A Storm in the Periclean [Closed: Ajax Only]

[Enyama]

Introducing...
A Storm in the Periclean

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Xendarmeria Headquarters, Villa Romera
United Republic of Gran Aligonia
2020-02-26 / 08:13 AM

Villa Romera had garnered an eerie silence in the mornings as the new year had progressed. What had normally been the time of brokers, suits, and government men had now ended, with virtually the whole archipelago sleeping in another four hours to wake up in the early afternoon, and go to work until later. The whole culture shifted, slowly, moving an imperceptible amount each day, though in what direction it moved, most couldn't say with any degree of confidence.

Illiomarius Segarra, Director-General of the Aligonian Xendarmeria, stood on the topmost floor of his organization's building, looking through its modernist walls at the far older city beyond. Behind him, twirling a pencil in his hand impatiently, sat Cario Murena, in a suit that contrasted rather starkly with Segarra's dark blue, bereted service uniform. Murena was an ethnic Latin, and yet he had with him a sense of what it meant to be Aligonian that Segarra often mused many of his own true countrymen lacked. He had been in the Xendarmeria's IT team before, but, with the nascent revolution repurposing them from a police force with a license to slack, into a full-on defense force, Murena had been appropriated into a special activities division, having successfully tracked the movements of the terrorist Archbishop, Hugo Marin, for the last several months. Now, it was official, per degree from the interim Chancellor himself: Cario Murena would serve as the head of Gran Aligonia's first ever domestic intelligence agency, the Forza de Información Gran Aligónico, or FIGA.

Segarra was more than relieved that this meeting was taking place, and sooner than expected. The leak of Interim Chancellor Sion's call to the Montoise President had raised more than enough cause for alarm among the intact governmental sections of the Periclean, and Marin's incessant attempts to fund a bombing campaign were getting more and more complex. With a final puff of his cigar, Segarra turned to the disinterested-looking Murena, who had now put his feet up on the conference room's table.

"So...you have your blank check, now," mused Segarra, looking at the man curiously, "How are you going to organize FIGA? I can give you tips on the-"

"No need, I have a plan," said Murena, standing up suddenly as he smirked at Segarra, who had taken a step back in surprise. "Two task forces. As many talented people as we can fit on each one. Four members, plus Xendarmeria logistics, if you would oblige us, for each team. For one task force, the priority is keeping these Yisraeli dogs out of our election and hopefully wrestling control of the counter-intelligence situation on the islands back into our hands. For the other team, well...it's a bit more simple there. Kill Marin."

"Lots of talk, Murena," began Segarra in response, "You always have lots of talk. But you understand, that the fate of our islands may depend on you actually having something to show for it? This can't just be a chest-beating competition. We need to be better than they are, on a technical level. Think you're up to the task?" he asked, his mustache's twitch betraying his skepticism overtly. Murena looked down for a bit. "The world's forgotten about trust. So now, I ask you to trust me. I can get the job done and more."

Segarra looked at his comrade with an air of curiosity. "Interesting words coming from our intelligence director."

"Learning who to trust properly if the first step to learning this game. If I hadn't learned it as well as I have, Marin might have blown us both up by now."

Segarra raised an eyebrow, and Murena chuckled; "I rest my case."

Xendarmeria Headquarters, Villa Romera
United Republic of Gran Aligonia
2020-02-26 / 02:46 PM

As Olivia de Andrade walked into the conference room, she saw about six others heading in from the door opposite hers. She'd been contacted for a "special opportunity", and yet couldn't even begin to describe her reluctance when it came to accepting the invitation. She supposed things were different now, and she was just like the rest. Ready to follow orders from a higher-up that was, in theory, more qualified and well-storied than she was. Not that she ever knew that for sure - and that fact sure pissed her off. But what pissed her off more was that she wasn't fully on board with the recent changes to the Xendarmeria in the first place. When she'd signed up a year and a half prior, right around the time of Prince Virxilio's death, she'd had no idea that the whole country would more or less damn implode afterward. She'd just wanted another checklist for her father, the Duke of Vella Viasa, but instead, she'd been roped into a situation she would have avoided at all costs if she'd known - working for a government seemingly hell-bent on dismantling her whole identity.

She sat down, looking around at the rest of the invitees to this "special opportunity". Clearly, whatever this thing was was indeed very special - even seeing Director-General Segarra's gruff mustached face standing with arms crossed at the front of the room was enough to make her do a double-take - but what was more interesting perhaps was the variety of faces that seemed to have been called forward. In addition to herself, there was an ethnic Montoise - betrayed by his Tuareg aesthetics - and a whole range of ages among the remaining six. Even more curious a sight was the suited man who seemed just about ready to speak - she couldn't place him, but she swore she'd seen him in Xendarme blues before, and high up himself.

He began to speak, and she looked at him.

"Greetings, Xendarmes. As you know, Gran Aligonia has taken many a fresh step on the geopolitical stage these days. These steps, while perhaps in our best interest, have, of course, complicated our logistics and our ability to react fast. Where we were once a national police force, now we are a national defense force. We have several programs, all ongoing now, purely dedicated to filling the holes that full independence from Latium and Mont has left behind. This is one of those holes to be filled, and in some respects, this is the most important of them all. You may be asking yourselves, 'how can eight people possibly be this important?' Well, I'll tell you. You're in this meeting because you're being fast-tracked as FIGA's - Forza de Información Gran Aligónico - first proper field task-forces. That's right, our first intelligence agency, here on the archipelago."

A murmur began through the room. A man who she didn't recognize, sitting to her right, whispered a quick word into her ear: "This isn't what I was expecting,"

"Me neither," she hushed back, listening to the suited man continue to speak.

"I am Cario Murena, and I am your director here. Please don't let my Latinesque name fool you - I am as Aligonian as any of us get. As you know, there are two issues that must absolutely take the forefront of our MO. The first, of course, is Bishop Marin. If you were on my Marin taskforce, congratulations, you're here too. Your work will continue - with a blank check. But that's without saying."

Olivia looked around as Murena and several of the others in the room grinned at each other knowingly - this intelligence agency was as much a new creation as it was a merger of previous taskforces. "Our second task-force has a far more complicated and nuanced objective than stopping terrorists - that is, to investigate the presence of Yisraeli and Latin, and potentially other, foreign operatives within the archipelago, and detain them, or else thwart their activities. This is counter-intelligence at its finest - and there will be reading materials regarding that, don't you worry. For time's sake, Agent Mero over there will brief all who need to be briefed on the Marin situation. If you're in the Marin group, you know who you are - we'll talk more directly later."

And with Murena's words did Mero - who Olivia assumed must have been the Montoise man - stand up and direct himself and three others into an adjacent conference room, soon disappearing beyond the wall into another room. Segarra went inside that room too, leaving her and three others inside the room, alone with Murena. Soon after the Marin task force left, one of the three others had stood up - an older-looking man with a greying beard, and a Captain, judging by his rank markings - and taken his place flanking Murena. Murena continued:

If you are still in this room, congratulations, you've been selected to be part of Taskforce Two, which means you're going to investigate a whole long list of our other intelligence problems - but most particularly, based on recent statements from President Katz of Yisrael - we are to assume that Latium and Yisrael are working together to thwart the democratic process in this election; they may have direct ties with the Montecalvo campaign, and certainly, they have operatives on the ground."

Olivia's heart skipped a beat - she'd bet the Montecalvo family many a time as a child of the de Andrades, and even recently as her families had both been on the reformist side of the broader royalist spectrum. She certainly liked her title as a Duke's daughter, but now her mind wandered into the possibility that she was being used by the infant FIGA to get closer to the royalists. Still, she was here, and whatever other side of her brain had made her stay, and accept the invitation at all, seemed to want to remain. Like most children of the nobility, she was torn between fame and anonymity, or, even worse in this day and age, between the old order and the new. As she zoned back into the confrontation, still internally confused, she saw that Murena had gotten a projector running, and was currently showing a Yisraeli man on it.

"This is David Zuckerman, RYIS station chief for Gran Aligonia. We are almost certain that he is the head of Yisraeli operations on the Archipelago, and may have directly orchestrated the operation which hacked into the Chancellor's phone line." Murena explained. "The Royal Yisraeli Intelligence Service, of course, has longstanding ties to many Yisraelis here, both ex-pats and ethnic. This was actually a source of information for us, before the revolution. But times have changed, and now they want their leash around their dog again. Cue the Luzzattos."

The projector's slide changed, and another far older man popped into view. Murena continued. "Naftali Luzzatto is the head of the PCG, and I'm sure he's a familiar name to all of you. We're going to need to know everything he and his company do because he's our key into both Zuckerman's operation and the greater conspiracy here. We've been led to believe - and their financial returns certainly support this - that they may have a stake in waging both misinformation campaigns and potentially worse against the current constitution. And, to top it off, we're not certain of it, but he may very well be one of the names behind the assassination attempt on Prince Veremundo in November; I'm sure you all remember that."

"There may be a triumvirate here - Daniel Weiss, as you know, CEO of all of the Roth Group's domestic operations here on the Archipelago, may all have a hand to play in entrenching Yisraeli influence on an island that they no longer have a right to. I'm sure, as Aligonians, you all agree with that, at the very least." mused Murena, his voice taking an air of professionalism despite the rather political statement he'd just made. The slide changed again, this time to a black-and-white picture of a CCTV scan at what looked to be Villa Romera's airport. "And finally, these are YeMep agents, which seem to have arrived on the island to further contribute to this mess we call politics these days. These are to be considered more than a nuisance. Dangerous, even." Murena paused. "There is always something to keep in mind when viewing information like this. The RYIS and Speculatores are both far more experienced than us at the intelligence game. It is possible that we have not discovered this information, as much as we have been allowed to know this information. It is your duty to find out things that they don't want us to know." and with his final word, Murena stepped back, letting the older man step forward.

"I am Captain Baltasar Duran, and I am the new head of Taskforce Two. I already know all of your names, and I know you know what is expected of you already. We are up against giants of this trade, and we are going to outdo them at every step of the way because that's who we are as Aligonians. And you are not only four people. Whenever you need them, they'res going to be a full two squads of our best Xendarmes ready and willing to assist you. Keep that in mind. These two task-forces are only the first, and you can expect a sister taskforce to join you within a month, headed by whichever member out of yours has proven themselves the most." the Captain paused to clear his throat. "It is times like these that we refrain from bringing politics into the workplace, as hard as it may become." Olivia watched as his eyes, for a second, seemed to lock with hers, before continuing to survey the room. "Many of us have friends and colleagues and even family that are well-tied into Yisrael, Latium, Linhidos. And that is fine, in our eyes. We are not here to attack them - we are here to defend ourselves. And I expect all of you to do your duty to your great country and defend it from misinformation and interference. We are in Basement Room #B24, and we meet every day at seven AM. More details will come with time. Now, you're dismissed. I suggest you introduce yourselves."

Thirty seconds later, and both Captain Duran and Director Murena had cleared out of the room, perhaps to go organize some other chunk of the fledgling FIGA, leaving just Olivia and two others; A tall bearded man in his early thirties, and a rather shorter man with marginally tanner skin and glasses, also somewhere in his thirties. "I'm Brandán Agron, former Villa Romera forensics. Guess I'm an agent now." said the taller man, sunlight coming in through the skylight to bounce around his darker hair. The shorter man responded, "Cheers, agent, I'm Hugo Goya, Special Victims Unit in Tarraron. Who're you, girl?" he asked with a friendly yet curious glance towards Olivia as he shook hands with his new comrade. "I'm Olivia...de Andrade."

A silence only briefly filled the room as the two men now examined Olivia with pointed curiousness. "Interesting, indeed, that Murena would put you on this Taskforce, or in FIGA at all. I heard about when you joined up, what, two years ago, but it was just gossip. What are you good at then? You barely look twenty-five." said Goya, though Agron looked at her with greater skepticism. "Child of a duke, out to take down the Dukes. Isn't that a conflict of interest?"

Olivia was quick to respond. "I may love my family, but I assure you both, that won't stop me from doing my job. Finding out the truth isn't illegal." she rebutted. "I can track phones, and I've been doing it for two years."

"You can track them, but what happens if your dearest father ends up being part of this whole interference cabal?" probed Agron some more. "I would know if that was true," said Olivia, back. "Yeah, you would. But would you have a problem with it?" rebutted Agron again. Goya stopped them. "Enough of this, Agron! Leave the girl alone. If the Captain wants her here, I want her here."

Olivia extended a hand, smirking. "Unlike you, Agron, I don't judge people based on their last name. There's slime in every community. Of course I'm going to help clean it up." Agron reluctantly shook, looking a little skeptical still. "Then may you prove to me that actions speak louder than words, Agent de Andrade."

---

[Yisroel]

Outside Bnai Yisrael Synogogue, Port District, Villa Romera
United Republic of Gran Aligonia
2020-02-29 / 09:15 AM

---

David Zuckerman was being hunted. And he knew it.

It had only been three blocks now, but about forty feet behind him, a young, barely twenty-something swarthy native-born Aligonian boy was tailing him - rather clumsily, if Zuckerman could say so.

Though another thought just popped into his head, which made him smirk in amused interest to himself: perhaps the boy was a decoy, and a more experienced Xendarme police detective-turned-counterintelligence operative was hunting him more discreetly from an unseen angle. That thought raised his spirits. Cunning opposition is better than inept opposition. All spies lived by that motto - the "great game" was played as much for patriotism as it was for sport.

Coming from another nearly-deserted street, another young man approached - this one being one of his men. The other nodded almost imperceptibly. Good. There is another tail, then. Flashing his subordinate the slightest of nods in return, they both crossed the street. The clumsy tail half-heartedly stopped by a storefront window and failed to adequately contain his furtive glances over his shoulder. Whoever his subordinate had picked up was nowhere to be seen. A professional, at least.

