Ch.98Episode 5 – Journalist, Diplomat, Soldier, Spy

Honk-

A short horn cut through the quiet boulevard in front of the hotel.

My eyes fell on a black van with diplomatic license plates.

Naturally opening the car door and getting in, I was greeted by a familiar elderly man.

“I heard you got shot?”

“…I won’t ask where you heard that from.”

I looked at the old man sitting across from me with an expression of disbelief.

“When did you even arrive here, Director?”

The stern-eyed old man replied curtly.

“What’s stopping me from coming?”

“…Good grief.”

“The night air is cold, so let’s close the door.”

Clunk.

The car door closed with a loud noise.

Episode 5 – Journalist, Diplomat, Soldier, Spy

Despite the commotion, time flowed like a river.

No media outlet reported the shooting incident in downtown Matap. More precisely, they couldn’t report it.

It’s an unwritten rule that incidents occurring in the shadows are kept strictly confidential, so no media could report on this shooting incident involving intelligence agencies, regardless of nationality.

Thus, people remained unaware of the night’s disturbance and began their day as usual.

“…Yes, where should I put this item?”

“This is a passageway, so put it over there.”

The same went for me.

Having been caught in a shootout and shot in the shoulder, I had my wound stitched up and returned to duty.

Though there wasn’t much to my duties.

“Next person, get ready.”

“I need to check your belongings, please cooperate.”

“Hey, you there! Don’t block the way, move aside!”

Helping with Lucia’s medical service.

“Where are you going?”

“To the Central Library nearby. Want to come along?”

“No, I still have some work left. Should I assign you an escort?”

“Hmm… do I need an escort just to practice magic?”

“Then I’ll assign you a mage.”

“Yes, that’s fine. But can I take a look at the underground waterways—”

“Absolutely not.”

“Tch.”

Helping Camilla with her magic practice.

“How are the protests going?”

“We’re in contact with the leadership. Additional forces have been deployed to control the scene.”

“There won’t be any terrorism or surprise demonstrations, right?”

“Our intelligence officers haven’t received any information yet. We’ll send you an official document as soon as we get any information.”

Contacting the intelligence police and sharing the intelligence they’ve collected.

Besides these, I spend my time on trivial tasks like taking photos with businesspeople or politicians, meeting with Matap civil servants, or drinking with foreign defense attachés.

Nothing special has happened so far. I’m just living, getting by somehow.

Charitably speaking, I’m doing fine; less charitably, I’m just idling away.

But the Defense Attaché’s Office, or more precisely, the Military Intelligence Agency, seems to think my condition is dangerous.

They believe my identity hasn’t been exposed yet, but since I’m stubbornly continuing to work despite being shot, they occasionally suggest I should be forced to rest until my wound heals—such nonsense reaches my ears from time to time.

I’m fine, really.

Honestly, what’s the big deal about getting shot?

I’m not weak enough to whine about being in pain, and with the shortage of personnel, it’s obvious that operations would be paralyzed if I, the officer in charge, were to step away. Plus, there are issues with Camilla and Lucia.

Someone has to do this job, and since I’m the only one who can, I have to do it even if it wears me down.

That’s roughly my thinking as I somehow manage to keep working.

However, Pippin and Jake seem to think differently.

“Chief, can’t you take a rest now?”

“What are you talking about?”

Jake glanced at me in the back seat through the rearview mirror.

He’s officially and practically the assistant attaché, but since he has the best driving skills among the three of us (having learned them in a special forces unit), he also serves as our driver.

Anyway, Jake, the assistant attaché and driver, gripped the steering wheel and blurted out:

“You don’t look well. You look like someone who’s about to collapse. One little push and you’ll fall over.”

“Do I really look that bad?”

“Yes.”

“Damn it…”

Lamenting my situation lightly, I turned to the analyst in the passenger seat.

“Pippin, do you have any makeup?”

“Makeup? Why are you suddenly asking for that?”

“…Don’t tell me you’re going to put on powder? A man?”

Pippin and Jake started making a fuss out of nowhere.

They went on about whether I had such preferences, saying they would respect it since it wasn’t a mental illness, and other nonsense.

I couldn’t understand why they were treating me like I was gay just for asking to borrow some makeup, but then I remembered that’s just how the local sentiment is.

In the end, I sighed deeply and took back what I said.

“That’s not it. I want to use makeup to fix my appearance, you idiots.”

