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“Having lived in Abas for over three years, I’m still not quite familiar with the area.”

I’ve never been called directionally challenged in my life, but it’s clear that my daily routine of only going to the embassy and the Military Intelligence Agency Headquarters has left me lost.

“Is it normal for a grown adult to have never been to a pub or bar?”

“No, I just don’t drink much…”

“Last time, you seemed to enjoy yourself just fine.”

Thanks to this, Camila and I are dragging our heavy suitcases around the streets in the early evening. Well, it’s well past evening now, isn’t it?

If I had at least a mobile phone or a friend who knew the area, I could have asked for decent bars around here. Unfortunately, I’m a total loser with no phone and no friends.

In the end, while wandering aimlessly, I spotted a payphone booth and rushed in.

“Cash… Ah, I’ve got some coins here.”

Luckily, I had a little cash on hand, thanks to my habit of keeping emergency money whenever I traveled abroad.

I quickly put some coins in the payphone and hastily dialed the number. I fumbled a bit since I hadn’t made a call in so long, but as long as it connected, it didn’t matter.

*Ring, ring.*

As the stinky fumes of smoke enveloped my brain from the receiver, I heard a ringing in my ear.

And then, a moment later…

“Hello?”

“Hey, sis! Can I ask you for a favor? Just one question.”

Adela, my older sister, blasted my eardrums with her sharp voice. The furious shout of a Level 5 Foreign Diplomat exploded.

“Hey! Where are you?!”

“I need to find a bar. If you know a good place nearby, please let me know. You’ve lived in the capital for a long time, after all.”

“This country’s a total mess, and you want to drink with the troops—”

“It’s with a girl.”

“Where are you?”

—

**Episode 9 – Old Fashioned**

The bar Adela recommended was an upscale joint just ten minutes away.

It was a favorite hangout for diplomats stationed in Abas, and Ministry officials often went there for socializing—read that as ‘networking’. Adela had been there a few times as well.

But what are diplomats, really? They’re folks who hide behind fancy business cards and act like spies.

Their true job isn’t diplomacy, but espionage.

What they call “networking” is, in reality, just a ruse to schmooze high-ranking officials and extract information. If diplomats were truly focused on diplomacy, intelligence agencies wouldn’t be sending intelligence officers to consular positions.

In other words, being a diplomat means you can’t outright spy but can gather intelligence under the guise of socializing.

Now that night has fallen, the bar Adela mentioned will be crawling with diplomats. Naturally, there will be official diplomats and many disguised intelligence officers (colloquially known as “Whites”). As soon as I walk in, I can already imagine a flurry of handshake requests awaiting me.

And then there’s Camila, who is officially staying at the Magic Tower. But imagine her, who should be in the Magic Tower, suddenly appearing in a bar right in the middle of Abas. What would happen then?

So, heading there now would be sheer madness.

Adela likely knew this. However, the fact that Camila had entered the country was a secret that even my sister couldn’t know.

I asked Adela for another bar recommendation.

“Sure. That one can be a bit expensive. It’s not exactly affordable on a civil servant’s salary…”

“But you’re also a civil servant.”

“I drink on the Foreign Ministry’s card. Meeting with embassy staff counts as official duties.”

“…Aren’t you a tax thief?”

Anyway, Adela recommended another bar. This one was quieter, at a lower price point but with a good atmosphere.

“Make sure to repay me later. By the way, when does your vacation end?”

“I’ve got about two weeks left.”

“Make sure to swing by home. Mom and Dad are waiting for you. They’re so excited you finally got a break after three years.”

Listening to Adela’s neat explanation, I glanced around and quietly lowered my voice.

“…Is ‘that guy’ there too?”

It was a question about my younger sister.

“Hey, why would you refer to Ayla like that?”

“So is he there or not?”

“Probably? She contacted me the other day saying she suddenly got some vacation time after not being seen for months.”

“Really…?”

So that’s the case.