Zuckerman and his agent entered the yellow-and-blue brick building in front of them - the Bnai Yisrael Shul (Synogogue), the oldest congregation on the islands. Entering the front, they came face-to-face with four fully-armed Pyrion Defense Group private security guards, all with holstered sidearms and wearing bullet-proof vests and crisp caps. "Gentlemen," Zuckerman said, gazing at all four. "Sir," the most gruff-looking replied deferentially.

"There's likely two Aligonian spies loitering outside. Make sure they don't disturb our prayer here."

"Understood," the Pyrion commander said. Gesturing, he and his men took up vigilant positions by the windows flanking the front door.

"Go find Luzzatto," he instructed his younger operative, Michoel Eisenberger. Eisenberger nodded crisply and entered the sanctuary, where a low hymn of fervent congregational prayer could be heard. Eisenberger, in his early 20s, fresh from the RYIS Academy, had been on the islands only a month or so, but was proving as adapt and intelligent as his file had suggested. Hailing from the Chardal sector, he was the perfect Yisraeli spy: intelligent, perceptive, educated, quick-on-his-feet, patriotic, and religious.

Glancing into a large mirror hanging on the antechamber's wall, Zuckerman eyed his own profile. He was not as young as he once was, in his late 30s touching 40. His brown hair had turned a respectable salt-and-pepper hew, and he had maintained his thin physique despite the aging-induced challenges his body faced. A bad knee. An annoying crank in his back. But his mind was as sharp as ever, and Hashem [G-d] continually blessed him with fortuitous turn-of-events that had him survive four near-death experiences and numerous injuries ranging from mild to severe in the field operations he'd gone on in the last 18 years. He was here, alive and strong, and by the One Above, he would ensure Yisrael and Jews everywhere were safe, secure, and prosperous.

His thin-lipped smile turned into a frown. That means the Aligonian republican moment must die. It was an affront to G-d - and he, as one of the warriors of the Chosen People, needed to destroy it before its evil tentacles spread like wildfire. Republicanism, secularism, atheism, leftism - it was all the same. It merited the same response. Utter and complete defeat. And on these islands, Zuckerman would ensure it was.

Interrupting his introspection, Eisenberger returned followed by an older man with a graying beard and wearing the traditional black-and-white stripped tallis, cloak-style, over his shoulders and back. Another man, in his forties and also wearing a tallis, followed the first pair.

"David," Naftali Luzzatto teasingly rebuked, "How can you send this young man to get me before he even davens [prays]! It is Shabbos [the Sabbath] after all. Chas v'sholom [G-d forbid] if you are keeping your men from performing the mitzvos [commandments]."

Zuckerman favored Luzzatto with a humorless smile. "Pikuach nefesh [preservation of life], Naftali. Michoel and the others of my team are saving Jewish lives by engaging in our spycraft - would you leave us vulnerable to our enemies?"

Luzzatto waved a hand dismissively. "As if the goyim [gentiles] would be so bold..."

"Don't doubt it, Naftali." The RYIS spy chief cautioned darkly. "The Aligonian goyim have demonstrated their capacity for violence these past months. Even now, on our holiest day of the week, Xendarme agents tail us."

The older man sighed but said nothing. As if to break the tension, Zuckerman flickered his eyes towards Eisenberger. "Michoel, you are already up to date on the situation. I don't need you for now. Go daven up to Mussaf, then return to us."

"Yes, sir," the young operative replied, smiling. Pausing to fix a clip on the black velvet kippah affixed on the scalp area of his hair, he turned and re-entered the sanctuary.

"An intelligence briefing during Shabbos day davening? Really, this couldn't wait, David?" The third man asked.

"No, Daniel," the spy addressed the other. Daniel Weiss, head of Roth Group operations in the GA. "Our opposition is restless and on the move. Just as Hashem wants us to be. Now both of you, come here."

The trio retreated to a quiet corner. Glancing at both Weiss and Luzzatto with a serious expression, Zuckerman started, "Thanks to separate intel collected by both of your networks, it is true that the Aligonians have created their own intelligence agency. 'FIGA' they call it - the Forza de Información Gran Aligónico.

"I have two of my men monitoring the main entrances to their headquarters, which is in the existing Xendarmeria Headquarters building. My opposite number in the Speculatores told me he has a few of his men surveilling the building as well."

"Alright," Weiss said soberly, as Luzzatto nodded approvingly.

"Yerushalayim is sending in one of our best men, who I will task with infiltrating and getting an info dump on how FIGA is structured, their personnel, and so on.

"You, Naftali," he said, cold hazel eyes flickering to rest on the older banker, "Our operation concerning Montecalvo remains active. Keep the cash drops going and maintain your presence at Royalist functions."

"Yes, I understand."

"Daniel," Zuckerman continued, turning to the gray-haired forty-something Roth executive. "Keep me informed on the Xendarmes' latest silly little games about trying to block your soldiers' Internet access. Unit Three will continue to disrupt their jamming ops."

"Good," Weiss said, letting out a sigh of relief. "Your men are a G-d-send, truly."

"Indeed," the spy chief concurred. "The YeMep team have their own orders, which they declined to share with me, from His Majesty himself."

The others' eyes widened. "YeMep, here?" Weiss breathed out nervously.

"Yes," Zuckerman answered him warily. "We shall soon see what His Majesty has planned for the republican scum. Until then, maintain your vigilance and carry out our plans without delay." Luzzatto and Weiss both nodded gravely and returned to the sanctuary.

He checked his watch and decided to give Eisenberger a few more minutes to wrap up his davening (personally, Zuckerman wasn't a big davener himself and did so only when he found it convenient - but, still, it was important to not let the younger troops grow as religiously lax as he was). He walked over to one of the windows facing the street.

As he watched the street - that 'inept tail' decoy still maintaining his presence, now having moved on to 'reading' a newspaper at a small cafe across the way - another person caught his gaze. She was tall, perhaps early twenties, with light brown hair with gold-ish highlights. Her face was angular, and she had - what was it? Ah. Uncertain-tinged light brown eyes.

She seemed to just be taking a stroll...but then she glanced at the tail reading the paper at the cafe, and then she looked at the shul, locking eyes with Zukerman. After starring at each other for a full minute, she seemed to have some panicking realization, as she broke off the eye contact and hurriedly walked faster on her way.

The RYIS spy chief had memorized her face and form. He didn't know who she was, but he would found out. Because as clear as day, she was a FIGA agent.

[Yisroel]

Runway, Xosue Razo de Avina International Airport, outside Villa Romera
United Republic of Gran Aligonia
2020-03-01 / 12:34 PM

---

The loud, sudden, rubbery thumps of the airliner touching down on black asphalt jolted Osher Berkowitz awake. Groggy and grumbling, he rubbed the place in between his eyes where his nose met his skull, trying to encourage his sleepy eyes to stay open. A pleasant-sounding noise chimed twice, and then the ambient background was inundated with the clanging of released seat belts, inane shuffling, overhead bins being opened, and ever-increasingly murmurs from fellow travelers.

"Welcome to Xosue Razo de Avina International Airport," the youngest of the female airline attendants intoned cheerfully. "The local time is 12:34pm. Welcome to the United Republic of Gran Aligonia. The United Republic is pleased by your visit and patronage. On behalf of Arcadian Airways, we hope you enjoyed your flight."

Always do, Berkowitz repeated to himself. It helps when one flies first class. The RYIS was not one to be frugal with the luxuries it showered on its employees, but in this case Berkowitz's cover fit the expense. He posed as Aaron Richman, a nephew of Gedalia Richman, CEO of Goldman, Black, and Richman Group, a major globetrotting hedge fund with ties to Yisrael, Arthurista, and Belfras.

Although he was a religious Jew, Berkowitz easily slid into the profile of a Yisraeli of ethic Aligonian background visiting his family's ancestral diasporic country. He was of medium height and build, wore an expensive business suit and traditional tie of cool colors and old-fashioned patterns, and had a clipped black velvet kippa sitting prominently on the crown of his head. His skin was slightly more tanned, giving him an almost olive-tone native to the Periclean basin, whether in southern Belisaria or northern Scipia. Anecdotally, Berkowitz had found - supported by some internal agency studies - that most non-Jews, including foreign intelligence operatives - instinctively saw the religious garb and subconsciously gave the person a benign, innocent impression and moved on.

After a prolonged thirty-minute delay getting off the crowded plane and retrieving his roll-on suit case, he stepped up to the customs and border control post. A stern and bored-looking native-born Aligonian man in a crisp black-and-dark blue uniform which boasted a prominent white patch with a heraldic lion on his upper-right arm looked up as Berkowitz smartly walked up and offered his passport. A few of his fellow Xendarmeria colleagues, holding assault rifles and wearing personal body armor and SWAT-style helmets, casually patrolled throughout the customs area.

"Aaron Richman?" The border guard said officiously, coldly eying Berkowitz up and down. His eyes flickered to hover on his black velvet kippah for an extended heartbeat, then back to the passport.

"Yes, that's me." Berkowitz replied calmly, offering the man a pleasant thin-lipped smile.

His neutral frown staying static, the guard asked, "Reason for your visit?"

"Business."

"What type of business?"

"Finance. I'm here to conduct some meetings in and around Villa Romera with potential high-income clients for financial services on behalf of my employer, Goldman, Black, and Richman Group, out of Loweport, Arthurista."

The other's eyes blinked and his expression grew darker (if such a thing was possible), indicating he recognized the name of the global Arthuro-Yisraeli financial giant.

"Banking?" The guard questioned, almost-incredulously. The RYIS agent nodded.

He then snorted. "I see. These clients of yours - I doubt they care for local banks, anyways."

Berkowitz shrugged. "We serve a global clientele, officer."

"No doubt," the other said contemptuously. His eyes flickered away from Berkowitz as he stamped the Arthuristan passport. "Move along now."

Berkowitz pocketed his passport and began to stroll purposefully through the airport. The terminal had tressled sunlights in the ceiling that let in natural light, while the walls from waist-level up were painted a dull-looking brownish-red. Every few feet or so was a store or a kiosk selling overpriced merchandise. A colorful mural of Leuter Sion, his red hair tussled and shirt collar opened at the top, gazing intently at passing travelers plastered one full segment of wall, while at the occasional bar or restaurant, the televisions were blaring. Unlike in other airports he had frequented, the TV stations here all had news channels on. The closest one Berkowitz eyed was playing a press conference being given by royalist candidate Artus Montecalvo, who was gesturing an unheard point vigorously for theatrical effect.

"All politics, all the time," he muttered quietly to himself. For whatever reason, his gaze fell on a tall bearded man, perhaps in his early thirties, lounging at the edge of one of the airport bars. The man went through the motions of tracing his finger on the screen of his RothPhone, but even at a glance, Berkowitz could tell the guy was a professional. Good, the Aligonians are finally starting to play spycraft. Berkowitz smiled softly, mostly to himself. His RYIS mentor had said it best: The most rewarding ops were against competent opposition rather than inept fools. After noting the man's face and profile, Berkowitz continued on his way without another glance at the other man's way.

He blended out of sight into the bustling airport crowd.

Downtown Villa Romera

Berkowitz stepped into the lobby elevator with a well-garnished bell hop, and the doors closed as the elevator ascended. From the outside, the nondescript office building in the Port District of the capital city looked like any other normal office building. Lawyers' and accountants' offices occupied most of its fifteen stories. On the eighth floor, however, the level was officially leased to a "Goldstein Financial" holding company whose website boasted "a stunning array of personal and corporate financial services."

In reality, the eighth floor was the outpost of a small RYIS base. The bell hop, a plainclothes local security man on agency payroll, inserted a bland-looking keycard when the elevator hit the eighth floor. The doors opened, and he gestured. Berkowitz nodded and entered. Still playing to its financial fascade, the elevators opened to a spacious and well-adorned office lobby. Directly ahead, a good-looking but modestly dressed "secretary" sat behind a long reception desk. To his right, a small built-in fountain strayed forward gentle streams of waters into a receiving pond. To his left, a panel of floor-to-ceiling open-styled windows sat attended to by a set of comfortable chairs and a coffee table. The view of the harbor was gorgeous.

Berkowitz went straight to the "secretary."

"Mr. Richman?" She asked politely.

"Yes, ma'am."

"How was your flight?"

"Largely stable, a bit turbulent over Villa Romera as we were landing," he grinned more broadly. "Still, I think overall just fine."

Nodding at the correct code phrase, her demeanor relaxed a bit and her tone became crisper. "Agent Osher Berkowitz, welcome to the Villa Romera Outpost. Mr. Zukerman is expecting you. Please go through those doors," she gestured to his right.

"Thank you." He turned and entered the uniform-looking oak-paneled office door, opening up into a large, windowless office space cluttered with cubicles and support beams. A black-clad guard, wearing an emblazed Pyrion Defense Group logo and shouldering an MP-5 assault rifle, gently stopped him with an out-raised hand. Putting a finger in his ear com, evidently getting confirmation from the secretary, he nodded and let him through.

He picked his way through the open space, noting intelligence analysts, hackers, cybersecurity specialists, and others going about their duties. As he walked by one auxiliary room, he saw briefly two more uniformed Pyrion operatives playing with game-style controllers - drone operators he realized.

He entered another hallway, passed a female staffer, and entered another office, this one with an external view vis-à-vis the lobby fascade. David Zuckerman, station chief for the RYIS's operations in Gran Aligonia, looked up from his computer and waved him in.

"Osher Berkowitz, Shalom Aleichom [Peace Be Upon You]," he said gregariously, standing and shaking hands. "Welcome to Villa Romera."

"Thank you, sir."

"Safe travels?"

"Baruch Hashem [Thank G-d]."

"Good, good." The older spy replied.