Makeup isn’t just about looking good for others.

Makeup is ultimately about changing one’s outward appearance, and if used well, it can completely transform one’s impression, which is why intelligence agencies often use makeup regardless of gender or age.

Of course, many people are uncomfortable with men wearing makeup. Those people just change their appearance with clothes or accessories instead.

Don’t you see this in movies? Changing your appearance dramatically by flipping your clothes inside out and putting on glasses while walking down an alley. Those are all techniques actually used in the field. The CIA even made an advertisement about it.

Anyway, I took the makeup from Pippin and tried to make myself look normal.

Pippin watched me and shook her head.

“At this point, wouldn’t it be better to just rest?”

I glanced at the passenger seat while continuing to apply powder.

“Why do you keep nagging?”

“Honestly, Chief, you’ve done enough. It’s not like our overseas operations will fall apart if you rest for a few days…”

“So, have you found those guys who stormed the hotel with guns?”

At that, Pippin and Jake fell silent.

I continued applying makeup to give my face a healthy flush.

“Wake up. We haven’t even found their trail yet.”

“……”

It must have been a painful fact, as Pippin and Jake kept their mouths shut. The atmosphere had turned grim.

But what can I do? Someone nearly died, and Pippin and Jake aren’t children. They need to adapt to this field.

I looked in the mirror once and organized the makeup tools. The result was quite satisfactory.

“What are the staff doing?”

“Everyone’s working cautiously. Number 51 is now staying at the mission’s duty room instead of his home.”

Fabio Verati has gone into hiding. If I had known this would happen, I would have mugged him on his way home and kidnapped him in a van. I wasted time and got screwed over.

Anyway, nothing ever goes right when those Imperial bastards get involved.

“Should we reschedule?”

“No, don’t set anything yet. Just keep him under surveillance.”

“Yes.”

“Any intelligence on those assailants?”

“Nothing yet. The Imperial mission, Matap, everyone’s keeping quiet.”

“What about headquarters?”

“They’re assessing the situation through the attaché’s office. Guidelines have been issued, but no specific intelligence has come in.”

Sigh, looks like I’ll have to dig again.

But what can I do? In this field, the thirsty person has to dig the well.

Contemplating my pitiful situation, I took out the prepaid phone I had activated that morning.

“…Where are you?”

-‘At the office. Why are you calling, you bastard?’

“I’ll give you 10 minutes. I’ll buy you a drink, so come to the underpass.”

*

“What? You’re asking if I keep in touch with journalists?”

“Yeah.”

In a quiet restaurant. I met Dmitriev in a private room at an upscale dining area.

“Why are you suddenly asking about that?”

“Why do you think I’m asking you this?”

The newspaper’s social affairs editor, who had neatly set aside his cane and suit coat, gave me a sullen look.

“Don’t tell me you want me to sell information again?”

“Why so cold? I’m not in the information business…”

“It’s all the same thing.”

I poured alcohol into his glass to improve Dmitriev’s sulky mood.

I wasn’t old enough to be drinking in the daytime, but since these kinds of favors aren’t usually granted without alcohol—due to some terrible social custom—I had no choice.

Dmitriev, a former social affairs reporter for a major Imperial newspaper, accepted the drink I offered and opened up.

“So what do you need now?”

“I was wondering if you know any journalists with connections to the military.”

There’s nothing more foolish than asking any random journalist if they have military connections. But if that journalist is from the political or social affairs department, it’s a different story.

“Be more specific. Whether it’s the defense industry or policy research, I need to know the department to connect you.”

Dmitriev picked up his glass with an attitude of “let’s hear what you have to say.”

I paused briefly, then raised my glass to Dmitriev’s.

Clink, the sound of glasses touching rang out briefly.

While Dmitriev naturally downed his drink after the toast, I set my glass down and got to the point.

“I’d like you to find a journalist with connections to the Special Service.”

“Pffft-!”

Dmitriev, who had been drinking smoothly, suddenly spat out his drink.

Right in my face.

*

Special Service.

Special duty. Tasks that are specially assigned or undertaken, different from the ordinary.

In East Asian countries like Korea, Japan, Taiwan, and China, the term “Special Service” is commonly used to refer to national intelligence agencies or military intelligence organizations.

Special Service units. Special Service agencies.

