A Dark Fantasy Spy

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What kind of person is Nayan Al Bas?

As I inquired while seated at the desk, Matt, who had just finished the briefing, responded.

“He’s like an old dragon.”

On the screen projected with magical power, the information of the warlord’s key executives appeared. Matt zoomed in on the face of an elderly man.

“Despite being in his fifties, he has an impressive capability for financing. He’s quite good at gathering high-quality personnel.”

My eyes caught a phrase from the Royal Intelligence Department’s report. It mentioned that he was utilizing his connections from college to recruit talents.

“His strongest field is accounting. His specialty is laundering money through shell companies established in over five tax havens.”

The sources of his funding come from illegal transactions. It’s said that he mainly trades minerals like gold and silver mined from Hassan’s mines.

Matt added,

“While minerals are minerals, the hottest selling items are, of course, drugs.”

A photo changed on the screen. Fields of poppies filled the prairie. It was land where drugs were cultivated.

“The main product of the Hassan warlord is opium. He also produces cocaine. The opium here serves as a raw material for the synthetic drug ‘Embrace of the Abyss,’ so it’s traded at quite a high price on the Ivory Tower black market. The Asen and Sanya tribes are making money similarly.”

“If he’s in charge of financing and recruitment, he’s a core figure in the warlord’s ranks. Let’s ride on Nayan to make contact with Nasir. Is that alright, Director?”

Leoni’s voice came through the communication device placed on the desk.

-‘Sure.’

I nodded, cigarette in mouth.

“Alright then. Let’s continue discussing Nayan. An accountant rolling in cash extracted from drug lords. What else is there?”

“He’s close with Nasir. He gifted expensive griffin claws on his 55th birthday.”

Bill, sipping coffee, chimed in.

“He’s also quite the energetic man with three wives and seven kids. All six of them are daughters.”

“What about the sons?”

“He’s an elite who studied abroad. Nayan has cherished him and sent him overseas from a young age. He graduated with a degree in Journalism thanks to his successful father.”

“He must be living large with drug money. Meanwhile, some are drinking water infested with parasites and dying.”

Matt and Bill, who had conducted several operations on the Mauritania Continent, exchanged jokes laced with a sense of reality.

I looked at the photo of Nayan’s child. It was a picture taken during his study abroad period, and he looked more like someone who enjoyed sports rather than academics.

Matt gestured toward the picture.

“He’s a layabout but also an intellectual. There’s intelligence indicating that he’s been learning the ropes under Nayan recently.”

“What’s his area of responsibility?”

“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, threats are also an option.”

“Threats with no backup? What an idea…”

“I’m just talking about contingencies.”

The information officers gathered around the desk continued their discussion on how to direct the operation. They talked about ways to gain the Hassan warlord’s trust and how to exploit the warlord.

As the meeting stretched beyond an hour, I posed an important question while putting a new cigarette in the now-empty ashtray.

“What if he refuses to cooperate?”

“……”

“If Nayan Al Bas or Sheikh Nasir Al Hassan rejects or fails to comply with orders, what then?”

In the heavy silence, Leoni answered from the other end of the communication device.

-‘Then we have to kill them.’

Episode 16 – The Man Worth Six Million Dollars

Much like the Middle Eastern culture, the Mauritania Continent has a common custom. It’s the culture of hospitality, serving guests tea and treats.

“Tea? Coffee?”

“I prefer coffee.”

I readily accepted the tea that was offered to me as the guest. Refusing a host’s goodwill in a place where honor is cherished as dearly as life is seen as an insult.

A servant presented us with two cups of coffee made in the traditional Mauritania style. It was sand coffee brewed using hot sand, a remarkable concoction that filled your mouth with a rich aroma with just a simple sip.

“Mauritania has been famous for producing high-quality beans for ages.”

Nayan Al Bas, holding a coffee cup, casually started the conversation.

“How is it?”

“Excellent. It’s a fragrance I’ve never encountered in my life. It lives up to its well-known reputation.”

“…Hmm.”

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

In a place where honor is governed by honor, there’s no better compliment than acknowledging someone’s honor.

He seemed quite pleased that I was overwhelmed by the rare delicacy. Nayan Al Bas wore a gentle smile as if he expected it.

On the wall hung the giant claw of a beast. It was the claw of a griffin, designated as a specially protected species by the International Magical Organization. Below the claw decoration, a local woman was heating the sand while mumbling softly, her hands buried in the sand. Though I hadn’t been introduced to her, her demeanor reeked of a shaman’s aura.