The Gran Aligonia posting had been considered a dead-end posting for years, however, since the recent crisis and overthrow of the absolute monarchy this past winter, Yerushalayim had sent new agents and resources. This escalated in January and February, as Leuter Sion upped his attacks on Yisraeli interests and unusual personal attacks on outgoing President Noah Feldman, and his successor, Yitzchok Katz. With feelings in the senior RYIS brass believing Gran Aligonia was a new battleground in a trans-Periclean war between royalists and anti-royalists, the agency's GA assignment suddenly was the envious ambition of numerous up-and-coming agents. While the RYIS maintained its chief operations center inside the Yisraeli Embassy, given the new scrutiny by the Xendarmeria, it had recently opened an "outpost" away from the embassy, in the heart of the Aligonian Jewish community, to help provide better cover for operatives.

"What did Headquarters have you on before this op?" Zukerman, taking a sip of his coffee, asked him, somewhat distracted by something else on his computer screen.

"Green put us tracking the CID team in Ascalzar tracing the Sion call - "

"Montian bastards," the station chief bit out in mention of the country's intelligence service, "Always so self-righteous about their politics. I can't stand them."

Berkowitz smiled but simply shrugged. "The Latins wanted to have us help throw the CID snoopers off the scent of their SIGINT base, so we dropped some false clues closer to our border."

"Well, others can handle that small-ball stuff. We need you here. You aware of your mission?"

"Yes, sir. Infiltrate the new Aligonian intelligence agency, FIGA, by any means possible, including but not limited to bugging, tapping, or hacking their computer and data systems and otherwise obtain their personnel and active ops lists."

Zukerman nodded confidently. "You have full use of my outpost's resources and personnel, as per the Chief Inspector's imperative. I took the initiative of informing our local Speculatores friends to your presence."

"Very good, sir." Berkowitz answered. "I'm ready to get to work."

Zukerman laughed and gave him a fatherly wink, finally seeming to let go of whatever background issue was stressing him out. "All in good time, Osher." He took out two liquor glass cups and poured a bit of a sweet Vardanan kosher liqueur.

They clinked glasses. "L'Chaim [To Life!]."

After a few minutes of sipping from their drinks and talking about the view, Zukerman suddenly reached into a desk draw and plopped a vanilla folder in front of Berkowitz.

"Take a look," the older spy gestured welcomingly. Intrigued, the younger operative opened the file. Inside, there were official Gran Aligonian documents, with a picture of a young woman clipped at the top. She was on the taller side, likely in her early-to-mid twenties, with light brown hair with gold highlights. She had a pointed face and light brown eyes. He peered at her for a full minute.

"Cute girl. Who is she?" Berkowitz asked, smirking.

Zukerman simply flashed him a predatory smile. "Your ticket into FIGA."

"Who - ?"

"Olivia de Andrade. Smart girl by everything in her public records. Unfortunately for them, FIGA's cyber guys forgot to scrub everything before our boys got a look and screen-shoted everything on their Xendarmes police files during that cyber attack we did back in January. I saw her a few days ago when I met some of our local network heads on Shabbos. I perused Cyber's files until I found her." He paused. "It's her eyes that give her away. They show...conflict, confusion. I suspect she's torn between her royalist family and her civic duty."

Berkowitz looked at her picture again. Now that Zukerman pointed it out, it did seem like she had some internal conflict, all showing through the sad complexion in her eyes.

"My wife won't be pleased, but..." he said, gesturing to his wedding ring. Zukerman gave him a look. "You know agency rules. Seducing enemy or opposing agents is a valuable opportunity. Perhaps she could be convinced without...romantic attachment."

"I know, sir..." Berkowitz's eyes flickered away. After a pause, he replied, "I'll look into her and see if she's vulnerable to romantic entanglement or ideological and familial divisions."

"Good man," Zukerman said, smiling like a excited boy. The pair of spies - one older, one younger - clicked glasses and downed the liqueur.

[Enyama]

Cowritten with Yisroel.

Near the Boardwalk,
Cinto de Ouro, Villa Romera
United Republic of Gran Aligonia
2020-03-16 / 08:13 PM

The streets shone brightly with the glow of many a halogen light, distant radio music echoing through streets that had slowly become deserted after curfew had dawned. Marin’s bombing had made the Xendarmes especially paranoid, and yet, as Olivia walked down the street, she couldn’t think of a single noteworthy development towards finding him that FIGA had made since its creation. Those Taskforce Oners sure are gonna have it coming, she mused in her head idly, as she rocked down the street. Taskforce Two had gotten its own grilling after she’d given herself away to Zuckerman earlier in the month, and now even the thought of that operation filled her with a healthy dose of dread and anxiety. Captain Duran’s words still echoed inside her brain, looping and repeating back to her in ways that almost seemed to taunt more than hurt,

“You seemed smart when I hired you, de Andrade, yet you defied all of my expectations,” Duran’s voice scolded, “Now I can’t put you in the damn field with him!”

Yet, still, she’d gotten her second chance, and not a moment before she’d seemed on the verge of emotional collapse. Fate had a habit of striking her squarely in the jaw only to pick her back up. She glanced inside, to an open and strikingly transparent orange glow of a window. TV was on, playing more of Sion’s antics, and, in front of it, a rather dejected-looking family sat and dined. She continued her stroll, one of the few still on the streets. She was dressed casually and in decidedly trendy civilian dress, with only a cardigan to protect from the chilly but comfortable sea breeze that perimated Villa Romera at the onset of Spring. If she weren’t out just after curfew, most wouldn’t have batted a second eye towards her receding form, which even in the age of the Republic wasn’t out of place for the middle-class storefronts of Cinto de Ouro, the capital’s oldest and most valued residential district for those not willing to buy a villa in the hills, as many of the city’s richest had done. Her eyes diverted past the peaks of the Red Lions’ Cathedral of Saint Brandasma, to the twinkling lights on the hill beyond, and the titular Villa of Villa Romera beyond that, on the hill, where she was sure that Citizen Abellan was doing his nightly pacing as Xendarmes packed up anything remotely resembling gold, ready to cart it to who knows where.

---

Osher Berkowitz was a disciplined man. He had a daily routine, and he followed it “religiously,” one could say.

As soon as the alarm blared, he awoke instantly, his body by sheer instinct throwing off the covers and he sat up. He muttered Modeh Ani , jumping out and heading to his bathroom vanity, where he filled up a washing cup and, alternatingly, ritually washed his hands three times. He dressed himself, and took out what he started calling in his yeshiva days his “prayer gear.” As a married man, he had a white-and-black striped tallis, which after he carefully wrapped and folded over his shoulders and back, and then put on his tefillin (phylacteries), saying the blessing for each action. After about forty minutes or so of reciting the morning prayer service, he took off and put away the ritual gear, and changed into gym attire.

At the embassy gym, he worked out for about thirty minutes, getting in cardio, mild lifting, and exercises. He returned to his quarters, showered, and began his official duties. Namely, an Aligonian FIGA agent named Olivia de Andrade.

Now at his desk, he reviewed his file on her. In the couple weeks since he began his assignment, he had done all the normal things: a thorough open-source Internet search of her and her family, including official records, social media posts, pictures, and anything else posted online. He began trailing her, learning her daily routines and habits. What coffee she liked, how she dressed, how did she treat strangers. During the middle of the work days when she had entered FIGA’s headquarters at the Xendarmeria building, he used the opportunity to surveil the building as part of his other due diligence into the infiltration op.

The Xendarmeria HQ building was a difficult target, but to Berkowitz, that made the operation all the more fun. The building was already fortress-like - a modernist concrete hulk in a sea of charming medieval aesthetic - and the Aligonians simply reinforced it further. Anti-vehicle barricades at the street level with sweeping, machine-gun-gripping patrols every fifteen minutes. A parked armored police car - Berkowityz hesitated to call it this, seeing as it was built more like an anti-infantry tank - stood visible guard outside the front closed gate, if as to double down on the point. CCTV cameras - some obvious, others disguised - practically littered the streets around the compound, making Berkowitz carefully surveil the area with deliberate camouflage and timing.

He usually took a taxi and had it drive past the front gate, before exiting around the corner and on foot to observe the compound’s walled contours through a very slow process, requiring him to usually wear a cap or hat to shield his face from facial recognition programming and making several midday trips to change into new clothes to throw off suspicion. He always watched the compound from different angles, rarely going back to the same hotel window or cafe table to absorb the comings and goings of the place. He had entered the front lobby only once, to file a fictitious police report involving a staged fight between tourists at a major Villa Romera hotel, and the security inside was just as tight. He would need an insider to navigate this behemoth of a compound if he was to have any luck getting into FIGA’s files.

And his day never ended there - he followed de Andrade home or wherever she went after she left in the evenings. It was grueling work, but it laid groundwork for the biggest event next: approaching her and playing either the romantic or ideological card, and see if she would flip in response to either.

---

Olivia stopped, watching the orange glow of twilight in the distance slowly turn to purple, as she arrived at the grocery store not far from her apartment, a usual stop for her to snag some cigarettes on her way home. Entering the little bodega, she quickly got what she was looking for, a pack of Sante Reze Menthol Delights, and opened one up, putting the smoke in her mouth just outside the place as she watched two Xendarmes drive by in a sports-car-based cruiser, the two men eyeing her briefly at the intersection before departing with a voracious roar of their engine. As she reached into the bag for her lighter, she saw another man exit from inside the bodega, likely some man who she’d walked right by while getting her daily dose of carcinogens.

He was tall and tanned, not uncommon on the archipelago, and he eyed her a bit as he stepped outside, watching her light her cigarette. He also wore rather snappy attire, typical of someone in the district: A button-down, a sports coat, and a brown fedora. She realized that, again, as she’d done with Zuckerman, she’d been gazing at the man for a bit too long, though she did it not out of any sense of good spycraft, but rather out of simple curiosity. She lit her cigarette, cocking her head towards him, “Out for a smoke too?” she asked, making small talk.

He flashed her a swarthy smile of mild amusement, but gently shook his head. “I’m not a smoker, myself.” He said in accented Aligonian, cocking his head slightly. “Though I do have a question…”

She looked at him, raising an eyebrow.

“...what is a beautiful woman like yourself doing out here, all alone?” He finished, somewhat smoothly, somewhat sheepishly. Olivia cocked her head to the side, Oh, another one of these, she thought, smiling at the man’s flirtation, but mostly out of politeness rather than genuine interest. As a response, she gestured with her cigarette, “What’s it look like? Getting my daily dose of stress relief.” she fired back, wondering if the man would turn out to be more interesting than the typical bar-patron that talked to her that way.

“Oh? What kind of work do you do that stresses you out so much?” He teasingly countered, seeing she was hardened to the standard strangers-at-a-bar approach. He pulled down his aviator-style glasses to gaze at her, eye-to-eye.

She took a drag of her cigarette, “Let’s just leave it at government work. Lots of that going around these days, I’m sure you know,” she said, watching another car go by before she glanced back, examining his aviators - at night-time, the move of a man rather desperate to look cool, in her eyes.

In the inner sanctum of his mind, Berkowitz quickly played over his options. Her studied disinterest would ruin the whole approach, so he pivoted. “Government, you say? Not much hiring these days from what I hear. Though that new agency - ” He trailed off for effect to gain her interest. “No, you wouldn’t?” He chuckled nervously. “I’m sorry, I was going to suggest a new government department, but you don’t look like…” He purposely trailed off, his words bleeding with disbelief, hoping she was intrigued enough to continue his train of thought.

“The paper-pushers, you mean?” she veiled her retort with feigned ignorance, though she seemed a bit-on edge seeing as the conversation had already pivoted into talking about FIGA, something that had caught her off guard. A decade of awkward dates had made her rather artful at deflecting social surprises, though, and the rush she was getting from her first cigarette of the day was helping to keep her wit grounded, “No, I just do paperwork all day.” she said, comfortable in her lie as it was actually, entirely true, “Boring clerical stuff. Shit that keeps the cogs turning,” she elucidated.

“I was talking about spies, actually.” Berkowitz turned his tone serious for a half-moment, before going jovial again. He laughed casually. “You look like a kick-butt secret agent from one of the super spy movies. You know, Asher Frum and that whole genre.”

And with that statement, Olivia exhaled some more cigarette smoke, “That’s a creative compliment,” she said, though she knew by the tone of his voice that something was up, and made a mental note not to reflect that in her body language. The conversation had turned from coincidence to something far more than that. Another Xendarme cruiser barreled past, siren wailing, flooding the front of the bodega with a moment of fluorescent cerulean and scarlet. “You trying to get a job there or something?” she asked with veiled incredulity, “Don’t think the Xendarmes would appreciate your hat, gotta be honest,” she took another drag, chuckling in an area of emotional space between genuine and uneasy.

Berkowitz chuckled alongside her, then letting things go quiet for a minute. He saw a glimmer in her eye at the mention of spies - he knew he had her interest, and now was the time to press the offensive.

“Actually, I’m well-employed,” he laughingly replied. “I work for an international organization that focuses on research and gathering data. Like you, I’m a paper-pusher most of the time,” he said smoothly, putting some fingers on his fedora to tip it towards her in an unspoken salute. “Though my superiors put me in the field as needed to, ah, conduct my surveys with the…target audience.” His lips formed a thin-lipped, confident smile. “I usually recognize fellow professionals in my industry, so I had to see if you and I shared a common professional interest.”

Olivia blinked, rubbing her brow as she exhaled the last of the cigarette and dropped it on the ground, putting it out with her wedge, “Ugh,” she said, smoke still escaping her mouth. The street had grown eerily silent as more and more had gotten the memo about the curfew. “Okay, what do you want?” she asked with total seriousness, dropping all the pretense, “Since you’re clearly trying to get a rise out of me. Bet your handlers are listening right now under that fancy-schmancy shirt of yours,” she gestured.

