Lovers

27

The Eve

The next day, I was cursed out thoroughly. Nina Volkari said, “If you deviate from the operation like this one more time, I’ll have your head!” and Otto Layer just swore at me. And Baral said:

“Haven’t you heard the rumors that I tear people apart?”

To be honest, I’m not used to receiving physical threats. Kill you, won’t let you off easy, that sort of messy stuff. Because in that area, I’m quite strong.

But I glanced at Baral’s forearm as he was brewing coffee. Wow, that forearm looks dangerous. Is his forearm as big as my head? Of course, I might win. But I probably wouldn’t win easily.

Yeah, that forearm has an intimidating presence that makes me want to avoid it a bit.

“I’m sorry.”

Deviating from the operation at will deserves a written apology. Ironically, the reason I’m not getting a written warning is because we’re in the middle of an operation. When this is over, I’ll probably get that written warning. Whether I’ll receive it as part of Department 1 or as part of the African branch, I’m not sure.

Baral scolded me in one breath and then coolly let it go. Much better than the section chiefs. But not Viviana. She got so angry, saying did I know how worried she was, that she ended up with a headache and had to go buy medicine.

“Why did she join the Security Bureau with such a weak mentality?”

“I heard her father was from the Security Bureau.”

Ah. A two-generation glory, I see. Not uncommon. Quite frequent, actually. Because their father was a congressman, they become a congressman; because their father was a minister, they become a minister; because their father was a chaebol, they become a chaebol… There’s a culture that takes pride in this, calling it “family business.” But isn’t a family business supposed to refer to craftsmen like blacksmiths or bakers? Those types often feel ashamed to continue such trades.

“Wait a moment. Father? If it’s her father…”

As I hesitated to speak, Baral lowered his voice.

“It means he was from the Security Committee.”

The Security Bureau is the intelligence agency of the Rotman Democratic Republic. While it’s subject to much criticism and has some extralegal powers, it still maintains some semblance of decorum as an agency of the republic. However, the Security Committee was the intelligence agency of the Blaiberg Socialist Republic. In other words, it’s the predecessor of the current Security Bureau.

It was truly an extralegal organization. They could beat someone to death in broad daylight without any consequences. To people at that time, Security Committee members were more terrifying than the Grim Reaper. And her father worked for such a Security Committee. She joined the Security Bureau out of respect for that father.

“That’s unexpected.”

Baral shrugged at my words.

“It is surprising. She didn’t seem to have a great relationship with her father.”

Even though we work for the Security Bureau, and as insiders, we might have some internal affinity for it, the behavior of the Security Committee back then was beyond what could be justified by saying, “Well, that’s how it was.”

It’s really unexpected.

As I was recalling Viviana, who had honestly served me onion soup that Riegel had brought in a bowl, my phone suddenly rang.

R.

It was Riegel. Baral, who had glimpsed the screen, carefully left the kitchen. Not to give me privacy for a personal call, but to warn Viviana, who didn’t know the situation, not to come in and say unnecessary things.

“Hello.”

As soon as I answered the phone, I heard a chuckle.

“What are you doing?”

“Shouldn’t you introduce yourself first?”

You must have saved my number, right?

That’s true. I couldn’t help but chuckle too.

When I first saw Riegel, I thought, “What kind of crazy long-haired pervert is this?” But now I feel strangely comfortable. Maybe it’s because I know he’s not a crazy long-haired pervert, but just an Oriental-obsessed guy with a bit of a foul mouth.

Are you working?

Sensible. I could sense the nuance that he’d keep it brief since I was working. But what can I do? The longer I talk with you, the better I’m doing my job.

“It’s a bit of a break time now.”

Hmm.

Why does he always go “Hmm” like that? It’s very unsettling, as if he knows something. When I didn’t say anything, Riegel spoke up.

Are you free tomorrow?

“After work?”

Of course.

“Nothing… special planned.”

I’m the one who should be seducing you, so why do you keep trying to seduce me? It makes me very uneasy. Why were you interested in me as soon as you saw me? Did you go to such lengths to get me out of the Security Bureau?

Could it be related to Canaris? Is Canaris planning something regarding me right now? Just as I’m trying to use Riegel, wouldn’t Riegel be doing the same? Yes, that makes sense. All of this, acting as if Riegel fell for me at first sight.

Wait, if I think about it that way, isn’t Riegel doing this better than me right now? While I know I should be seducing Riegel but haven’t actually done anything, Riegel is gaining my favor by even coming to my workplace.

I need to step up my game. I can’t lose.

How about a date tomorrow night?

Suddenly, a date?

I felt a lump in my throat even though I hadn’t eaten anything. I barely managed to stop myself from reflexively blurting out something about a date.

I remembered something he had said.

‘If you’re sorry, let’s go on a date next time, at night.’

Right, Riegel had definitely said that. Had I said, “Okay”? I think I did.

“S-sure.”

I tried to coolly accept the date, but my voice came out trembling without me realizing it. A date?

Should I pick you up at the shop, or at your home? Either way, it’ll probably be around 8 o’clock.

“Let’s meet at the shop. I get off work at 8.”