I pondered how I would deal with the younger sister who stole my hard-earned money from the bank as I ended the call. Just before hanging up, it felt like Adela had asked me to pick up something, but I replied for her to buy it herself and hung up.

As I set the receiver down and stepped out of the booth, I found Camila staring at me, wide-eyed, as she glanced around.

Then she gasped and asked what on earth had happened inside.

“…Uh, was there anything bad?”

“No, I’m feeling great today!”

“But why do you look like that? It’s kind of creepy. Have you seen the movie The Shining?”

“You mean, ‘Heeeere’s Johnny!’?”

“Yeah! That expression was super similar just now.”

I smiled silently, dragging my suitcase as Camila shivered at my disturbing grin.

*

About thirty minutes later, we arrived at the bar Adela had introduced us to.

The bar was located just outside the capital. Sandwiched between residential houses, it didn’t look so much like a bar but more like an inn or a private home.

The exterior was quite shabby, but the interior told a different story.

As we pushed through the ancient wooden door marked by the passage of time, we were greeted by a tidy and well-organized interior. The tranquil woodwork bore its age with pride, silently sharing the history embedded in the bar while the gentle scent of wood mingled with soft jazz wafting through the air.

As local patrons dropped down coins and bills, a tall, gentle-looking elderly gentleman smiled warmly and handed over their drinks.

Looks like we found the right place.

“We’re here.”

I led Camila inside, and the bar’s history was straightforward.

A few hundred years of tradition. A bar that had been preserved across generations. There were stories about scholars from history books frequenting it, and it was a place where esteemed university faculty occasionally brought their students. Adela and Brother Jerry also once visited during their university days. They’d heard it through a social club on campus.

Typically, I’d double-check and confirm places like this before visiting, but since this isn’t an overseas business trip, I decided to break the old rules.

I placed our luggage down on the floor and took a seat while glancing around.

On the walls were scrawled phrases left by someone in their youthful university days, and above, signatures presumed to belong to famous personalities adorned the ceiling. The emblem of a local sports team hung on a pillar, plastered with signatures suggesting it was contributed as a collective visit.

The layout was multi-level. You could look down from the second floor to the first, but from the first floor, it was hard to gaze up at the second.

I noticed two doors behind the counter. One led to a restroom, but the other, who knew where it led?

When the owner seemed to head that way, I pretended to go to the restroom to check and found what looked like stairs leading underground. For reference, the restroom had no windows or ventilation, tightly sealed, making exit difficult.

While I busied myself scanning the place, a person who seemed to be an employee approached and spoke.

“It seems like this is your first visit. How did the gentleman and lady find us?”

It’s not wise to mention we were referred by an acquaintance here. So, I flashed a big smile and calmly spun a lie.

“We just happened to pass by and decided to stop in.”

“I see. Given the heavy luggage, are you travelers?”

“Yes.”

At my affirmative response, the employee smiled gently.

“How fortunate! Welcome! How can I take your order?”

The employee asked, but I didn’t answer. Someone else beat me to it.

Camila responded in my stead.

“Do you have any special drinks?”

“Nothing ordinary exists in this world. We have beer brewed right here on-site and whiskey specially made in the region. Of course, we have other options as well.”

“Hmm… Then I’ll have the beer, please.”

“Very well. Please wait a moment.”

As the employee stepped back, the elderly gentleman, who seemed to be the owner, poured two glasses of beer. It looked like ale, pulled directly from the cask.

And soon, two glasses of beer were in our hands.

The bar wasn’t noisy, and we could enjoy our drinks without being disturbed. Each holding a glass, we sat at a table and chatted about this and that.

“It’s been ages since I’ve had beer. As soon as I arrived at the airport, I immediately got a taxi to a pub and drank with my sister.”

“You drank right after returning from a medical mission?”

“Why not? Beer is too delicious! Do you like beer?”

“I used to drink a lot when I was with the Intelligence Corps. We practically drank every day after work with the unit members.”

We didn’t just drink beer; we even bought crates of soju and drank like crazy. I don’t even remember what possessed us back then, but we definitely drank a lot. It was just that work was incredibly tough.