I pretended to sip my coffee while quietly running my thoughts.

“…….”

According to the intel received from the warlord duo I met yesterday, the Al Bas tribe has its own shaman. However, the Military Intelligence Agency had determined that the Hassan warlord wasn’t nurturing any magicians or shamans separately.

Why? Because magic and sorcery are disciplines that require significant effort to teach, even in advanced countries with developed educational infrastructure. Therefore, warlords cannot systematically train combat magicians and shamans but have no choice but to bring them in from outside.

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

“…….”

If she’s an outsider, there’s a high probability her originating tribe is different, meaning she likely doesn’t have loyalty to the Hassan warlord. Since she’s been hired for a fee, she could switch sides if someone else offers a larger sum.

What could be the purpose of dragging such a person to a meeting with a war correspondent? It seemed like a complicated question, but I didn’t have to think too deeply about it.

I had guards beside me. If the war correspondent hired a bodyguard, then that bodyguard is likely to be a magician. It was probably an assumption made to bring a shaman along.

In other words, it means these guys are still suspicious of me.

*

Suspicion lingered, but the operation has yet to fail. The fact that they extended kindness while still being suspicious implies they have accepted us as guests.

In an area where the custom of hospitality runs deep, a host is required to protect their guests. Thus, during my stay as a guest here, it’s unlikely the Al Bas tribe will act hostile toward me. Perhaps the reason for bringing the shaman was not suspicion but rather to flaunt their power.

Thinking back, it was the same last time. The troops that detained us at the checkpoint were the Al Bas tribe’s royal guards.

Usually, warlords with strong authoritarian tendencies tend to invest heavily in their royal guards. If you equip the combat units with good gear, there’s a possibility they might stage a coup. Though, of course, some leaders indulge in luxury too.

From that perspective, it is also possible to interpret that Nayan, who is actively investing in his royal guards, brought the shaman here to display his authority.

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

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

I placed my pen and notebook on the desk and responded.

“Naturally, I’m here for coverage.”

“Coverage?”

“Yes.”

As if waiting for this moment, my pre-prepared story for disguise flowed out.

“I came to investigate the reasons behind the military conflict between the government and tribes, as well as the actual circumstances here.”

It was a common motivation for coverage. Nayan Al Bas, upon hearing that a war correspondent had come to cover a civil war region, wore a mysterious expression. He fell silent, caught in thought, and then shut his eyes for a moment.

“The reason for fighting the government… is because, naturally, the government made the wrong decisions, right?”

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

“If it’s that kind of thing, it’s not difficult.”

Nayan Al Bas began to explain why the local warlords opposed the government. Though a lengthy explanation ensued, the crux of his argument boiled down to “the government is at fault.”

“The government army has oppressed our tribe for the past several years. They discriminated against us politically for not being part of the mainstream.”

His argument did not stop there. The warlord’s executive launched into condemning the barbarity of the government in front of the war correspondent.

“Moreover, they suppressed the voices of those opposing the discrimination with military force. The government troops that entered our territory committed acts of looting, arson, abuse, and even rape.”

Looting, arson, slaughter, and rape by government troops. It’s a routine script of the Third World.

Nayan Al Bas passionately denounced how brutal the local government was. And like every warlord, he claimed the legitimacy of their struggle.

“So, could we not resist?”

“You exercised your right to resist to protect yourselves. Is that a fair understanding?”

“You understood correctly.”

While I noted down his words, I couldn’t help but smirk internally. It brought to mind the intel that the Hassan warlord dispatched armed troops to commit slaughter, claiming they wanted to annex land from other tribes.

The intel came from an article reported by a war correspondent a few years back, and according to the data shared by the Lushan Federation Intelligence Department, the Hassan warlord has committed similar offenses on the territories of the Asen and Sanya tribes over the past several years. Matt, the operations leader from the Royal Intelligence Department, likened it to ethnic cleansing.

Of course, whether these guys engage in ethnic cleansing or resist the government, it was of no concern to me. I acted as a war correspondent and exchanged questions with the chief of the Al Bas tribe.

“I hear there are government troops stationed nearby. Do you believe the government army poses a threat to the safety of your tribe, Nayan Al Bas?”

“Rather, they are what we might call a knife to our throats.”

“I’ve heard that there’s a massive alliance led by the Asen and Sanya tribes in the vicinity. What do you think of them?”

“Asen and Sanya? Ungrateful wretches.”

When the names of the leading tribes from Groups 1 and 2 were mentioned, an unsatisfied expression appeared. Nayan waved his hand, annoyed.

