and West Germany’s BND, while the KGB did the same to East Germany’s Stasi and China’s Ministry of State Security.

It’s thuggish behavior, but the United States and Soviet Union were superpowers capable of punching most nations in the mouth, making such actions possible. South Korean intelligence agencies have also experienced such mistreatment from American intelligence agencies regarding North Korean issues.

Honestly, it wasn’t just mistreatment but also a matter of capability. While America launched hundreds of reconnaissance satellites into space, our NIS, military intelligence, foreign ministry, and unification ministry had to share just a handful of satellites. That’s because technical intelligence is a budget-devouring beast.

But of course,

“That’s how it should be.”

“Thank you, Merlo.”

Fatalia was a nation with power comparable to Abas, making such thuggish behavior impossible.

In other words, if I wanted information, I had to provide Sophia with information of equivalent value.

Those are the rules.

“What information do you need?”

“Hmm…”

Sophia made a creepy nasal sound and looked at me with snake-like eyes.

Then, tapping the table with her finger, she began.

“First… what happened with my previous request?”

“The retiree issue? I reported it up the chain.”

Sophia had asked me to have Military Intelligence stop surveillance on Fabio Verati. More precisely, the National Security Agency asked Military Intelligence.

Just as diplomats represent their countries, intelligence officers abroad represent their agency heads. So the National Security Agency made a deal with me, representing Military Intelligence, through Sophia.

For reference, I had already ignored that request earlier.

But not wanting to show my hand, I put on a poker face and lied.

“They seem to have suspended the operation. I think it’s under review.”

“Under review?”

“Looks like they’re backing off and searching for another route.”

I’m the one leading that operation and receiving real-time reports from all staff, but I pretended not to know.

“I don’t know the details.”

I know nothing.

It’s a ridiculous clown act, but it works because of how intelligence agencies are structured.

“As you know, official covers and unofficial covers operate on different lines, right? Both in terms of operations and reporting structures… I only heard through the grapevine, so I don’t know the exact situation.”

Intelligence officers and operations officers have similarities but also differences. Their work is quite similar, but differences emerge in the details.

Simply put, intelligence officers don’t know what operations officers do, and vice versa. It’s a phenomenon that occurs because there are no communication channels between them for security reasons.

Thus, only those at the very top know all the reports submitted by field intelligence and operations officers.

So unless it’s a special case, it’s perfectly normal for me, as an intelligence officer, not to know how an operation is progressing.

Sophia seemed to understand this, nodding in agreement.

“Right. Thanks for helping with the request.”

“What are friends for.”

I should be thanking you.

“Is that your only question?”

“For now…?”

Sophia continued to look at me without losing her smile.

It was quite unsettling—her mouth was smiling but her eyes weren’t, her intentions were unreadable, and she unnecessarily added words that made people anxious.

But whatever I was thinking, Sophia didn’t seem to care.

She put on a somewhat melancholic expression and began speaking while tracing her glass with her finger.

“What information do you need?”

“Francesca Ranieri.”

“…”

“The alchemist from the Ranieri family leading the Elemental School. I need the information you have on her.”

Her finger movement slowed ever so slightly. Sophia continued to move her finger casually around the rim of the glass, but I didn’t miss that moment.

She gently closed her eyes, pondered for a moment, then suddenly asked a question.

“You’re curious about that woman? Why?”

“I need to meet her soon.”

“Officially? Or personally?”

I deliberately didn’t answer her question. She was also an intelligence officer.

A little alcohol wouldn’t cloud her judgment, and drawing conclusions from limited information was our specialty. So as always, Sophia trailed off and spoke ambiguously.

“Hmm… Merlo, is what I’m thinking correct?”

“Probably.”

“I see…?”

Sophia tapped the rim of her glass with her finger.

The sound of her nail hitting the glass filled the silence.

“…”

In the continuing silence, I quietly closed my eyes, recalling the judgment I had made earlier.

Because the conclusion of this conversation had already been determined.

And,

As I expected.

“…Merlo.”

“I’m listening.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t think I can help with this request.”

Sophia smiled apologetically.

“You know the reason, right?”

“More or less.”

“I’m really sorry. Even I can’t do anything because of internal regulations.”

“…”

“Sharing information about a person under surveillance is beyond my authority.”

The deal fell through.

Information collection failed.

“…I understand.”

It was all according to plan.