Now that I think about it, I realize that the toughness of work wasn’t the reason for drinking, but rather an excuse to drink. My superior and a sergeant loved alcohol, and it felt a bit rude to turn down their invitations after work.

But that’s all in the past. Nowadays, I hardly drink, so this all feels like a trivial old story.

“But why did you drink at a pub? You seem like you have money. You could have gone to a bar. Or the airport lounge.”

“Not everyone can drink there. Since we worked hard, it’s nicer to enjoy together.”

“That’s surprising. All the British people I know drink at bars.”

At the mention of British people, Camila, who had been sipping her beer, perked up.

“British? Did you know any British people?”

“Of course.”

“Who were they?”

“Journalists, diplomats, military officers… And, of course, intelligence officers.”

I’ve met many British people: journalists, diplomats, military, spies. Camila wouldn’t know who they were, though.

“Most of the foreigners I know are affiliated with intelligence agencies. North America or Europe… Oh, wait, that probably doesn’t mean much to you. I’ve had quite a few exchanges with intelligence officers from North America and Europe.”

“Really? But why wasn’t I aware of that?”

“You didn’t ask.”

“…Is that so?”

Camila tilted her head in confusion but soon nodded in agreement. I noticed a bit of foam had gotten on her lips earlier. I hesitated to outright say, “You have something on your mouth,” so I subtly offered her a tissue.

Fortunately, sharp-eyed Camila immediately wiped off the foam as soon as she saw the tissue. She probably hadn’t realized until just now.

In any case, since we hadn’t created an embarrassing situation, our conversation flowed smoothly.

“What about the others? I saw them in the resort, but I have no idea what they’ve been up to.”

“Well…”

Camila seemed to ponder for a moment, then began to speak softly, as if recalling something.

“Francesca seems to have been focusing mainly on practicing magic and swordsmanship. She might also be looking into things to help me. Protective magic? Defense? She was researching different sorceries, illusions, and even black magic, saying that she’d have to go to a place where such things might come in handy.”

“I see.”

It sounds like Francesca is doing well on her own. Although she is my information agent, I have no immediate plans to utilize her and am just leaving things as they are for now.

She was one of those strange individuals living alongside Veronica. For now, I’m just keeping an eye on her.

From what I’ve gathered, there haven’t been any unusual activities, and my conversations with Camila indicate she seems to be doing quite calmly.

For the record, I might have planted a listening device in that girl’s luggage, but that’s something Camila doesn’t need to know.

I took a sip of my beer as I moved on to the next topic…

“You’ve switched the topic.”

“What about Saint Lucia?”

“Lucia… I hear she’s been practicing theology books or any divine abilities that a priest from Hearthstone might use. Personally, I think while Francesca quietly looks up scholarly texts in her room, Lucia is more about hands-on practice? That’s the impression I get.”

“What kind of tendency is that?”

“Umm… the difference between Gandalf and Saruman?”

“…….”

Mentioning Gandalf makes it sound like a story from The Lord of the Rings. Wasn’t that a movie from the early 2000s? It’s been so long that I’ve forgotten all the details.

Sorry, but I couldn’t understand anything since I forgot the movie.

However, I felt that saying that might hurt Camila’s feelings, so I decided to keep my mouth shut.

As I quietly sipped my beer, trying to organize the information Camila had shared, she suddenly exclaimed.

“Oh, and Lucia is also studying medicine!”

“Medicine…?”

“Yes, medical skills.”

Medicine.

It’s not common for a cleric of the cult to study medical skills or medicine. Considering how the medical association and the church constantly appear on broadcasts critiquing each other, calling each other ‘idiots who can’t even differentiate between viruses and bacteria’ and ‘merchants who take expensive fees without proper treatment,’ this is even more surprising. Clergy and healthcare professionals are typically at odds.

It’s like water and oil.

If you get bored, you can easily see theology students and medical students brawling in the streets, ending up with broken bones and concussions taken to the hospital and church. Lucia, who grew up in the cult, surely knows about these incidents.

