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Nayan Al Bas, what kind of person is he?

As I asked from my seat, Matt, who had just finished the briefing, responded.

“He’s like an old dragon.”

On the screen projected with magic power was information about a key executive of the warlord. Matt enlarged the face of an old man among them.

“Despite being in his 50s, this guy has an extraordinary ability to finance. He’s also done a pretty decent job of gathering high-quality personnel.”

My eyes caught a line from the Royal Intelligence Department’s report. It was intelligence suggesting he was leveraging his college connections to recruit talent.

“His strongest area is accounting. His specialty is laundering money through shell companies established in more than five tax havens.”

The source of the funds is illegal trade. It is said that he primarily trades minerals like gold and silver extracted from Hassan’s mines.

Matt continued.

“Minerals are one thing, but the hottest selling item is definitely drugs.”

A photo shifted. A field filled with poppy flowers. It was farmland where drugs were cultivated.

“The main traded product of Hassan Warlord is opium. He also produces cocaine. This opium is a raw material for the synthetic drug ‘Kiss of the Nightmare,’ so it trades for quite a high price in the Ivory Tower’s black market. Asen and Sanya are making money in a similar way.”

“If he’s both the financier and recruitment officer, he’s a core figure in the warlord’s organization. Let’s try to ride on Nayan to make contact with Nasir. Is that okay, Director?”

From the communication device on the desk, Leoni’s voice flowed out.

-‘Sure.’

I took a drag from my cigarette and nodded.

“Alright. Let’s continue talking about Nayan. An accountant rolling in money extracted from a drug dealer. What else is there?”

“He’s on close terms with Nasir. On Nayan’s 55th birthday, he gave him a pricey griffin claw as a gift.”

Bill, who had been sipping coffee, picked up the conversation.

“He’s a vigorous guy, with three wives and seven children. He’s blessed with daughters—six of them.”

“What about the sons?”

“They’re elite who studied abroad. Nayan cherished that child enough to send him overseas from a young age. Thanks to his esteemed father, he earned a bachelor’s degree in journalism.”

“He lived lavishly off drug money while others die drinking parasite-infested water.”

Matt and Bill, who had undertaken operations on the Mauritania Continent multiple times, exchanged cutting remarks.

I checked the picture of Nayan’s child. It was from his study-abroad days, but he looked more like someone who preferred sports over studying.

Matt gestured toward the photo with his chin.

“He’s a slacker, but an intellectual. Recently, we received intelligence that he’s learning the ropes under Nayan.”

“What area is he in charge of?”

“Public relations.”

So that’s how he uses his journalism degree.

“If we approach through the son, it’ll be easier to recruit Nayan. Of course, threatening him is also an option.”

“What are you talking about? We have no backup for threats…”

“Just discussing an emergency situation.”

The information officers gathered around continued the discussion about the direction of the operation. They deliberated on how to gain the warlord’s trust and how to utilize the warlords.

As the meeting stretched beyond an hour, I posed an important question while inserting a fresh cigarette into the now-empty ashtray.

“What if they don’t cooperate?”

“……”

“What if Nayan Al Bas or Sheikh Nasir Al Hassan refuse orders or don’t execute them?”

In the thick silence, Leoni responded from the communication device.

-‘Then we have to kill them.’

Episode 16 – The Six Million Dollar Man

Similar to the Middle Eastern cultural sphere, the Mauritania Continent shares a common custom—hospitality, serving guests tea and delicacies.

“Tea? Coffee?”

“Coffee, please.”

I accepted the tea offered to guests without hesitation. In this place where honor is treasured as highly as life, refusing the host’s goodwill is equivalent to insulting them.

The attendant presented us with two cups of coffee made in the traditional Mauritanian method. Sand coffee brewed using hot sand was a magical candidate that, with just a sip, filled my mouth with an enchanting aroma.

“Mauritania has been famous for producing premium beans since ancient times.”

Nayan Al Bas, holding a coffee cup, spoke lightly.

“What do you think?”

“Excellent. This is a fragrance I’ve never encountered before in my life. Truly remarkable coffee, just as I’ve heard.”

“…Hmm.”

The old man’s expression softened at the compliment from a foreigner.

In a place where the culture runs on honor, there’s no better praise than acknowledging someone’s honor.

He seemed to genuinely appreciate my excitement over the rare treat. Nayan Al Bas smiled subtly, as if he anticipated this reaction.

On the wall hung the massive claw of a beast—a griffin, designated as a specially protected species by the International Magical Organization. Underneath the claw decoration, a local woman was working the sand, her palms buried in it while she muttered softly. I hadn’t been introduced, but her attire and demeanor exuded the aura of a shaman.