“While Sanya is one thing, Asen has had quite an intimate relationship with us. They are neighbors sharing a ‘border.’ The relatives of Bint often come to visit here.”

Bint. The chief of the Asen warlord, Sheikh Bint Al Asen.

As soon as that familiar name came up, my mind began racing. While the Asen tribe and the Hassan tribe are competitors, they aren’t outright hostile to one another. The Asen warlord itself advocates for a centrist ideology centering around the Mauritania Continent.

Thus, unlike the radically different Sanya, Asen and Hassan maintain relatively vibrant exchanges. The leaders of Asen and Hassan even have a friendship with each other.

Having gathered that information, I threw a few additional questions. Though the interview lasted a brief 30 minutes, I unearthed quite useful intel that snowballed into a wealth of information.

“…….”

Nayan Al Bas answered the interview sincerely.

Considering he called upon a shaman to be cautious, Nayan provided an impressive amount of information. While it’s only natural that a war correspondent would seek information, his unexpectedly honest attitude in answering even minor questions indicated something.

I interpreted this as a sign that the Hassan warlord wanted to avoid isolation. It seems he wishes to tap into external information and foreign perspectives through the hands of a war correspondent.

Perhaps merely sharing outside knowledge could help establish a decent relationship. After all, information is one of the reasons warlords cooperate with foreign intelligence agencies.

Of course, I couldn’t tell whether this reflected the intentions of the entire Hassan warlord faction or just the individual aspirations of Nayan Al Bas.

To make accurate judgments, I would need additional information.

“Thank you for your cooperation in the coverage.”

As I expressed my gratitude and rose from my chair, Nayan Al Bas inquired if I needed anything.

“Is there anything you need?”

“Ah….”

I hesitated for a moment, pretending to be deep in thought, and then spoke.

“Could I possibly arrange a meeting with Sheikh Nasir Al Hassan?”

It was a request to set up a meeting with the leader of the Hassan warlord.

In response, Nayan, who was Nasir’s cousin and chief of the Al Bas tribe, said:

“That’s impossible.”

I figured as much. Why would someone introduce a foreigner they just met to their leader?

I let go of my hope, which I hadn’t expected to be granted in the first place. After all, I had something else in mind that I wanted to ask him.

“I’d like to stay here for a few days to conduct my coverage. Would it be possible to get the chief’s permission?”

“That should be possible. It’s no issue to start right away.”

As anticipated, Nayan Al Bas readily agreed.

This wasn’t an unreasonable request, and having already turned down a previous request, it would be rather awkward to decline such a trivial one.

Having achieved the desired outcome, I smiled and expressed my gratitude.

“When do you intend to start your coverage?”

“Since I need to do a preliminary survey, I believe it will be difficult to start today…. How about tomorrow?”

Given the operation entails stirring up a civil war zone, preliminary investigations are essential. If it were just me, I could start immediately, but I had Camila with me.

Though time was tight, the sooner the better.

“If so, come after the morning prayer tomorrow.”

Tomorrow’s morning prayer is at 5 am. I need to be here by then.

I’ll use the excuse of coverage to conduct geological surveys and seek ways to build rapport with Nayan Al Bas.

By proposing to support the tribe’s needs, he would likely respond favorably. Nobody dislikes a gift, and in this harsh place, even drinking water is scarce. A supply of bottled water and antibiotics would probably be a welcomed offering.

“Prepare them in advance.”

“Understood.”

“Or, if you wish, there’s a guest room available. How about spending the night?”

It is customary to sleep in the room offered by the host unless there’s a special reason to decline. Refusing a host’s kindness is inherently rude.

However, if time were truly short, it wouldn’t hurt to decline.

“I’m fine, thank you, but I’ll just take your kindness.”

I lowered my head in thanks and was about to leave.

However, Nayan Al Bas’s voice that followed halted my steps toward the exit.

“Oh, if you’re planning to roam the territory, I’ll assign someone who knows the geography well to accompany you.”

“Are you referring to a person?”

Nayan, the chief of the Al Bas tribe, nodded.

“Yes, about geography and the tribes as well. He has grown up under me, engaged in tribal affairs since childhood, so he knows everything about Al Bas.”

Having someone well-versed in tribal affairs would be welcomed, as it would be valuable to recruit them as an informant. However, Nayan’s description didn’t stop there.

“Plus, he’s around the same age as you, so it’ll be easier for you to communicate. He’s someone I trust and value. He’s also lived abroad for a long time, so he speaks foreign languages well.”

“…Oh, is that so?”

With every detail mentioned, a specific individual started to pop into my mind.