Units and agencies responsible for intelligence and counterintelligence are typically called Special Service, and at one time, the predecessor of the Defense Security Command, the Security Command, was formerly known as the Special Service Unit.

The Kiyen Empire is no different. In the Empire, “Special Service” almost always refers to the Imperial Guard or the Reconnaissance Command and Counterintelligence Command under the Imperial Army.

“You, cough! What did you just say…?!”

“I asked if you know any journalists with connections to the Special Service units. Or do you know anyone there?”

And as with any authoritarian dictatorship, the perception of the “Special Service” in the Empire is not particularly good.

Dmitriev, who was continuously coughing, covered his mouth with a handkerchief and waved his hand.

“No, no, not the Special Service. That’s absolutely off-limits.”

“Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you’re scared?”

“You crazy bastard…!”

“You are scared.”

Though I said this, I understood. Dmitriev had painful memories with the Counterintelligence Command.

Dmitriev had once published a scoop on military procurement corruption without prior censorship and was dragged to the basement of the Counterintelligence Command. It was because he had ignored the government’s reporting guidelines and hadn’t submitted to censorship.

I heard they made him write statements for over a month in an underground interrogation room without letting him sleep. They may not have beaten him, but that was essentially torture. Sleep deprivation is the basic first step before torture.

It ended at that level only because it was an article exposing corruption; if he had criticized the government or military, it definitely wouldn’t have ended with just writing statements.

I understand. I completely understand.

But it’s not my problem.

“Hey, Dmitriev. Help me out just this once.”

“Are you crazy? You want me to get involved with Counterintelligence?”

“This time it’s not Counterintelligence, it’s Reconnaissance.”

“Oh, for God’s sake! It’s all the same thing!”

Dmitriev refused my request, saying he absolutely didn’t want to be court-martialed.

“Dmitriev, put your hand on your heart and think honestly. You’re already marked by the police, so what difference does it make if you poke around the Special Service a bit?”

“At least the cops only operate within the Empire, but the Special Service will chase you across borders!”

“Hey, even the Security Command didn’t chase people across borders.”

“What?!”

Ah, right. There’s no Defense Security Command here.

“Tsk…! Sit down first.”

I tapped the seat across from me and opened a new bottle of alcohol to coax and cajole the frightened editor.

“I’m not asking you to hand over serious classified information.”

Glug. The brown liquid swirled in the glass, and I spread out all five fingers toward Dmitriev.

“Five people. Just tell me about five people. You don’t even need to tell me everything, just who they are and what they do.”

I handed him the glass and opened my bag. Then I pulled out the composite sketches inside the document case.

They were sketches of the assailants who had raided the hotel room.

Dmitriev glanced at them and asked a question.

“…Isn’t this dangerous?”

“It’s fine. They won’t even notice if a journalist investigates them.”

“How can you be so sure?”

I bent my index finger in a trigger-pulling motion. That was answer enough.

Of course, Dmitriev still didn’t seem convinced. I’ve always thought that despite his bear-like build, he’s surprisingly timid.

But knowing that Dmitriev is someone who definitely gets the job done, I made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.

“Those resolutions you published in your articles recently.”

“……”

“The resolution to stop the suppression of civil society figures, the reinstatement of dismissed journalists, the movement to release political prisoners—wouldn’t you need some support to give those momentum?”

Such as statements in the names of foreign parliamentarians.

I left the rest unsaid.

We already know everything about each other anyway.

“…Are you sure about this?”

“If you think it’s an empty promise, don’t do it.”

“……”

The social affairs editor, a former dismissed journalist, fell into contemplation.

But his deliberation wasn’t long at all.

Dmitriev emptied his glass in one gulp and picked up the bottle beside him, blowing into it like a trumpet. Then he collapsed onto the table.

There’s nothing more unsightly than an older person getting drunk and planting their face on a table, but knowing that some things can only be done under the influence of alcohol, I silently waited for Dmitriev’s answer.

After a long silence, Dmitriev weakly muttered.

“…I’ll do it.”

“…Good.”

I patted the shoulder of the journalist, who was much older than me, and left the restaurant.

That evening, a member of the Intelligence Committee submitted a resolution on the human rights situation in the Empire for the next plenary session.

It was four days later when Dmitriev collected the personal information.

=

The CIA advertisement mentioned in the novel was uploaded to the official CIA YouTube channel in June 2020.

While there are no Korean subtitles, English subtitles are available, so if you’re interested, it might be worth watching.