I pretended to sip my coffee, quietly turning thoughts in my head.

“……”

According to the information leaked by the warlord duo I met yesterday, the Al Bas tribe possesses its own shaman. However, the Military Intelligence Agency had determined that Hassan Warlord was not training any magicians or shamans separately.

Why? Because magic and shamanism are disciplines that require considerable effort to study, even in developed nations with advanced educational infrastructure. Hence, warlords cannot systematically train combat magicians and shamans; they have no choice but to bring them in from outside.

In other words, the shaman is likely an outsider hired by the tribe.

“……”

If she’s an outsider, there’s a high chance her originating tribe is different, meaning she wouldn’t be loyal to the Hassan Warlord. Being hired for a fee, there’s always the possibility someone could offer her a larger sum than the warlord, leading her to switch sides at any moment.

What could be the intention of bringing such a person to meet a war correspondent? It might seem to be a complicated question, but there was no need for deep thought.

After all, I had a bodyguard beside me. If the war correspondent hired someone for protection, that bodyguard would likely be a magician. It was probably that assumption that led him to accompany a shaman.

In other words, these guys are still suspecting me.

*

Even though I was under suspicion, the operation hadn’t failed yet. The fact that they extended kindness while harboring suspicion implied that they accepted us as guests.

In a region where traditions of hospitality are deeply rooted, hosts are obliged to protect their guests. Therefore, during my stay as a guest, the Al Bas tribe would have no reason to antagonize me. Perhaps bringing the shaman along wasn’t due to suspicion, but rather to showcase their power.

Come to think of it, it was the same last time. The troops that detained us at the checkpoint were the Al Bas tribe’s security forces.

In general, warlords with strong authoritarian tendencies tend to invest heavily in their security. If you equip the combat units well, they could stage a coup. Of course, some leaders do indulge themselves as well.

From that perspective, Nayan’s active investment in the security forces and bringing along a shaman can be interpreted as a display of power.

As I pondered Nayan Al Bas’s intentions, he suddenly broke the silence.

“I hear you’re a journalist. What brings you here?”

I put down my pen and notepad on the desk, taking his cue.

“Of course, I’m here for coverage.”

“Coverage?”

“Yes.”

Just like that, my fabricated story for the identity cover flowed out.

“I’m here to understand the reasons behind the military conflict between the government army and the tribes, and to grasp the realities of this place.”

A very common motive for reporting.

Upon hearing that a war correspondent had come to cover a conflict zone, the chief of the Al Bas tribe wore a mysterious expression. He remained silent, lost in thought, before closing his eyes for a moment.

“The reason for fighting the government… well, that’s obviously because the government has made poor decisions, isn’t it?”

“I would like to know specifically what those poor decisions are.”

“That’s not too difficult to explain.”

Nayan Al Bas began to elaborate on why local warlords clash with the government. The explanation was lengthy, but the main point concluded with “The government is at fault.”

“The government has oppressed our tribe for the last several years. We, not aligned with the mainstream, have faced systematic discrimination.”

His claim didn’t stop there. The warlord’s executive vehemently condemned the government’s barbarity in front of the war correspondent.

“Not only that, but they even mobilized the army to suppress the voices of those opposing discrimination. The government army that entered our territory has committed plunder, arson, abuse, and rape.”

Plunder, arson, massacre, and rape by the government army—a common repertoire in the Third World.

Nayan Al Bas passionately recounted just how barbaric the local government was. And like all warlords, he asserted the legitimacy of the struggle.

“Then how could we not resist?”

“We exercised the right to resist in defense of ourselves. Is that acceptable to understand?”

“You’ve grasped it accurately.”

As I transcribed his words, I couldn’t help but smirk internally. I recalled the intelligence suggesting that the Hassan Warlord had sent armed forces to commit massacres in other tribes’ territories while claiming he would integrate them.

The intelligence source was a report written by a war correspondent years ago, and according to the data from the Lushan Federation’s comprehensive intelligence agency that shared the information, the Hassan Warlord had committed similar acts in the territories of Asen and Sanya over the past few years. Matt, the operations team leader from the Royal Intelligence Department, had likened it to ethnic cleansing.

Of course, whether these guys are committing ethnic cleansing or resisting the government, it was of no concern to me. As a war correspondent, I carried on a Q&A with the tribal chief Al Bas.

“I understand there are government forces stationed in nearby areas. Do you, Nayan Al Bas, see the government forces as a threat to your tribe’s safety?”

“They’re like a knife poised at our throats.”

“I’ve heard that there is a huge alliance led by the Asen and Sanya tribes in this area. What do you think about them?”