And with that, she tipped her hand. Romantic card out of play, ideological/familial card drawn and laying out, face-up, on the deck. Good, he thought to himself, better to not have to have my wife worry. His expression and tone changed from jovial and smooth to professional and cold. “Handlers? Hardly. Though you are a fascinating woman to get to know, Olivia de Andrade.”

Olivia sighed, her face-to-face encounter with Zuckerman coming at her in her mind again as Duran’s scolding again came back to taunt her, They know who I am already, she thought, though it was to be expected. Fuck!

“You can look me up all you want, hat, but nobody knows me without my permission,” she retorted, her voice maintaining a steady calm as she channeled the moment of peace she would get squeezing the trigger at the firing range into the interaction.

The thin-lipped smile returned to Berkowitz’s face. His eyes flickered to rest on her angry face. Excellent, he thought. She took the bait. He had her locked and now he had to reel her in.

“Actually, you’re quite easy to ‘know,’ Olivia,” he said, his voice with the slightest tinge of a taunt. He folded his arms comfortably. “Your routines and habits vary little, and you’re a person of convenience and ease. Then again, I understood you joined FIGA reluctantly, after planning to have a long-term police career that was derailed by Leuter Sion’s would-be revolution.”

The words stung, and she struggled successfully to keep from saying something too inflammatory to be professional, “I assume you’re a patriot, if you’re willing to come all this way just to gather your intel? Wherever you might be coming from,” she asked with arms crossed, waiting for a quick retort. Her wedged heel remained pressed onto the cigarette butt, and twisted back and forth slowly, her own reaction to the nervous energy that had now invaded her favorite smoke spot.

“Of course,” he replied gently. “Excellent,” she cooed, “Then I’m sure you must understand that, regardless of what my views might be, I don’t take kindly to strangers meddling in my country’s problems. I don’t know what the purpose of your visit here is, and I must say, hat, I am trying hard not to see it as a threat.”

Ignoring her last point, he turned to her initial opening: “Patriotism is in an interesting thing,” he waxed philosophic, “One is loyal to one’s country, naturally. What if one’s country is unsettled? At war with itself even? Then patriotism demands a deeper look at which faction best represents that citizen’s values.” He paused, before cocking his head slightly. “The fact is, Olivia, you live in an unsettled country. You - and your noble family - grew up in one Gran Aligonia. The United Republic regime has a different vision of your country. Your public service speaks to your virtue, but you need to assess whether the current regime is deserving of your loyalty, your patriotism. Your family and your position tell me - and others - that the Sion regime has little to no use for people like you. They care about other groups in your society - and scorn families like yours. Tell me, does that sound like a state worth giving your allegiance to?”

With all the chips down on the table, it seemed easier to breathe for Olivia, and, as she listened to his stump speech, she couldn’t help but to offer a light chuckle at its end, “I have this debate every weekend with someone.” she paused, reflecting on his use of the word “regime” - a characterization that had scantly been used in Latin referrals to her government, and which narrowed him down to Yisraeli, more than likely, though she wouldn’t reveal that realization, “Actually, I’m gonna need another smoke for this,”

She stopped rubbing the cigarette butt into the pavement with her foot, finally alleviating the air of a light grinding sound that nobody would have noticed had it not stopped, as she retrieved another and put it in her mouth, lighting up her face for a brief moment in the growing darkness.

“So, Señor Sombreiro, did you think you could make an ally out of interrupting my smoke session? Unlike Princes, Chancellors are temporary, and you’re naive to call what’s going on here a ‘regime’,” she took a drag, “...the Aligonian people are learning to decide for themselves. Level heads will win, and they don’t need your slimy hands all over it. You’ve made our tiny island your problem, but it isn’t your problem. I suggest you internalize that,” she said.

His smile dipped slightly, but he otherwise remained unfazed in light of her derogatory comments (much lighter than other adversaries in other missions, he noted wryly to himself). Well, perhaps he and the local RYIS Analysis Unit had misjudged her politically - the psychologists had pinned her as “uncertain” and “divided” in her ideological leanings in their psychosocial-political report based on his intelligence-gathering. Perhaps…or perhaps he had approached this too strongly and invoked her patriotic impulse. Let’s switch tracks.

“Lest anyone accuse you of not being a loyal Aligonian…” he chuckled, before turning more polished, colder, in command. “That’s all fine stuff you said there, but it pales when it comes to family, wouldn’t you agree?” He had a trump card, a nugget of intel from the Luzzatto network whose value was needed now.

“Your father, Roberto.” His eyes locked onto hers intently. “He has engaged in a number of activities recently that, well, let us say would be viewed as treason by Sion and your superiors. There is a real chance he will be caught and arrested. What will you do then? Your father’s life and reputation in tatters...and yours along with it. We’re aware of the tension in your workplace,” Berlowitz was fairly confident of that assertion, seeing the coldness between her and her two main FIGA coworkers when they traveled together outside of the Xendarmeria HQ, “Do you believe your superiors will disregard your background and your father’s activities and believe in your professed loyalty to them?”

She took a long drag, definitely her longest yet, her eyes not wavering from his briefly as she tried to peer past his words. This was the first she’d heard of her father’s involvement in this whole mess - FIGA hadn’t told her anything, and her father hadn’t revealed anything to her either. The most anxiety-inducing part of the man’s statements seemed to be that they could be true, and that was information she would need time to process, certainly more time than this encounter would offer. But, it could also be nothing more than drivel, fabricated just for her. Her father’s warm smile flashed into her head, but only for a moment.

“I can tell.” she paused, offering a wave towards his attire, “You’ve been doing this for a long time. You’re good at it. You’re definitely better than I am, and I’m sure Zuckerman told you to look for me. Yeah, I can smell it on you, it’s all going to plan right now, isn’t it?” She made a momentary gap in conversation, gauging his reaction, “I honestly don’t know if I should be amused or shocked. I could deflect this some more, and I bet you’d start blackmailing me with something real, instead of this bullshit you’ve just conocted.” With her strong words, she took her stance on the issue of her father, though she didn’t know for certain if he was lying, “And I could scream right now, and I know it in my heart that the cops just down the street would absolutely be thrilled to meet you. And they’re not the type to take a man’s word against a woman’s, let alone a woman with a badge.”

His smile wavered for a brief moment, but he simply stared at her. Ignoring her threats of summoning the police, he carried on, his tone losing all of its taunt-filled edge. “It’s not blackmail, it’s the truth. I’m not surprised he left you in the dark. Perhaps he thought it was for your own good,” Berkowitz’s tone was earnest and genuine at this point, “Regardless, as you noted, I am a patriot. However, I come from a people that value truth. I speak the truth right now - no nonsense, no ‘concocting.’ I understand it’s not what you want to hear, but it is real - and you are in danger. Not from me, or my people - but your own. And so is your father. My goal is to find and align like-minded people with similar interests to my country’s together so we can have a mutually advantageous outcome. If nothing else about our meeting tonight, I hope you’ll see I’m telling the truth in that, at least.”

He paused, glancing down each way of the street in front of them. “As you’ve aptly pointed out, it is time for us to conclude our meeting - for now, I hope.” Berkowitz took out a burner phone and handed it over to her. “I suggest we meet at another time to discuss your family’s situation further.”

He took out his RothPhone and dialed a number, speaking in rapid-fire Sydalene. A white van, which had had its lights off around the other corner, suddenly came to life, and it spun over until it was next to Berkowitz. Tipping his hat, he said with a flashy smile, “Good evening, Olivia.”
The white van’s doors opened and there stood several black-clad men gripping M-5 submachine guns. Berkowitz jumped in and the door slammed behind him, and the van drove off into the night, leaving Olivia alone.

As the purr of the van’s engine slowly faded into the darkening streets, Olivia was left clutching a burner phone, left with a confused fury that had muddled her brain more. Burning through her second cigarette in almost an instant, she quickly examined the burner phone again, thoughts echoing in her head for what plan to have now, given the information that she had acquired. I bet this phone is tracking me, she thought to herself, even her mind sounding miffed in monologue as she trotted up the street, the air getting colder as the ocean spat its pleasant vapours over the city. Passing by two Xendarmes, to which she quickly flashed a badge that allowed her safe passage, she turned a corner onto an alleyway, and then down a ramp to a parking garage.

She had a trip to make, and she was taking it tonight. Inside the parking garage, in her reserved spot, sat a black sports car which she jumped into with haste. The burner sat in her pocket, but her mind focused to her real phone, and she quickly checked the time, wondering what her prospects were for getting to Vesbon before everyone at her family’s home was asleep. With a rev of her car, she began to reverse…

De Andrade Villa, Vesbon
United Republic of Gran Aligonia
2020-03-16 / 10:20 PM

Olivia screeched into her parents’ driveway as she breathed a sigh of relief, noting that the lights in her old house still glowed with the typical cozy orange that often gave her pangs of nostalgia by itself. She had no time for such distractions now, having spent the previous two hours airing her head inside her car, distracting her busy mind with someone else’s music as she fixated on what she had to do.

Up the long steps she went, coming face to face with the door, which she opened in a right guess of whether it was unlocked or not. As the orange light bathed her body, she trotted up into the house with purpose, a glance to her right revealing the sounds of sociality: her brother, Denis, was playing billiards with some of his old buddies, which she recognized. Her brother did too, and for a second they locked eyes, as he stopped his shot and set his cue aside, trying to rush over to her saying; “Oh God, Olivia, what’s up? I haven’t seen you in-”

But she was already gone, going up the stairs, and up the stairs again, to her father’s study, where the ornate maple doors sat imposingly shut. With a push of cathartic force, she pushed the door open to reveal her father idling by a fake fireplace, smoking a cigar as he typically did. Her brother’s voice called out from below, the thuds of his footsteps illustrating to her that he was clambering up the stairs to see what the commotion was all about. As he rounded the final turn, and before her father could even react, she locked eyes with her brother again, “Stay out of this! I’ll tell you later!” she said, slamming the doors with a defiant echo that seemed to emanate through the whole foundation of the mansion. Spinning on her heels, she gazed at her father.

“We need to talk. Now.”

---

Osher, safely back in his quarters at the Yisraeli Embassy, paused after he finished typing his after-action report to Zukerman. His sports coat and fedora lay tossed on his bed, Olivia’s file open in front of him on his desk. He gazed at her clipped picture.

Had he judged her right? He thought he had. The daughter of displaced nobility, uncertain and politically confused. Her father, a key player in the RYIS’s plan for the GA.

“Yes,” he said quiet aloud to himself. “I’ve introduced the seeds. Now time for them to germinate and take hold. Once she realizes her family’s position in all this, she will almost have to join forces with us.”

Pleased with his evening’s work, he scanned the report again for typos, then hit send. It would appear in Zukerman’s secure inbox within moments. His personal cell phone rang. His wife.

“Good evening, my love,” he said affectionately. “No, no, perfect timing. I just davened maariv. Mhm. Well, I had a good day, actually. I had a difficult sales pitch to a reluctant prospect today, but I suspect they will take me up on the company’s offer…”

[Mutul]

outside of Villa Romera
United Republic of Gran Aligonia

---

“Papers please”

The “Xosue Razo de Avina International airport” was always busy, but there were very few people coming in the country in these confusing times. And all had very good reasons to do so, and tourism wasn’t one anymore.

The passport was in order. Mr. Tibor Horvarth, Drevstranese nationality, 52 years old. Face matched the picture, the same droopy eyes and face structure, even if the man had put on some weight and his hairs had greyed since when the picture was taken. His mustache also grew thicker.

“Reason for visit ?”

“Work. Job at the embassy.” The voice was slow and dull. The customs officer couldn’t help but think that that man sounded like an idiot. Another one.

His visas were in order, duly signed by his embassy, so there was no reason to hold him up any longer. The agent gave his papers back to Mr. Horvarth and mechanically greeted him with the standard “Welcome to Grand Aligonia.” The Drevstranese man nodded back before moving away while the next person on the line came up to his desk.

Horvarth walked out of the airport and ended up in a rather large, yet well decorated with Periclean trees and flowers, parking lot. He lit up a cigarette, took a few deep breath, and looked around with his droopy eyes. A quick glance at his watch alerted him that he had around ten minutes to reach the nearest bus stop and take the Line 3 if he wanted to reach his destination on time. So he picked up his suitcase, and walked.

A full 45 minutes later, he was at the Drevstranese embassy. With his characteristic slowness, he did all the steps to be allowed inside, waited for a bit alongside other foreign nationals before he was welcomed warmly by an embassy official who led him to his office. One last glance behind him and he closed the door.

“So. When do I start ?”

“Not too fast. You just arrived and safety protocols have been hauled up. But you should meet your new team tomorrow. Please, be patient. We heard they have talents but no experience in your field.

“‘Sure they do… When is Durkas supposed to arrive ?”

“A few days from now. Mr. Horvarth, we have to emphasis : they may be students, but don’t feel bad if you help them here and there. It’s regrettable but security is not something that we can just compromise for the sake of learning.

Horvarth gave a blank stare to the official in front of him. “It’s this bad ?”

“We have reasons to believe we are not entirely safe here.”

“No shit there are terrorists outside blowing stuff up.”

“It wouldn’t faze us if there weren’t other factors. It’s in the files.”

Mr.Horvarth went closer to the desk and took the aforementioned files, beginning his reading immediately. He took a dozen uninterrupted minutes before he finally closed it. From start to finish his expression had remained unflinching and very dumb looking, with his dull eyes and slightly opened mouth.