But her, especially as the Saint of the Cult, studying medicine? That’s something that can’t be described as bizarre.

At the same time, this could turn into a political issue.

“…….”

I should probably subtly advise her to put her medical studies on pause. Before it gets to the Inquisition’s ears, I need to handle this quickly.

While I was contemplating how to delicately resolve this issue, Camila suddenly threw a question.

“Why are you asking about this, anyway?”

Well, it’s my job to monitor Lucia and Francesca.

Saying that would definitely lead to an irretrievable disaster. If Camila shouted in the street, “Oh my gosh, everyone! A spy is surveilling civilians! One of them is a saint and the other an administrator!” it would cause chaos.

Even if that didn’t happen, any mistake in front of Lucia or Francesca could be the end of everything.

To protect the Abas government’s face and diplomatic interests, the relationship between the cult and the magic tower, the Military Intelligence Agency’s confidentiality rules, and my own promotion and pension, I engaged my brain to the max.

“Uh… is it strange to be curious about what others are doing?”

“…….”

Doubt flashed in Camila’s gaze. Her brows slightly furrowed.

Suddenly realizing my slip-up, I hastily added.

“Actually, this is training. Training.”

“What kind of training?”

“Information collection.”

Only then did the tension in Camila’s brow ease. It seemed my mention of “information collection” diverted her focus.

“Is that considered training too?”

“More specifically, it pertains to memory skills and rhetoric. Normally, when an information officer talks to someone, they record the conversation or eavesdrop. But if that’s not possible, they have to rely on memory.”

“Uh-huh….”

It seemed her interest was piqued, as Camila started to nod thoughtfully.

Since I had already started, I decided to take the opportunity to teach her something.

“Camila, do you know where you can’t bring eavesdropping or recording devices?”

“Military facilities? Government offices?”

“That’s correct, but embassies, where information officers visit the most, belong to that category as well.”

Just like here, world embassies aren’t accessible to just anyone. To enter, you must go through identity verification first, leave all your luggage, and pass through a metal detector. Recording devices are obviously prohibited, and even cell phones are strictly banned.

“Although eavesdropping within embassies is possible, like in the U.S. where conversations in the Russian embassy have been monitored, generally, embassies are secure from eavesdropping. So when information officers visit such places, they can’t record.”

“What happens if they get caught?”

“We call that espionage.”

It’s basically the foundation for expulsion and could escalate into a diplomatic dispute. If it pops up in the news, governments start squabbling.

That’s why, as much as possible, intelligence agencies subtly expel diplomats or quietly conduct interrogations on captured informants. Assassinations follow the same discreet protocol.

When I shared that story, Camila grimaced, seemingly appalled, and shook her head slowly.

“That’s horrifying. How can anyone torture another person?”

“007 gets tied up and beaten, you know? Movies like Zero Dark Thirty even show waterboarding.”

“That’s just a movie.”

Actually, it happens for real.

“It happens.”

“Really? For real? No way, you haven’t done that, right…?”

“I’m not aware of any activities or acts conducted by intelligence agencies of a certain country in Northeast Asia that may or may not have infringed on another nation’s sovereignty and human rights. And whether any such acts occurred or not, I will neither confirm nor deny.”

That’s NCND.

“NCND? I didn’t expect to hear that here….”

“Of course, I’m joking. Intelligence agencies don’t do such things. The agency I’m with now doesn’t, either.”

“…….”

“I mean it.”

Camila gulped her beer, half horrified. I awkwardly scratched my head and shifted the topic.

“Anyway, people’s memories tend to evaporate over time. Of course, they can also distort. After just a few hours, it’s tough to remember conversation details, and a week later, you’ll forget what you wore that day. That’s how our brains work.”

“So?”

“So, if an information officer visits a secure place, they immediately start recording once they leave.”

“Recording? How?”