Someone who is knowledgeable about the tribe, trusted by the chief, of a similar age, and with experience living abroad.

Oh no, it can’t be.

As I hesitated, I tossed a question to the chief, driven by a tinge of hope.

“By the way, who is that person?”

Nayan Al Bas replied.

It turned out, my suspicions were correct.

*

In the parking lot of the convenience store near the safe house that Victor arranged, I got in the driver’s seat after exiting the pharmacy.

“Did you find one?”

Camila, who was sprawled across the passenger seat, asked with an eager expression, but I shook my head.

“It seems there are no antibiotics here either.”

Having toured every visible pharmacy searching for antibiotics, for some reason, they seemed to have vanished entirely.

“Apparently, antibiotics haven’t been restocked for several days. The government is reportedly monopolizing all production from the factories.”

“The government? What about the relief organizations?”

“It seems they’re having trouble getting antibiotics too. The Sirens have been quite aggressive… shipping costs have skyrocketed and become a major burden they say.”

I shared the information I received from the pharmacist with Camila. Having just tried to shoo me away with a few slang terms while receiving my bribe of thirty shillings, I had questioned him.

“I at least managed to acquire some of these.”

I displayed the handful of antibiotics I procured from my pocket to Camila. She looked shocked and immediately asked,

“But you said there weren’t any antibiotics?”

“I bought what the pharmacist had hidden away. Together, it cost me 500 shillings.”

The stash of antibiotics stuffed into my coat pockets barely filled them, and with 500 shillings, I could have purchased an entire box of antibiotics in Abas. Yet the pharmacist had sold me only a few ‘bottles’ of antibiotics at the price of an entire box.

It was a staggering price gouging. Was this what they meant by ‘creative economy’?

Camila examined the antibiotics with a serious look. Furrowing her brow, she let out a grunt.

“Um… It seems difficult to hand these out to all the residents… There’s far too little.”

“Right, we’re going to run out of what we need for ourselves.”

We failed to procure the antibiotics I intended to bribe with. To be precise, I managed to get just enough for our own emergency.

As we were waiting in the vehicle, Camila opened her device to share new news with me. It seemed intel had come through while I was briefly at the pharmacy.

“Here’s the latest. Today around 5 PM, a spokesperson from the local government made an announcement.”

“What kind of announcement? The kind saying they’re distributing antibiotics?”

“No. They announced that due to aging facilities and other problems, they would suspend all electricity and magic supply from midnight until 5 AM of the following day.”

What the hell.

“How long will this suspension last? From when….”

“Starting next week.”

“A week?!”

“They said the supply will be suspended indefinitely starting next week.”

“Ugh, what the heck.”

While they can’t supply medications, now they’re cutting off electricity and magical energy? This is completely insane.

In the meantime, Camila reassured me, saying at least we wouldn’t be running out of water supply. Is that really something to say right now?

I started to wonder if it would be better to send Camila to the facility. I suddenly thought of that. If we boil water with magic, we can produce electricity with turbines even if we can’t manage magical energy. Although, even I knew it was unrealistic.

Having filled the SUV with food and drinking water from the store, I drove back to the safe house. Though I was heading home, my heart was uneasy.

Bizarre pedestrians walking on the roads despite the present sidewalks, illegally parked vehicles that rivaled Tetris, and the sudden appearance of a deer with a mask among the parked cars—these nuisances drove me to the edge of insanity.

As a driver, I often found myself muttering curses out loud.

“Frederick.”

“Yes?”

“I’m curious about something. Earlier, when you were talking with the tribe leader, why did you look unhappy when he mentioned attaching someone to you?”

Hearing Camila’s words made me recall the event during lunchtime. When Nayan Al Bas offered to attach a guide for me, I had readily accepted, spouting words I didn’t genuinely mean. I thought I had hidden it well, but it seemed Camila had caught on.

“The guide he wants to assign is someone I know.”

“You know someone? Does that mean you have a relationship with them?”

“Not really. I’ve just seen him a few times during company briefings.”

I muttered the name of the guide that was going to be attached.

“Farid Al Bas. Nayan’s only son.”

Farid. Camila repeated the name.

“What kind of person is he for you to show such a face?”

What could I say that would make it easy for Camila to understand? Though I knew quite a bit about Farid, summarizing it into a single sentence was no easy task.

I pondered for a while on what would be the most fitting description.

As I slowed the car down to avoid a herd of livestock that had strayed onto the street, I finally spoke.

“A guy who’s obsessed with women?”

“Oh shit.”