“It’ll do.” is all he said. The two men then shacked hands and he departed, while the embassy worker meticulously fed the files to a paper shredder. The remaining papercuts would then be burned and divided into three random piles of ashes to be thrown in three different public bin. Standard safety with all official documents. He then sat back down behind his desk, and returned to work. The higher ups hadn’t disclosed the name of the man they had sent for “security service”, to help train the newly formed FIGA on the demand of Gran Aligonia. And if he hadn’t personally worked with him before on a mission, years ago, he wouldn’t have recognized him.

And despite all the files he read on the situation, it was seeing him that made him realize how truly off-rail the situation was.

[Belfras]

Belfrasian Embassy,
Villa Romera,
Gran Aligonia

When the sun began it's final descent for the day, it always turned seconds into minutes for Leo Caetan. He decided, a few years ago and in a different nation of course, that life's simple pleasures had more sustenance than the greatest. The sun, in it's descent, cast the sky a glorious red that beamed off of small cloud formations, shadows on the uneven formations adding to the painting displayed outside of Leo's window. It reminded him, he realised as he drank the last of his coffee, of the Lispen Sound just north of Thessalona.

Leo's reverie was broken by the thrice-rapping of knuckles on the door to his office that sounded the mental alarm clock to awaken him to reality once more. The head of his secretary, Patricia, poked in briefly to announce the arrival of his appointment. The man who came in through the doorway was, to Leo's approval, as well dressed as he was clean looking. He had the face of an educated man, the blue orbs for eyes betrayed, perhaps, his north Belisarian heritage. Of course, Leo had seen a picture of this man when he was putting together the mission that lay before them; Ragged, a long beard and a vacant expression that made one question if somebody could truly live without a brain. The differences between that picture and now could not be more drastic. Then again, thought Leo as he rose from his chair. Section five apparently trained actors these days.

"Eight-Five, very good to make your acquaintance." Leo spoke first, shaking the mans hand after a small light above the door the man came through went green. "I hope your settling time has been enjoyable." Leo took a moment to look at the clock on the wall. Eight-Five had entered the embassy twenty-minutes ago in the guise of a local trying to get a visa to visit an ailing grandmother in Orestes. He was led to his 'interview' five minutes ago, so they have the best part of an hour if needs be. The half-way house the man had been staying at for the last two weeks afforded him the opportunity to become a familiar passing entity to any spy catchers putting optics on the embassy. Close enough to be seen going to the shops from his flat every so often, but not close enough that he was in their faces daily.

"It's been more eventful than I would have liked." Eight-Five answered with a betraying small grin. "Then again, Gran Aligonia has never been a quiet place, even before this whole mess."

"Which is why you are here." Leo took the segue with both hands. He offered Eight-Five a small folder that had been resting on his desk. "It's an easier assignment than your last, but you'll be working alone for the most part. Any resources or manpower you need will be made available, but hunters in the country have been unrelenting thus far. They've got a fair bit on their plate, though. The Yisraeli's have been giving them a run for their money as you'd expect. Any questions?"

After a few moments, Eight-Five showed Leo the paper and was tracing over a certain part of it. "Is this a vital part of the mission?" he queried.

"Not vital, no. That and.. this-" Leo paused to show Eight-Five another part of the brief "- are both optional. The last part, starkly different to the rest, should be scouted out but not attempted unless the upend signal is put out. In the eventuality that it needs to be enacted, explosives will be delivered to you along with the necessary weaponry. We've gotten our hands on your weapon of choice from your last assignment; The SWS-350 rigged for the .300 custom-cast?"

"Good." Eight-Five nodded once, continuing to read the paper. "I've embedded successfully with a water company and acquired a van, which should assist me with my duties. What's the protocol for disposal of unfortunates?"

Ah, that old term. Leo thought for a moment, before handing Eight-Five a small business card. "Same as always, cleaning company front that'll trigger a response team. Try to keep mess isolated and pick up your own shells if expended here. Anything further?" Leo asked after a moment, and Eight-Five gave a small shake of his head. "Very good, my secretary will introduce you to your new Five-Fives for this operation." With that, the man bowed his head briefly and left the room.

Leo hadn't agreed with his superiors about the necessity of this plan. The Yisraelis, the Latins and god knows who else were deep in this mess, and Leo was wise enough to know that whenever you have a destabilised country, everybody with an agenda will come running. That, he thought dryly as he noted the cup on his desk was dreadfully empty, is why we are here.

[Yisroel]

Co-written with Gran Aligonia

De Andrade Villa, Vesbon
United Republic of Gran Aligonia
2020-03-16 / 10:21 PM

---

The old de Andrade had a look of confusion, and, not for the first time in her life, but certainly for the first time in years, Olivia stared at him idly, wondering how honest he was being. In what seemed to be an eternity of tense silence, Captain Duran’s words of caution spat at her again in her head, and she thought to how almost nobody, certainly nobody in her social life, had any clue as to her newfound profession, her father among them.

“Olivia, dear,” he began, seemingly confused. “What is the matter?”

An instant after the words rang through her head, Olivia rubbed her brow, emanating frustration, “Wh-” she paused, incredulous as to his supposed naiveté, “What have you been doing?”

Cocking an eyebrow, de Andrade turned away from her, putting his face in partial shadow, as he took another puff on his cigar, eying the fireplace in deafening silence. Keeping his face oriented away from hers, he replied calmly, his voice steadier, “I’m not sure what you mean, my love. Perhaps you could clarify?”

Olivia tensed up, now furious moreso at his act than at whatever he had been up to. Idly, she eyed his cigar smoke, and the orange glint that it seemed to add to his already-light-stricken face. She didn’t know how to play this, if to play it in any way but genuine. Her instinct as a member of her family had overrun her instinct as a clandestine agent, and she had yet to fully realize it, only a small corner of her inner voice urging her to be a good spy, the same corner that tended now to torment her with the Captain’s words, “I have been hearing some whispers about you that I don’t like. That you’re involved in a plot against the government.” she said plainly, though with a hint of admittance, “I don’t want to believe them, but...it’s my job, Dad.” With the words released, she eased up a bit, thanking herself internally for not mentioning her encounter with the Yisraeli man from earlier in any greater detail.

The older de Andrade continued his away-looking gaze, taking in Olivia’s words. Turning to look at her after a moment of silence, he stared at her before opening his mouth and chuckling. “Treason!?” He put a hand on his stomach as he laughed heartily. “My beautiful daughter, there is no ‘plot’ against the government - at least not one I’m involved in, anyways,” he finished, winking at her mischievously. He put the cigar in its ashtray, instead taking up a tumbler filled with some amber-colored liquor, perhaps one of his favorite Sudmarker scotches.

He paused to sip at the glass, then held it as he eyed her more somberly. “You know I’m active in politics, Olivia. Yes, given the whole mess with Sion’s little ‘revolution,’ I’m in some political intrigue, as always. But politicking is hardly treason. My God.”

“Well then,” sighed Olivia, stiff and defensive in her posture, as she had been as a teenager, “Can you please elaborate, and get this damn weight off my chest?”

De Andrade glanced at her clenched fist. “Do relax. You’re making me uneasy.” As if to underline the point, he took another sip and glanced to gaze contemplatively into the fire. “I don’t care,” shot back his daughter, “This is important, I wouldn’t have driven all of this way during a curfew if it wasn’t important.” she paused again, realizing now that she’d clenched her fist to keep her hands from shaking, “This is important to me.”

“Who riled you up like this?” Her father said, concerned. He turned and looked at her, his eyes giving up a worried tint. “Was it one of Sion’s men?” He said darkly, his voice dropping from posh-casual to a little better than an agitated growl. “My friend Naftali tells me Sion has practically stuffed the Xendarmeria with his own lackeys and true-believers.” Olivia’s father’s lip turned upward in disgust.

Ah, confrontation, thought Olivia, knowing she hadn’t acted this way towards him for years, “Oh, fuck Sion,” she growled, “Director-General Segarra is a good man, and always has been, for decades, and you know it too. I’m not talking about lackeys, Dad, of course I can spot those from a damn mile away. We’re just trying to cover all of our bases here, and if it’s all bunk in the end, that’s fine, but just tell me what you’re doing, so I can rest easy.” she frowned at his look of dejection, unwilling to endure his type of stonewalling now that it had shifted from familial to political.

“Oh, do I?” de Andrade said, raising an eyebrow at Olivia’s mention of Segarra. Shaking his head in exasperation, he continued, “Segarra seems to have become Sion’s man, now. Perhaps the perception is wrong, but it's how me and my friends see it, at least.” Taking another measured sip, he said, “If you must know, I’m helping with fundraising for Artus Montecalvo’s campaign. Last I checked, that’s not treason.” He scoffed.

“Ugh,” she sighed, unwilling to exert the effort for anger any longer, “Your perception is wrong, Dad. Look at me. I see Segarra a lot. I’ve talked to him, like, four times this week alone. He’s not a lackey, he’s with us. If you’re fundraising...that’s fine, but I knew that already. You know I donated to his campaign, too, yeah? So how about we get on the same page here? Since that’s more than what I heard, Dad. Please don’t tell me you’re involved with the Garduña, or...damn it, I...that you’re not doing anything illegal. You know as well as I do that it doesn’t work like that anymore.”

“Those thugs?,” he replied appallingly. “God no, Olivia. Montecalvo’s finance team has me bundling funds for him to purchase TV ads. Alot of it is cash, admittedly, but I don’t think there’s anything to worry about…”

She logged his response mentally, her spy instincts overpowering her familial ones momentarily, though she wasn’t particularly happy with herself for letting those two so-diametrically opposed sides of her life mix as they had begun mixing, “Oh, thank God,” she mused, her shoulders relaxing, “...I don’t want you mixed up in all of that. I really, I…” she trailed off, “I just think...you shouldn’t just think there’s nothing to worry about Dad, you should know. If you’re playing fast and loose, this isn’t the time, this is...damn, well, if...if there’s nothing to worry about, then why the hell was a Yisraeli lackey trying to recruit me, not hours ago? He wasn’t a fundraiser either, Dad. He was...something far more sinister than that,” she muttered, her mind moving to the cold steel of the submachine guns she’d glimpsed earlier that night.

He put down his tumbler, his eyes having that aura of worrying and concern reappearing. “Yisraeli lackey...? What do you mean by that, Olivia?”

She appeared to have gotten through, to...something. Something worth paying attention to. Her first instinct was to backtrack, but it wasn’t a moment before that thought dissolved in her head, and she decided to wade through the swamp that was to follow. Always try to go forward, don’t backpedal. echoed the words of some long-gone swimming instructor. She exhaled, “He knew where I live, Dad. Came up to me and...tried to get a rise out of me. I don’t know...something like that. But...I think he was someone higher up, intelligence maybe, and he was looking for holes in the Xendarmeria. Why would he come to me, and tell me about you, if there’s nothing to worry about. Is it all bullshit? Why am I worth the trouble, then?” she probed him, using her revelation as a calming avenue for venting her stress about the night.

Her father said nothing, closing his eyes and turning away from her, his face falling under a pale of shadow again. “This Yisraeli...what did he say to you? And how did he reference me?”

“He told me we were both in danger because you were doing...something. You wanna know what got me riled up, it was seeing this asshole hovering over me, knowing full well that I would bite when he told me that, because, well..” she sighed, “Because I love you, and I don’t want you in danger, Dad.”

“Interesting,” de Andrade said, with little emotion. He looked at her. “You know I love you and your two brothers more than anything in the whole world. That raises a question with me...this Yisraeli, let’s say he’s a spy. Why would he approach you, a fresh police officer?”

“Because I have your last name?” she said truthfully, though also deflecting away from her profession to his life, “And why would that be important, unless he was telling some version of the truth?”

Her father sighed. “Olivia...I, too, have been hearing things. I’m concerned about you as well. The hours you work are much longer than most officers’. You rarely tell me what you’re doing, you always seem more stressed than a cop on our island chain should. I asked around...all of my friends who have sons in the Xendarmes say none of their children work as hard or long as you do. Even with the political mess, geopolitical tensions, that bastard Marin….you seem to work much longer and more stressful hours than any other cop. What exactly is Segarra having you do?”

“What, do you think I’m one of those Valladares boys? I’m not a...I’m not a gate guard, Dad,” she said, looking genuinely offended that she was being compared to those brutes, and again trying to deflect, “I just…” she sighed, “I’m a detective, and you know that. There’s a mad bishop running around, and you’re surprised that my hours are long? Get back to the point. Are we in danger, or not?”

“Don’t lie. You’re not very good at it, my dear.” He said, laughing. “Marcelo Valladares says his boys Xonas and Xerome don’t see you in the regular detectives’ department. Each of them has seen you coming and going from the basement...where it’s said that new intelligence agency - what is it, FIGAR? FIGI? No, FIGA, that’s it - is located. You aren’t with them, are you Olivia?”

Olivia hadn’t been fully accepting his version of events, but the truth of his knowledge had slipped knowingly. He hadn’t been particularly good at keeping his cards close to his chest either, but she didn’t know how to spin it back to the spy. Or if she even wanted to, since he seemed laser-focused on getting a rise out of her, too. And then there was the instant reaction:

“You told those pricks to keep tabs on me? Are you mad?” she growled, “I’m hunting the mad priest, no shit I work with those guys, half the detective’s department does, just not those brickheads! But, they don’t get to know what I know, so, I guess, you don’t get to know what I know, is that right?” she was livid, “And when I come and ask you why a Yisraeli goon and a van full of men with enough firepower to take down a precinct solicit me for my daily smoke today, telling me you have been up to something, and that we’re both in danger because of it, all you do is deflect it back to me? Me, I’m just trying to do the right thing, I’m not certain of a lot, Dad, but I am sure as hell certain of that. But you! What the hell have you gotten yourself into?”