“Just turn it on and mumble to yourself about whom you met, what the conversations were, the person’s reactions, what the main items discussed were. If you had a meal, what you ate, and anything unusual that happened. How it differed from the briefing you received….”

In short, you need to record everything you remember.

“It might sound like a silly method, but it’s an age-old technique many information officers have used since the Cold War. That’s why it still comes in handy now, especially since there are still restricted areas and smartphones have recording functions.”

“Should I get myself a recorder too?”

“There should be a few at the consulate, but since they aren’t used now, you can take one.”

It would feel weird to sell it, so I thought of just handing it over to Camila. It might look like I’m cleaning house, but it’s definitely not that. Anyway, that’s the deal.

After reaching a satisfactory agreement, we ordered more beer, and of course, some snacks.

Even though my wallet has been thinning, today I was fine since I brought plenty of cash. We shared sips of beer and snacks, chatting about this and that.

What we used to do, what we want to do, who our family is, how our school years were, what our hobbies are, and whether there’s anything we’d like to learn now…

Camila mentioned she had a few fancy hobbies. She enjoys horseback riding and classical music, and she said she could play the violin. Those were hobbies straight out of a bourgeois dream.

And while I was at it, I got to hear about her family as well.

“Your mother works at the courthouse?”

“Yes.”

“And your brother and sister work in media and at a hospital?”

“To be precise, my sister worked at a hospital. Now she’s with Doctors Without Borders.”

Doctors Without Borders. That reminded me of my trip to South Sudan years ago.

“Did you know? NGO people surprisingly meet with intelligence officers quite a bit.”

“Really?”

“It’d be tough to find an intelligence officer working in a conflict area who hasn’t had contact with an NGO worker. Right from the start, unofficially disguised individuals often pretend to be charity organization staff.”

Camila said she used to go overseas to volunteer with her sister. I told her it could be a pretty good skill to have on her resume for future interviews.

We faced each other at the table, sharing various conversations. We mostly talked about ordinary things, but eventually, the discussion circled back to the intelligence agency.

As we were chatting about work for a while, an unexpected guest arrived.

*

At the height of the atmosphere, my second drink had turned into a third, and I had only half of that left.

The assorted dishes we had ordered, including fried food and salads, had become soggy over time. I suggested ordering more if we needed anything, but Camila chose chicken without hesitation. Two whole chickens, no less.

“Uh, is that too much? Let’s just have dinner here.”

“It’s fine, though you do know we have training tomorrow morning, right?”

“Yikes….”

It didn’t really matter to me. I was going to eat too.

As the last dish arrived and I was finishing my third beer, I suggested we try something other than beer.

“What do they serve here?”

“No idea. It’s my first time here, so I’d need to look at the menu too.”

In truth, I had already gotten a tip from Older Sister Adela about what was delicious, but I was curious about what else there was, so I didn’t bring it up first.

While we were in the midst of a heated debate over the menu, a man walked over from the second floor.

I looked him over as he came down the stairs.

A sturdy build. Short hair. Dressed in a suit—not a tailored one, but a ready-made suit. I could see a belt holding his pants up and a watch on his left wrist. Meaning he’s right-handed.

The problem was his shoes.

Sneakers.

“…….”

Normally, unless you’re a hipster gone wild, people tend to dress according to social norms. They might match their outfits according to something they saw on a blog or wear clothes sold by a famous streamer on YouTube, or they might even deck themselves in quirky goods, but they generally adhere to a certain standard.

So, in that context, wearing sneakers with a suit isn’t exactly desirable. At least by the standards of an ordinary person.

But I know of a type of person who dresses like that. To be precise, there were times when I dressed that way too.

We call such people spies or information officers.

As if oddly friendly, the suit man approached and greeted me.

“Hello. Nice to meet you.”

He then carefully handed me a business card.

As I looked at the card, I couldn’t help but chuckle.

The military intelligence agency’s logo was boldly stamped on it.

“Oh, look at that. Meeting a colleague here.”

“Haha, nice to meet you, senior.”

Is this the kind of surveillance we’re doing even on our days off?

 

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