Hmph. You know you’ll end up at a shop first if you show up looking shabby for a date.

What shop? Should I ask? But wait, what does he mean by “shabby”? Before I could say anything, Riegel ended the call with a reminder to keep it in mind.

Shabby?

It feels like I’ve heard something very rude, but why am I not feeling bad about it? By the way, isn’t tomorrow the day the informant asked to meet?

It’s a good day for a date. I won’t need to deviate from the operation to meet the informant; I can just slightly move locations during the date to receive the documents.

When I said I’d go home for a bit, the eyes of the Department 2 people sharpened. The home I mentioned isn’t Shenke’s apartment managed by Mariam Gerhe. It’s my apartment. The one in my name. An apartment that uses an elevator, not a spiral staircase, and doesn’t have red roses painted on the ceiling.

After placating them, I entered my apartment and was greeted by a chill no different from the outdoors. I was about to turn on the heating but stopped. I won’t be staying long anyway.

I turned on my phone that had been charging and accessed the bank. It’s a bank that the Security Bureau can’t touch. The great advantage of L country’s bank is that you can make deposits and withdrawals through an app for money they can’t even touch. Actually, the amount of money I have is too small for this bank. It’s not a bank that usually accepts small amounts like $200,000, but I once saved an executive of this bank, so I was able to open an account through that connection.

When I sent the information fee to the informant, I divided it into three transfers. It wasn’t about the amount, but because the address was a bit too long to fit in the sender’s name field. Although they have a bad reputation, they’re said to do good work, so they should bring it without any problems.

The bad reputation of informants usually comes from beating, killing, or ripping off clients, but there’s actually a reason for this. An informant is a merchant who sells enemy information. In other words, it’s a job that accumulates a lot of grudges. If someone who knows nothing about this business comes with just an address, whining that they’ll pay a lot of money for information, but doesn’t know how to use that information, the informant can’t give it to them. Because they might have to pay more than the information fee for giving out the information. The second essential requirement for an informant is the ability to judge whether someone is worthy of being accepted as a client. Of course, the first is being able to gather good quality information.

As I was about to leave the house, I suddenly remembered what Riegel had said earlier.

Hmph. You know you’ll end up at a shop first if you show up looking shabby for a date.

Should I check what clothes I have?

Although I’ve agreed to go on a date, still… I felt unnecessarily concerned and entered the freezing cold dressing room to open the wardrobe. And I realized anew. My clothing taste is quite consistent.

Black, gray, and occasionally white. That was all my clothes consisted of. You could call it drab. Other than that, there was a lot of khaki mixed in, but that’s what happens to everyone who works in the field handling guns, and I hadn’t bought any khaki clothes of my own volition.

It doesn’t matter. I don’t plan to wear camouflage. First, it would stand out too much, and second, I could clearly imagine Riegel dragging me into a shop.

But actually, according to the evaluations of people around me, I look best in a short-sleeved t-shirt with combat pants and combat boots. I don’t know why though. Hmm, among clothes, the most formal outfit would be a suit, but…

I can’t wear the suit in front of me because I wore it to Jay’s funeral.

Other than that, there was a mix of hoodies and sweatshirts. There were shirts too, but not many. Can I wear my uniform shirt? Uniform shirt with uniform pants. It might be okay if I just wear a different jacket. That’s probably the most recent shirt that came into my possession.

“She’ll dress up, right…?”

As I recalled the Riegel I’ve seen so far, my mouth felt dry and I wanted to drink some water. I went into the kitchen, opened the fridge, took out a water bottle, and while I was at it, I put some soup in the microwave. As I was turning on the radiator, suddenly a sharp pain hit my shoulder. It felt like being stabbed with a large pin.

Ah.

Is it my shoulder, or my back? Somewhere suddenly went ‘ping’? As I was moving my body around to check, the microwave went ‘ding―’ to let me know it had finished. And by the time I took out the soup, the pain had disappeared.

Nothing seems to be going right these days.

Suddenly, I remembered living with my father. When I told him my shoulder hurt, he would very seriously say, “It could be a ghost attached to you.” As I blinked in disbelief, he would perform an exorcism, sprinkling holy water. He would sprinkle it regardless of my protests that it was cold. When I said this wasn’t an exorcism, he would say, “The fundamentals are the same.”

Come to think of it, what did my father say once? Something about running away immediately if I meet a strange person on the street.

I can’t remember exactly… What was it? I only remember that he said it was a very important story. It was when I was young. When I was twelve, still a child soldier.

When I try to recall that time, there’s not much I remember. No matter how much I try to remember, all that comes to mind is some kind of boom― boom― sound and someone screaming.

And was I trying to pick up a necklace?

I can only remember such fragments. According to my father, I almost died in an explosion. It was a miracle that there were no aftereffects. If my father hadn’t adopted me, risking his position as a Catholic priest, I might have died. Because I was my father’s legal son, I was able to survive through numerous surgeries with all sorts of special treatment. My father didn’t have much money, but he had been with the World Service Society for a long time, so he had some influence. I barely survived because of that.

It seems like it was an important message, but…

I stared blankly, trying to recall my father’s words until the soup I had heated up turned cold. But I still couldn’t remember.