De Andrade had been idly smoothing his mustache with two of his fingers as his daughter spoke. As she finished, he arose. “Of course I’m keeping tabs on you! You’re my only daughter. Things are tense on the islands. Yes, I asked Marcelo for a favor. I want you to be safe, my love. That’s all. The future is...very uncertain. I have no idea if Sion will take our estate - ” He paused, shaking his head to himself, pausing to exhale wearily and then to chuckle with pride. “You certainly have your mother’s fiery spirit. I’ve so missed it in recent years. Thank God, you inherited it from her…”

As he trailed off, he moved away from the fireplace, stepping up to the ornate medieval-esque grated window, through which one could see the local bay. He clasped his hands behind his back, staring out into the darkened night. “Olivia...this man, who sounds like an intelligence operative...they don’t target cops usually. They try to turn opposites of themselves. Are you sure you’re not one of Sion’s newly-minted spies? I ask only to know if you’re safe or not.”

“Nobody’s bought me, Dad. I’m not so sure about you.”

“I’m not for sale, either,” he said, a hint of agitation at the accusation. He turned his head partially to the side, but his back remained towards her. “But I also sheltered you from the realities of our country. Deals are made. They are not always...so clean as in other nations.”

Under her breath, Olivia muttered, “Oh...you bastard,” pausing to probe the floor with her foot, “That’s rich, coming from you. When’s the last time you went out on the street? I’m not talking about getting ferried from place to place like a prize poodle. How long are we gonna keep doing this, ‘Oh, what have you been up to?’, ‘Oh, what have you been up to?’, huh? Is my housekeeping gonna find me dead from two shots to the back of the head, in apparent suicide, because you couldn’t get your head out of the clouds, and realize that I should be sheltering you, and not the other way around?”

He turned to look at her, his face darkened. “I won’t apologize for our family’s prominence, and you should not be ungrateful for everything our money and status has provided for you. The best schooling, a comfortable home, nothing but great food and company. Our country...it faces one of the greatest tests of recent memory. Our vision of Gran Aligonia evaporated five months ago. If we don’t use our resources and elect one of our own, we could very well lose everything. Generations of family wealth and status. Gone in an instant! Neither I nor your siblings want that, and I hope you don’t, either.”

“And don’t think for a second I haven’t had to navigate around some odious people in my time. In my youth, there were powerful people, not just among us nobles, but among the casino gangsters and others. I hated dealing with them, but it was life. You had to do so to advance. I did what I needed to then, as I do now. So answer me this: you’re not a spy? Tell me you’re just a police detective…” his tone softened, “and I’ll feel better, Olivia. Please.”

She couldn’t help but to roll her eyes, “Oh, ungrateful, am I? Here we go again.” she almost grimaced, aware that some parts of his argument had been on loop for decades, and tormented her into seeking her own sort of independence, “Ungrateful, for finding my own voice instead of riding your wave, like you rode Grandpa’s, and he rode his?” with every phrase, she stepped closer for him, “Ungrateful, for realizing that ’our vision’ had everyone out in the street throwing Sudmarker cocktails at any sort of stability we had?”, another step closer, the clop of her wedges sounding mighty even if stepping on an ornate rug, “Ungrateful, for realizing that our nation didn’t have to grovel in the muck and strike deals with foreign accents, and greedy crime bosses, that don’t give a rat’s ass about what flag flies over this place?” Her eyes were wide and animated, her passion clear, “I’m ungrateful, am I? All this while you get to sit comfortably here, biting your nails off because, ‘oh no, they’re coming for my stuff!’. You’ve never felt grateful in your life, you’ve just felt lucky. There’s a difference there.” she stopped, an inch away from him now. Her voice lowered to a disdainful murmur.

“You wanna know if I’m a spy, Dad? You wanna know what I spy on? How about arms shipments, bomb makers, foreign operatives, underminers every step of the way! I could go to work tomorrow and find Sion’s search history, his phone calls, his emails. I could do the same to Montecalvo, or to you. Maybe I will. You seem fond of wanting to know everything I’ve been up to. You know who I’ve been sleeping with, too? The brand of toothpaste I use? At least I try to nudge things towards peace, I’m trying to do the right thing, and by God, if it hasn’t been hard,” she took a deep breath, having enthused herself out of it, “Every step of the way, yes, at work, I meet those lackeys you talk about. But they bite both ways. I see what ’our vision’ does, and you’re no different than Sion. It’s us, and them, always. For them, and for you. Us, versus them, that’s how you think. You scheme, they scheme. They stretch the truth, you stretch the truth. They make phone calls they shouldn’t and you, you make phone calls you shouldn’t, that’s right, isn’t it? You can’t do a bad thing, and call it the greater good. That excuse ran out when they stopped throwing words and started throwing bricks.”

“You have a lot to say, it seems.” de Andrade answered, tiredly. He sighed and muttered, almost to himself, “It’s true then. You are a spy. My friends were right to be concerned.” He walked around her, circling back to the fireplace. “I’ll say this: everything I do is for you and your brothers. To protect your lives and your comforts. Yes, I fundraise for Montecalvo. I am not in a ‘treasonous plot’ against the government,” he said with some disgust evident. He turned and looked at her again. “I think...you should hear what the Yisraeli has to say. That’s all I’ll say on the matter.” With that, he seated himself and took a wary sip of his liquor, his face angled away from hers.

Olivia blinked, unfazed by now at her father’s still-nonchalant attitude; she went for the door, slowly, “If I get hurt, or killed, or worse, because I didn’t want to play their game. I want you to remember that you did it all for me.” she opened the large door with a rather animated squeak of its hinges, “The road to hell..” she stopped, knowing full well that the rest of the phrase would finish itself in her fathers’ head.

“The Yisraelis won’t hurt or kill you, Olivia,” her father said plainly from his chair, his tone even. “Our family and them...we go back quite awhile. It’s almost,” he smiled, self-amused, “a family tradition, you could say.”

Shocked and intrigued simultaneously, she chortled inadvertently, in response to his own amusement, “Ah, so I got empty threats today. That’s good to know.” And with that, she went down the stairs, ignoring her brother again as she stormed straight to her car, opened the door with vigor, and sped away.

Roberto de Andrade heard the front door slam loudly downstairs, signaling his daughter’s leaving. He arose, still carrying the tumbler, to the baluster at the top of the staircase, where he could see the lights ignited on Olivia’s car, with it reversing and doing a K-turn before driving off.

Taking a large sip, he took out his cell. He hit a speed dial, and waited as the ringtone droned on for a moment. It clicked. Clearing his throat, de Andrade said: “Naftali, it’s true. Olivia told me about her involvement with FIGA.” “Yes, Mhm….alright. Please make sure your…cousins don’t cause her any harm, or you’ll have hell to pay with me.”

He listened further. “Good. I trust you, Naftali. Just make sure they know she’s off limits. I’ll keep going with my end of things. Thank you. Godspeed, good night.”

---

Yisraeli Embassy, West Annex, Villa Romera
United Republic of Gran Aligonia
2020-03-17 / 3:09 AM

With a little beep from his night stand, Osher Berkowitz’s eyes reluctantly opened, groggy and exhausted from his uneven performance with Olivia de Andrade earlier in the night. His RothPhone beeped a little green dot of light at its left-top edge. Picking it up, he slid his finger across the screen and entered the security code on the pop-up keyboard. The screen brightened, causing him to squint as the light irritated his tired irises.

Kicking off the bed sheet and sitting up in the otherwise-darkened room, illuminated by the phone’s light near his person, he dragged a hand through his now-disorderly bedhead-hair and went to his agency secured email app. Tapping on it, and entering another code, the inbox came up. Labelled “High Priority,” the email was just a few sentences.

“CI Target Olivia de Andrade confronted one of our Class-IV CIs. She may have some knowledge of the Montecalvo op. Her next steps are uncertain. Stay vigilant, expect possible contact via drop phone. Motive unknown at this time.”

Reading it and then rereading it, Berkowitz nodded to himself. Alright, then. Welcome to the spy game, Olivia de Andrade. He turned off the smartphone and put it back on the nightstand, before climbing back into bed and dozing off.

[Enyama]

Xendarmeria Headquarters, Villa Romera
United Republic of Gran Aligonia
2020-12-11 / 11:24 PM

Where the crisp summer air had once been, now a colder chill entered. Villa Romera was a different city than it had been months prior, much as the political climate had changed. All that furor, all that talk about investigating Montecalvo’s finances—washed away. Nothing could change the past, of course, but now more pressing matters had arrived at the FIGA office. Captain Baltasar Duran sat at his desk in the Xendarmeria headquarters building, watching the darkened imprint of what had been the portrait of Director-General Segarra. Now, fired. Replaced by Hadrian del Villar in a move he wasn’t sure he’d approved of, yet. Damn del Villars. Things are beginning to look more like the old days. The real old days, thought the Captain, tugging at his plaid collar as he glanced outside at the already-darkened sky. With a humph, he stood from his desk, peering at the empty shortened cubicle walls of his absent coworkers. Out on the job, or perhaps sleeping. Perhaps both. It’d gotten far quieter.

Rainclouds swelled over the orange lights of Villa Romera. It almost never snowed outside the peak of Mont Moceno on the archipelago, but Duran nevertheless watched the denizens of the city string up what they had in Christmas lights as he walked— lights that were often extravagant to the point of being blinding. Especially that damn indigo set. Can’t stare at it for five seconds before I need to blink. He thought, briefly, as he strolled down the street and began his rather lengthy walk west.

He had a mission - light reconnaissance. By the Port, something remarkably shady was going on, and it, luckily, for once, didn’t involve either the Yisraelis or the Latins. This problem seemed more domestic - Garduña, perhaps. FIGA had improved greatly through their Drevstranese advisors, but their continued blackout from what had been the Western Monarchies’ unofficial network of connections still caused trouble when it came to any fruitful cultivation of information. All he knew is there was to be a shipping container, per his earlier intel, and it wasn't registered. Weapons, perhaps?

Bzzzzzzzzzzz.

His phone only guffawed once before he slipped it out of his pocket— he’d been expecting the call.
“De Andrade,” he spoke succinctly, listening for a bit, and nodding despite the lack of actual contact.
“There’s Garduña here alright. But they don’t look like Vascallora’s men. They’ve got decent weapons.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Are they leftists? Marin’s boys, maybe?”
“Listen, I still think this could be related to the Montecalvo thing.” asserted de Andrade, sounding frustrated.
Duran rolled his eyes. The girl had improved much, but she was letting her father’s new power as Secretary of the Treasury get to her head, because now she had a habit of not keeping her mouth shut about topics she well should have.
“Not this shit again, Olivia.”
“Just hurry up.” The phone clicked shut.
He wondered, for but a moment, if she was slipping, just as she had with Zuckerman all those months before. No time for that now. He passed a checkpoint, the cranes from the port looming closer and closer on the horizon.

---

He sure is one unsure bastard. Are you sure they're Garduña? Quadruple sure? thought Olivia de Andrade as she closed the dim light of her phone and stuffed it into her jacket pocket. She'd dressed in plainclothes for this operation, as requested, and now she stood in a dark perch under the GA22 overpass watching a whole plethora of sillouhettes stand ominously near a still-closed shipping container attached to a truck trailer. Two of them clearly brandished their submachine guns out by their chests, undoubtedly to signal to any who would visit their deserted portion of the dock that they were to keep clear. People on the archipelago had certainly become far to desensitized to armed men in recent months to question anything of such a sight. If they weren't the Roth Group, they were plainclothes Xendarmes, and if not that, then the Garduña. Organized crime. Her guess was undoubtedly the latter, judging by their lack of body armor and preference for long frock coats.

The rainclouds drew closer, offering a deep and ominous rumble from across the bay; their dark form stood in stark contrast to the orange-and-white lights of the Villa Romera on the hilltop overlooking the bay, now the permanent residence of one Artús Montecalvo. Curse him, she thought as the image of his smiling, smug face popped into her head. She'd been investigating him for months along with the rest of Taskforce Two, looking into his finances via his all-but-confirmed links to the Garduña, to the Yisraelis, to so many more. But, he'd won the election, and immediately their funding'd been cut. She couldn't bring herself to vote for him after investigating him for so many months—

A screech of tires. A seemingly never-ending bang.

A creak of twisting metal echoed out from where the men had been standing. But not a gunshot came out after it. Strange. Her head snapped forwards towards her target, and she saw that a sedan of some sort had come flying off the exit ramp she was perched under and crashed headfirst into the hard surface of the concrete, right next to the container trailer. Two men quickly ran up to the car, forcefully pulled the drivers' side door open, and pulled what appeared to be a dazed man to the ground. She could barely hear his anguished words.

"Who are you, are you Xendarmes?" Asked the battered man, to which he received no answer, but a kick to the head. As the men grilled into the man with hushed but aggressive questions of "Who are you?" and such, a distant siren was already coalescing from the distance. I've got to save this guy. thought Olivia.

Olivia's hand gripped around her handgun tucked into her pants, and she brandished it forward, crouching behind a concrete barrier as she moved up into the deserted port. She could make out more of the mens' words - one of them spoke in a peculiar foreign accent.

"Damn it, this guy is dying all over me."
"How much longer ''till the truck comes, boss? We don't have much time thanks to this jackass."

---

As Duran inched closer and closer to the scene, his phone rang up again - it was Goya, this time through the earpiece.
"Boss."
"What the hell did I say about radio silence? Call me on the damn phone."
"No time. de Andrade's not calling in, and I think it's because she's rushing straight first into this mess. Some guy crashed his car straight into the target area."
"What?"
"You heard me right. A collision on the bridge sent a guy flying straight towards the shipping container. Someone must have seen it. Wait...there's a truck that just arrived. Looks like it's gonna take the trailer."
Duran's crisp walk turned into a brisk sprint as he ran towards the cranes; he kicked a chain-link door open along the way, brandishing his own sidearm as he realized that his team only had a small window before the container- and whatever it contained - would be whisked away, and he'd preferred to avoid putting more lives in danger than need putting.