“Asen and Sanya? They’re quite detestable.”

When the names of the tribes leading Groups 1 and 2 were mentioned, Nayan reacted unfavorably. He waved his hand dismissively, indicating it was a headache.

“Sanya is one thing, but Asen had been quite on good terms with us. They’re our neighbors sharing a ‘border.’ The relatives of Bint would often come to visit us.”

Bint. The name of the Asen warlord…

The chief, Sheikh Bint Al Asen.

The moment that familiar name popped up, my brain started racing. Although the Asen Tribe and the Hassan Tribe were rivals, they weren’t outright enemies. The Asen Warlord positioned himself as a moderate faction advocating ‘Mauritania Continental Centrism.’

So unlike Sanya, whose inclinations were radically different, the Asen and Hassan tribes maintained a fairly active exchange. In fact, the leaders of the Asen and Hassan tribes even shared a friendship of sorts.

After gathering information, I posed a few additional questions. Despite the interview being a brief 30 minutes, I managed to accumulate quite a bit of useful intel—like a snowball rolling down a hill.

“……”

Nayan Al Bas answered the interview questions earnestly.

To have summoned a shaman for caution, Nayan provided an impressive amount of information. Considering I approached him as a war correspondent, it was almost expected, but I found his willingness to answer even the simplest of questions refreshing.

I interpreted this as the Hassan Warlord wanting to avoid isolation. It seemed like they wanted to tap into external information through the hands of a war correspondent.

Perhaps just by sharing outside intel, a decent relationship could be forged. This was one of the reasons warlords cooperated with foreign information agencies.

Of course, it was unclear if this was the sentiment of the entire Hassan Warlord faction or merely Nayan Al Bas’s personal wish.

To make an accurate judgment, I needed more information.

“Thank you for your cooperation in the interview.”

As I rose from my chair after expressing my gratitude, Nayan Al Bas inquired if I needed anything else.

“Is there anything you need?”

“Ah….”

I paused for a moment, pretending to contemplate, then spoke.

“Is it possible for me to meet Sheikh Nasir Al Hassan?”

I meant to ask him to arrange a meeting with the leader of the Hassan Warlord.

In response, Nayan, who was also Nasir’s cousin and the leader of the Al Bas Tribe, replied:

“That’s not possible.”

Well, I suppose so. Why would they trust a foreigner they met just today to take them to their leader?

It was a bit of a hopeful reach. I tucked those regrets away gently. After all, what I truly wanted was something else.

“I’d like to stay here for a few days to conduct my research. Is it possible to seek the chief’s permission?”

“That should be possible. There’s no issue starting right away.”

As expected, Nayan Al Bas readily agreed.

It wasn’t an unreasonable request, and having turned down a previous request, he couldn’t afford to dismiss a smaller one without losing face.

Having gotten the result I wanted, I smiled and expressed my gratitude.

“When do you plan to start your research?”

“I think it will be impossible today as I need to do a preliminary survey… How about tomorrow?”

Since the operation was in a civil war zone, a preliminary investigation was essential. If it were just me, I could go right away, but I had Camila with me.

However, time was tight, so the sooner, the better.

“Then come after dawn prayers tomorrow.”

Dawn prayers would be at 5 AM. I needed to arrive here by then.

I had to use the guise of research to scout the terrain and think about how to build a rapport with Nayan Al Bas.

Using the reason of supporting the tribe’s needs would make them more likely to agree to a meeting. No one dislikes a gift, especially in this barren land where even drinking water is scarce. Bottled water and antibiotics would likely be generous gifts.

“Prepare them in advance.”

“Understood.”

“Or, we have a guest room. How about staying for a night?”

It was appropriate to accept the host’s offered room unless there was a special reason not to. Refusing the host’s goodwill would be a breach of etiquette.

But if time was indeed tight, it wouldn’t hurt to decline.

“No, thank you. I appreciate the offer, but I’ll just accept your kindness.”

I bowed my head and tried to leave.

However, Nayan Al Bas’s followed words forced me to halt my steps toward the exit.

“Oh, if you’re planning to wander around the tribe’s territory, I can assign someone who knows the geography well.”

“Are you talking about a person?”

The leader of the Al Bas Tribe nodded.

“Yes, regarding geography and the tribes. He’s someone who grew up under me since childhood, so he knows everything about Al Bas.”

If he was someone with extensive information about the tribe, I welcomed that. It meant he would be worth recruiting as an informant.

But Nayan’s explanation didn’t end there.

“Plus, he’s about the same age as you, so it will be easier for both of you to communicate. He’s someone I trust too. He learned well during his time abroad, so he’s good with foreign languages.”