---

Olivia heard the voices in the earpiece, but she was too close to them to respond without being seen now. A growl of a truck indicated that they were just about ready to depart. She could hear the men clearly now— and the anguished screams of the crash survivor. She didn't know how badly hurt the man was, but his car had sure taken a number, and the goons seemed like they were just fine with ignoring him and giving him the occasional kick, now that they'd realized he wasn't a threat. Why aren't they killing him? Isn't he a witness to this? she wondered briefly, glancing up from beyond the barrier where she was hiding to see that the man was, indeed, still alive. For now. A pool of blood coalesced below him, slowly seeping into the grooves of the concrete paneling that made up the floor of the industrial port.

She bit the bullet. "HEY!" she yelled out towards the men, "Goya, now!" she said into her earpiece, as the men snapped towards the direction of her scream, and she lined up a shot and fired at one of the two she could see. The gun was far louder without her typical ear protection — it didn't even cross her mind what it meant to pull a trigger on someone else. Clearly, however, Goya did, for the other man that she hadn't fired towards crumpled toward the ground like a sack of flour, and, for a moment, she was lost in the shock of the moment. This was reckless. This was reckless. This is god-damn reckless! the thought crossed her mind as she quickly scrammed out of the light and toward safety behind the barrier. Her ears were ringing, loudly, and whatever chattering there might have been in her ear was lost on her. She peeked up again, and the barrier all around her exploded in a cloud of concrete dust, temporarily blinding her as the bullets seemed to miss their intended target — her head. She returned two shots without looking, glancing up to see that she'd successfully suppressed the man shooting at her. A screech of tires indicated that the truck had started moving.

"Fuck!" she shouted in frustration, getting up and running towards the vehicle before she realized it had already left with the trailer and was headed toward the chainlink wall. There, another four or five suppressed shots echoed, along with the pings of them impacting on metal. But the truck didn't stop.

"AAAAAGHH!" someone's voice echoed out, and she glanced around her. All of the goons were either in the truck, dead, or dying. One of the latter sat slumped against the now-lifeless driver of the initially crashed sedan, writhing in pain from what appeared to her earlier shots toward him. She felt sick to her stomach, and her ears barely seemed to have recovered from the earlier gunfire. She pulled the man from his back to his front, as Duran sprinted up toward her, asking her immediately, "Is he alive?"

Shaking, she stood up from the man, wiping concrete dust from her eyes.

---

Duran frowned toward the dazed de Andrade, but understood her initiative, for once, to save the man in the crashed sedan; from the looks of it, he hadn't made it. This would be a costly operation unless he could get something out of the man bleeding out in front of him. "Nice grouping, de Andrade. Secure the perimeter. You."

He grabbed the injured Garduña member by the collar and pulled him up with a protestuous yelp from the man. "Who are you? What was in the container? Who do you work for? WHO DO YOU WORK FOR?"

"V-v-v-Velezio...Abel...a..." the man choked on his own breath, and before long, he too was dead. Duran dropped him to the ground with a thud. "What...the hell?" he asked incredulously. "Did you hear that?" he asked de Andrade, who looked quite dazed still. She nodded, shaking. He pressed on his earpiece. "Goya..." he then let go of the transmit button for a moment; "He's dead. Got nothing."

His head turned slowly towards the dazed woman before him. "This stays between us, for now. You heard what I did." he told de Andrade, "You...haven't ever killed anyone before, have you?" She shook her head as she attempted to regain her composure, her hair a peppered gray from the concrete. "You don't tell anyone. I don't know how many friends the Abelláns still have in the Xendarmes, or why this man would name Velezio. Got it?"

"G-g-ot it."

[Yisroel]

Silverberg Briefing Room,
Presidential Palace, Yerushalayim
Kingdom of Yisrael
2020-11-27 / 12:08 PM

---

A round of laughter and chuckles rang out.

"...and then I said to her, 'sweetheart, you don't have anywhere else to be,' " Gerson Blau, the Vice-President, was saying. In his mid-50s and having been thrice-married, he was the consummate bachelor. Most of the other Cabinet ministers smirked at his latest boasting. Besides Blau was Foreign Minister Ariel Goldblatt, a lanky, balding policy wonk who was President Katz's closest confidant, as well as Defense Minister Naftali Bauman, another Katz friend (both of them in their 40s). Chief Inspector of the RYIS, Zalman Katz (unrelated to the president), sat across from them. Justice Minister David Roth, a youthful late-twenty-something with a 5 o'clock shadow and wearing a suit open collar without a tie, was seated next to the intelligence chief. A scattering of senior aides were also present at the conference table.

The room was in the center of the Presidential Palace's executive suite, the home of the offices of the president and his top aides. It served as a national security briefing room in non-emergency situations.

The door opened and President Yitzchok Katz entered briskly, followed in tow by Prince Michoel and Prince Yehuda. The Presidential Guardsmen flanking the door, wearing ceremonial blue uniforms with white adornments and hands clasped behind their backs at parade rest position, clicked their booted heels together in salute as the commander-in-chief and royal brothers passed by.

Outside of the King, these three men represented the power center of Hezekiah-era Yisrael. Both Katz and Michoel sported full but well-groomed beards and stocky builds, while Yehuda, in his mid-twenties, was thinner and, like Roth, had a clean-shaven face. Michoel, wearing spectacle glasses, was widely considered the key architect of his older brother Hezekiah's Royalist Counterrevolution regime. Cautious, knowledgeable, patient, and extremely intelligent, Michoel had been appointed as the King's Minister on the Cabinet, to much controversy by the new Crown's critics. Yehuda, meanwhile, had completely transformed his former persona as the family's black-sheep. His Charedi religious practice, dabbling with far-right politics, and cringe-inducing tabloid-blaring gaffes had morphed since the Counterrevolution into a drama-free, mature, attention-avoiding royal official, now the head of the YeMep, the King's independent special political police.

President Katz seated himself at the head of the table, both royal brothers seating themselves on either side of him. His sharp brown eyes flickered to take in the room, before resting on the intelligence officer. "Chief," he said deeply, "Please update us on the Gran Aligonia situation."

The other Katz nodded and stood. "Of course, Mr. President." He walked over to a projector screen, tapping on a control panel to bring up several faces and names.

"Thanks to your leadership, Mr. President, the hated Leuter Sion is now out of power and our favored candidate, Artus Montecalvo, now rules Gran Aligonia." A round of applause broke out. Katz offered a thin-lipped smile, waving a hand to cutoff the praise.

"Our covert campaign finance operation went off without a hitch. Montecalvo was powered to victory with robust political advertising and Sion's own missteps. He's currently in the process of being thrown out of his own political party," some scattered laughs went out, "and one of our informants, Roberto de Andade, is now serving as Montecalvo's Treasury Secretary. Illiomarius Segarra, Director-General of the Aligonian Xendarmeria, is out as well, replaced by a royalist and pro-Yisraeli figure, Hadrian de Villar. Since Montecalvo's inauguration and the recently-concluded Latium-GA summit, nearly all hostility on the GA towards us has ceased."

"Baruch Hashem [Thank G-d]," Prince Michoel muttered.

"While de Villar has defanged the FIGA and the Xendarms writ large from engaging in offensive ops against our network, we have been gathering credible intelligence that a new potential threat may provide an unwelcome challenge to our recent victories."

"What potential threat?" Katz asked, his tone intrigued. The RYIS chief picked up a pointer stick and gently tapped the projector scene over the images of two Aligonians.

"Meet Velezio and Catalia Abellan." The pictures showed an older, tall man with combed gray hair. Next to him, there was a much younger woman with a paler face and auburn hair, giving the camera a pouting expression. "The ousted Prince Veremundo's brother and his daughter. Catalina is married to the South Ottonian heir, Arnulf of Staalmark."

"Our sources on the islands, as well as in South Ottonia, indicate both are angling to retake the throne Veremundo abandoned." The intelligence chief gestured towards Yehuda. "Prince Yehuda has met both of them at royalist gatherings abroad."

The younger royal brother, quiet so far, perked up. "Yes, that is correct, Inspector Katz. I've met Catalia at some events for monarchist and right-wing politics among Western royals over the last few years. I found Catalia herself to be particularly ambitious and hard-edged in her views. I don't recall Velezio making any such impression on me."

"Exactly so, Your Highness." The chief inspector pointed again at the pictures. "It's unclear if both are working together on one unified claim, or if each is pursuing a separate claim to the princely seat. Regardless, we can't afford a royalist attack on Montecalvo's new Chancellery just as he begins to unwind the Sion-era policies that tried to destroy our interests on the island chain. We invested too much in his victory for an upstart royal to spread chaos and potentially bring another anti-Yisraeli government to power."

"Indeed," the president concurred softly. Swiveling his chair towards the rest of the table, he spread an open-palmed hand. "Thoughts, gentlemen?"

"We need more information, Mr. President," intoned Goldblatt, looking up from a notebook he just finished jotting notes on. "How much of a power base do each have? Does Catalia have South Ottonian support? There's a lot of unknown variables here."

"I agree with Minister Goldblatt," added Roth. "We have a whole intel network in the GA, no? Let's use them and discover what the Abellans are up to."

"I wouldn't leave lethal force off the table." Blau stated quickly, a frown on his lips. "We've already taken out alot of targets on the islands previously - "

"There will be no violence - for now." Katz spoke up, his piercing brown eyes giving Blau a displeased look. He gazed upon the RYIS head. "Chief Inspector Katz, have our assets on the ground start finding out what the Abellans are doing in GA and how much support they have. I want a followup report in four weeks."

"Yes, sir."

"Our victory with Montecalvo will not be trifled with."

---

Yisraeli Embassy, West Annex, Villa Romera
United Republic of Gran Aligonia
2020-12-12 / 8:54 PM

As he sat at his laptop in his bedroom reading new orders, Osher Berkowitz marveled at the turn in events in the past year. Nine months ago, he had arrived to a cesspool of geopolitical intrigue and a combustible crisis veering towards war.

Now?

He smiled to himself. Zuckerman was gone, recalled to Yerushalayim. The agency higher-ups had decided the hawkish station chief was, well, too aggressive for the assignment after Sion lost the election. His replacement, Mordecai Azoulay, was a more mellow RYIS executive, the type sent to stations in allied countries and friendly powers.

After months of cat-and-mouse games with FIGA, the agency was pulled back by Montecalvo's new Xendarmes chief, Hadrian de Villar. Berkowitz had been unable to wiretap the FIGA headquarters physically, requiring him to rely on cyber hacks to plant bugs in their internal computer system.

The Yisraeli intel network on GA was freer from pressure than ever. David Weiss had crowed that he could go to work everyday without a police checkpoint. Montecalvo by decree had even reimbursed the Roth Group for the illegal fines Sion had levied on the private military company.

Once Montecalvo took over, his old cover as Aaron Richman had been discarded and he was issued a new personae as a diplomat, giving him diplomatic immunity. Sender Green, deputy attache for cultural affairs.

On his internal agency email, he reread his new orders. The Abellans? This should be interesting, he thought soberly. He was set to meet a new informant tonight at a...night club of all places. There was a knock on his door.

"Enter," Berkowitz replied loudly. The door opened slightly, with Michoel Eisenberger looking in. "We're ready for the op tonight, sir."

"Alright, Eisenberger. I'll be right there."

---

Eivada Gaivota (night club), Villa Romera
United Republic of Gran Aligonia
2020-12-12 / 10:34 PM

Berkowitz always enjoyed the thrill of field ops. Even simple meets could go very, very bad, thus increasing the excitement factor. He wore a stylish Arthuristan banker's suit, with pinstripes and plaids and a "skinny" tie. Without the need to hide his Jewish identity, his black velvet kippah was clipped to the scalp area on his head as normal in the embassy. To fight off the evening chill, he and his escorts wore long black trench-coats, gripping a padfolio bag full of Latin solidus. Eisenberger, his main bodyguard, wore a more plain suit and trench-coat with his firearm concealed under his coat and a thin earpiece into his right ear. A third man was seated in their car on the street.

The night club was located downtown, with a beautiful view of the harbor. Without the Xendarmeria policemen strolling about everywhere, the place seemed more open, freer.

He was waved through by the bouncer at the door without a second glance, and then a waiter brought him through a two-story, open-concept interior, with a dance floor on the ground floor with a bar against one wall and numerous tables at the dance floor's fringe and on the second level, which had more private reception boxes. It was one of these second-level VIP boxes he was guided to.

"Here you are, sir." the waiter said in Aligonian, which Berkowitz thanked him in return. The VIP box had the dance floor-looking side with blinds drawn. Seated in a wrap-around leather lounge, sat Fernando 'Fiz' Barreria, owner of A Ferrería, a casino and club in Villa Romera also known for hosting both Verucio and Velezio Abellan, as well as many other former nobles in GA. Apparently, a cutthroat out for hire familiar to the criminal underground, as well. Barreria looked in his late 40s, with nicely combed off black hair and a 5 o'clock shadow. A prominent scar hung near his left eye.

"Mr. Barreria, it's nice to meet you at last." Berkowitz started in perfect Arthuristan-accented Anglic as the other coolly eyed him. "Sender Green, Yisraeli embassy. You spoke to one of my colleagues the other day."

"How do I know you're the right guy," the other responded tersely in more heavily accented Anglic. His two bodyguards, both stockier and menacing-looking, starting sliding towards him. In response, Eisenberger pulled his trench-coat aside slightly to place a hand on his now-visible holstered handgun as a warning. The two bodyguards hesitated, looking to Barreria.

The Aligonian casino owner simply smirked in amusement, before waving his bodyguards off.

"Green, was it?" he continued, sitting up slightly as he picked up and sipped an alcoholic beverage.