“…Oh, I see.”

With every detail, a particular person started surfacing in my mind.

Knowledgeable about the tribe’s circumstances, trusted by the tribe leader, similar age, and lived abroad.

No way. It couldn’t be him.

I hesitantly posed a question to the tribe leader, driven by a flicker of hope.

“But, who is this person?”

Nayan Al Bas answered.

Just as I feared.

*

The parking lot of the nearby market, a safe house arranged by Victor. After leaving the pharmacy, I hopped into the driver’s seat.

“Did you find anything?”

Camila, sprawled in the passenger seat with a hopeful expression, asked, but I shook my head.

“It seems there are no antibiotics here either.”

I had scoured every pharmacy I could find in search of antibiotics. But for some puzzling reason, none were in sight.

“They haven’t been in stock since a few days ago. The government is taking all the production that comes out of the factory,” the pharmacist had said.

“The government? What about relief organizations?”

“It looks like they’re having trouble sourcing antibiotics too. The Sireens have been so aggressive… the transportation costs have skyrocketed.”

I shared the information I had gathered from the pharmacist with Camila.

I had pressed a thirty-shilling note into the pharmacist’s hand, forcing the issue while they attempted to shoo me away.

“At least I managed to snag these.”

I pulled out the small bundle of antibiotics from my pocket to show Camila, who gasped in disbelief.

“I thought you said there were no antibiotics?”

“I bought these hidden ones from the pharmacy. They total to 500 shillings.”

The meager antibiotics the pharmacist had hidden barely filled both sides of my coat pockets. For 500 shillings, one could buy an entire box of antibiotics in Abas. Yet, the pharmacist had sold just a few bottles for the price of a whole box.

Talk about outrageous price-gouging. Could this really be what they called a creative economy?

Camila examined the antibiotics with a serious expression, knitting her brows as she groaned.

“Uhm… I don’t think we can distribute this to all the residents… It’s far too insufficient.”

“Right, we’re short on supplies ourselves.”

The antibiotics I had intended to use as a bribe ultimately went unprocured. To be precise, we only got what we might need for emergencies.

As we waited in the vehicle, Camila opened her device to convey new updates. Apparently, intel had come in while I was briefly in the pharmacy.

“I have a new report. Earlier at around 5 PM, the local government spokesperson made an announcement.”

“What kind of announcement? Are they distributing antibiotics?”

“No. They said that due to aging facilities and other issues, there will be disruptions in power and magic supply, and from midnight until 5 AM the next day, power and magic will be cut off in all regions.”

What the hell.

“For how long will the supply be cut off? When does it start…”

“Starting next week.”

“A week-long?”

“They said it will be cut indefinitely starting next week.”

“Oh, come on.”

They can’t supply medicine, and now they’re cutting off power and magic? This is insane.

Amidst it all, Camila tried to comfort me, saying at least the water supply wouldn’t be cut off. Is now really the time for that?

Maybe sending Camila to the facility would be a better idea. I suddenly had that thought. Since she could boil water with magic to turn the turbines, at least they might generate electricity, even if magic was cut off. Of course, I knew that was a completely unrealistic daydream.

After stocking the SUV with food and water from the market, I drove back to the safe house. While it was the way home, my mind was anything but at ease.

Crazy pedestrians casually strolling down the road despite a perfectly good sidewalk! Illegally parked vehicles as far as the eye could see! Every now and then, a masked wild boar popping out from between abandoned cars by the roadside. I felt I could get a heart attack from all the annoying antics of the road-users. With every passing moment, I found myself muttering curses under my breath.

“Frederick.”

“Yes?”

“I’m curious about something. Earlier when you were talking to the tribe leader, you mentioned they’d provide a guide, but you looked unhappy. Why was that?”

Camila’s question prompted me to recall the events from around lunchtime.

When Nayan Al Bas offered to assign a guide, I had readily consented with a few words I didn’t truly mean. I thought I had hidden my feelings well, but it seemed like Camila had picked up on my unease.

“The guide they are assigning is someone I know.”

“Someone you know? Do you have an acquaintance there?”

“Not exactly. I saw that person a few times during company briefings.”

I muttered the name of the guide they had assigned.

“Farid Al Bas. Nayan’s only son.”

Farid. Camila repeated the name.

“What’s he like? I’ve never seen you make that face before.”

What words could I use to express this so Camila would understand easily? I had a lot of information about Farid, but summarizing it in one phrase would be a challenge.

As I pondered, I slowed the car down to dodge a herd of cattle that suddenly spilled into the street and finally blurted out.

“A guy crazily obsessed with women?”

“Oh, sh*t.”

 

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