"Indeed, it was." Berkowitz replied coolly, seating himself in a nearby chair. He handed over the padfolio cash bag to Eisenberger, who held it firmly with both hands in front of himself, in a kind of reverse parade rest pose. He decided to try to crack the other's smug sense of superiority in the situation. "Fernando 'Fiz' Barreria, owner of A Ferrería, associate of the Abellans. Flagged as having deep ties to the Garduna and other criminal elements. Did I get that all right, or am I mistaken?"

Barreria still favored Berkowitz with an amused smirk, but nodded respectfully. "Yes, Mr. Green. Your country appears to want information, no? What specifically do you want to know?"

Berkowitz's smile broadened. "We want all the information you have and that you can gather about what Catalia and Velezio Abellan are doing these days, as well as any plans they might have, particularly as it might relate to ideas of restoring the Aligonian monarchy."

The casino mogul blinked when he had mentioned restoring the Aligonian monarchy, but otherwise took another measured sip from his tumbler, then cocked his head as if he was thinking. "Information isn't free around these parts..."

"We know," Berkowitz answered him, nearly sighing out loud. Gesturing his right hand towards the padfolio bag, he continued. "We are prepared to pay handsomely for reliable, timely information, Mr. Barreria."

"It cannot be traced back to me, or someone dies, and it ain't me." The other warned darkly. Berkowitz's smile had receded to a pursed look. "It will not be traced back to you."

Barreria seemed to eye him for much more longer than Berkowitz liked. "Good. Perhaps we can do business."

The Yisraeli spy nodded in relief, flashing him a satisfied grin. "I believe we can. Now - "

"50,000 florins upfront."

"No." Berkowitz said nothing, waiting for Barreria to make the next move.

"What do you mean, 'no'? Do you want information or not?!"

"We do, but we decide the terms, not you. You will be paid forty percent up front," his eyes flickered to rest on the cash bag, "and the rest in installments as you deliver intelligence to us. We will pay thirty-thousand Latin Solidus now - the exchange rate means you get a much better deal than using florins. Take the deal or leave it." Barreria's bodyguards both exchanged confounded looks, as their boss studied Berkowitz, his eyes growing darker.

He burst out laughing, almost maniacally. Muttering something in rapid-fire Aligonian - Berkowitz only caught it as 'crazy...foreigners' - he nodded hungrily, downing his drink and rubbing off any residue on the back of his sleeve.

"Very well, Mr. Green. We have a deal - "

They were interrupted as there was a disturbance below. The dance floor, full of young men and women dancing to DJ music, paused as an unseen altercation was taking place below. One of Barreria's bodyguards put a finger to his earpiece, then came over and whispered something to Barreria. Frowning, he waved the bodyguard away.

"A couple FIGA agents are here to question me. The staff here owe me - they caused a disturbance to buy us time. Quickly, give me the cash. I will gather the information you want."

Berkowitz nodded curtly and Eisenberger handed over the bag to one of Barreria's thugs. Berkowitz himself walked up to the casino mogul and handed him a burn phone and a slip of paper. "The paper tells you of a private server you can access with a one-time use code. Contact us through this method when you have info for us."

Barreria nodded in agreement. "Go out through the back - the kitchens. My man Manteo will show you."

"Very well. Until next time, Mr. Barreria." Berkowitz nodded solemnly. The other responded in kind. "Until next time, Mr. Green."

The smaller of the two bodyguards led Berkowitz and Eisenberger to a darkened back staircase, taking them through a few storage rooms and a bustling kitchen to deposit them in the back alleyway.

In Barreria's VIP box, scarcely had the Yisraelis left when Captain Duran of FIGA stepped into the private suite. "Fernando Berraria, Captain Duran of FIGA." He flashed a badge. "I have some questions for you."

Berraria smirked. "By all means, Captain..."

Outside the club, the two spies made their way out of the alley and onto the street. "Call Moshe and have him bring the car around," he told Eisenberger. "Yes, sir." The other brought out his cell phone and was calling when a finger gently tapped his shoulder.

"Excuse me, sir..." a familiar female voice intone behind him. He turned...

It was Olivia de Andade, looking much for the worse since their first meeting months ago. The two locked eyes and both stepped back from the instant recognition.

"Hat?" Olivia said in shock.

[Enyama]

Eivada Gaivota (night club), Villa Romera
United Republic of Gran Aligonia
2020-12-12 / 10:42 PM

---

Both stepped back from the instant recognition.

"Hat?" Olivia said in shock, watching the well-dressed man she swore she’d had a lengthy conversation with months before as a black sedan with darkened windows pulled into the pickup lane, ready for its passenger. “What the hell are you doing here?” she asked in Aligonian, as the man glanced behind himself curiously, stopping as he opened the door of the car and peering at her thoughtfully. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he finally replied, before the door slammed shut and the car sped away.

Mildly shaken, Olivia pressed a finger into her earpiece, “Duran.” No reply. He must have been right in the middle of the meeting with Barreria. With a sigh, she peered around the perimeter, flashing her badge and storming past what looked like an already-coerced bouncer.

The place smelled of liquor and perfume, like many other clubs, though this one seemed to be one of the rare ones that still permitted indoor smoking. Verucio used to love this place, didn’t he? The brat. she thought, as she headed up and around the stairs, to the second booth. The blinds on it were closed - she hadn’t the scarcest clue what she was going to interrupt. Nevertheless, she passed through the door to find Duran still standing, tensely at odds with the scarred Barreria and his two imposing bodyguards, who tensed upon her arrival before the Boss calmed them down with a downward motion of the hand.

“What’s this, another visitor?” he asked, with a grin dripping of fake hospitality. “Agent Duran, a moment. Now, if possible.” With a look of incredulity, Duran relented, muttering to himself.

“Agent de Andrade.” she flashed her badge towards Barriera, who tensed upon hearing the name, “Ah, so you’re Roberto’s daughter? He’s been so rare around these parts recently.”

“Shut it, Barrieria,” said Olivia with a look of disgust on her face. She opened her mouth to say something about what she’d just seen, but her newest spycraft instinct bounced back into her head, and she held her mouth. “Agent Duran, a moment alone, if possible?”

Duran rounded the corner near the booth and leaned in, “Well, what is it?”

“Have you gotten anything out of him thus far?” asked Olivia, to which Duran shook his head, “No, just ‘honest establishment’ this and ‘I’m a man of honor’ that. Seems he isn’t so keen on giving up his Garduna ties, even for money.”

“Listen, I know we have to keep this on the down-low,” began Olivia, to a raised eyebrow from Duran, “...but any luck with the…other question?”

“I was about to ask it before we pulled out of here,” said Duran, but Olivia had already started shaking her head. “I’m glad you didn’t, I just caught some men in kippahs walking out of the back alley. What’s more than that - I recognized one of them. The man in the hat, who…”

“Man in the hat?”

“I never told you this, but, back when we were on the Montecalvo investigation, I was contacted by a man. I thought he was Arthuristan at first, but...no, I think he was one of Zuckerman’s men on the archipelago. Could still be working for Azoulay. Duran, RYIS was just here, I think.”

“Why didn’t you bring it to me then?!” hushed Duran, luckily totally inaudible over all of the music in the club, except to Olivia, “No, you don’t understand,” continued Olivia. “I think they could help us with our little…name-drop problem.”

“No, this is what’s going to happen now, Olivia. We’re going straight to Director-General del Villar. You shut the fuck up about Montecalvo’s finances during our meeting. We talk about this thing with him, we tell him everything. Just him. And maybe these RYIS fellas can help us - and maybe you keep your eyes open when we deal with them. Two birds with one stone. You know what I mean.” Duran bit his lip, “Come on, let’s get out of here. I’m not getting any more out of Barreria.”

As they began walking out, Olivia asked one last question: “When?”

“Tomorrow.”

Villa de Romera, Villa Romera
United Republic of Gran Aligonia
2020-12-14 / 12:21 AM

---

It rained like no tomorrow existed, the downpour coming down on all cylinders in a now-freezing stupor over the archipelago. A man in black peered at the orange lights and distant wrought iron fencing of the Villa de Romera that he knew so well. He had everything he needed - a black sweater, balaclava, night-vision goggles, tactical pants, combat boots, Apion 20 handgun in black. Illiomarius Segarra may have been getting old, but he wasn’t out of practice just yet, and now, he had a tricky but uncomplicated mission to fulfill.

Infiltration. The Villa had served the Abelláns well during their near-century of rule, and, since he’d come under their debt back in ‘07, Segarra had done his best to serve their interests. A decade of perusing its halls had made the entire layout of the building second-nature to him, and now he planned to use it to his advantage. The tightest security he had already passed - those had been at the base of the hill, back in the city. Easy enough to circumvent, given one knew which cave entrances of days old still worked, and which had caved in. He took a last swig of his water bottle, before pulling the balaclava over close to his face, and creeping toward the side fence of the inner villa.

The thing was grand and Neoclassical, built during the Renaissance to house the Magnus of the Republica Magnifica, but it hadn’t much in the way of modern security such as CCTV - Virxillio’s laziness, undoubtedly. When this place was to come under Abellán control once more, Segarra knew exactly what kind of overdue changes he’d be making. The fence was about a meter and a half high, tipped with wrought iron lattice. More for decoration than defense. He climbed the wall and peered over it.

Therein, he saw two newly-renamed Chancellorial Guards standing guard at the front entrance, but absolutely none covering the side entrances. This had been standard fare for any nation used to peace, and a fatal weakness of his own former security plan that nobody had solved. Perfect for me. he grinned to himself under the mask as he quickly climbed the wrought iron fence at its weakest point - the welded-shut gate to the now-dilapidated hedge maze, which had at one point in the 1970s taken up a majority of the Villa’s ground. No longer. Sion and Veremundo had both neglected it, against his best protests, but that would no longer be the case. With a small messenger back on his back, he peered towards the construction site he had entered - it seemed a new wing of the Villa was imminent, but no worker would dare work under rain like this.

A patrol came and went, flashlights bright on their SMGs. Yet, they seemed more interested in their own affairs - he could hear them muttering about their marital problems or some such other. Del Villar must have purged the old ranks, too many Sion loyalists. he thought, looking at their baroque garb contrasting with their modern armament. And so, the danger passed, he made his way through the frame of the unfinished L-shaped wing, finally finding what had previously been the door to the mudroom, but now, he supposed, it was to be just another door to the whole place.

With a creak, the door opened, and he could already hear mumbling coming from upstairs. Montecalvo himself, eh? His security is God-awful, he thought to himself, coming up again from the mud room at the base of the stairs and peering up towards the dead-lit chandelier - the light in the master bedroom was still on. Montecalvo was on the phone with somebody. For a moment, he struggled to listen to the conversation, but could discern nothing yet, so he returned to the task at hand as he slowly unzipped his messenger bag and pulled out a small metal cylinder - a bug. With a battery life of a month and a half or so, these could help the Abelláns keep track of any and all conversations that took place inside the villa. He just needed to place them strategically.

The most important ones were in the study, the kitchen, and the bedroom. The bedroom, damn, how would he get in there?

He creeped up the stairs as quickly as he could without making noise, glancing behind himself through the stained glass windows lining the doors to make sure the guards outside hadn’t noticed anything. If the situation truly was as pathetic as he presumed, his main obstacle to avoid alerting would be Montecalvo himself. An impromptu assassination was the last thing on Catalia’s list of objectives. Delegitimization would serve them better.

Four more bugs. One in the base station of the office computer. One on top of the counter in the kitchen. All soundless delivery. As he crept up into the bedroom, he wondered what Montecalvo was up to; he could still hear him on the phone.

“Well, listen, Ha…” he paused. Segarra peeked briefly around the corner - Montecalvo was facing the balcony. I really could kill this bastard if I wished, he thought, thinking back to his time at Verucio’s side, and all of the people he’d roughed up to keep the boy safe. Montecalvo continued,

“Well, of course, if you think RYIS can help, then get them on board. Yes, just with your team of two. No. Hadrian, I don’t need to know the details. I trust you on this. Keep it quiet.”

Behind his mask, Segarra blinked as his heart skipped a beat upon hearing the words. The last bug may have been impossible, but he’d gotten far more pertinent information - the Yisraelis, and Xendarmes working together. And the team of two, who could they have been? Mero? Irimoni? Duran? Many names from FIGA flashed through his head.

He’d heard enough. He needed now to get out of the place - preferably through the wine cellar, and then the catacombs. That meant going past the -

He stopped shocked in his tracks as he found himself face to face with a woman with a mud mask on her face - Delfina Montecalvo, the Chancellor’s wife. He was barely even able to think before his gunman’s impulse flicked his silenced handgun outwards towards her torso, and with a loud PAFF, shot her straight in the heart. Fuck! his head went racing as adrenaline briefly clouded his entire vision. They heard that. I need to get out of here, right now!

He ran down the stairs and took the opposite route to the mud room that he’d entered through - he felt sick to his stomach, having killed on impulse as he had. No time for that he thought, entering the cellar with a loud commotion now going through the Villa, and, using it to his advantage, he pulled down one of the heavy casks of wine, sending it spilling onto the floor with a crunch as he entered into the hidden crawlspace beyond, escaping from a sea of red.

---

It wouldn’t be an hour before he was tracked through the crawlspace, Segarra knew, yet he had to stop - he was pushing 50, and his older bones had already started to ache him as he snuck around. But he’d murdered Delfina Montecalvo! Maybe she’s still alive, said the benefit of the doubt. But he knew what kind of results a .40 round at point-blank would have. Again, he felt sick. She was innocent in all of this. he struggled to justify his actions to himself. But he had to be strong - for Cat, for Verucio, for all of the people counting on him. Catalia would be furious. Velezio would find out about this operation and it would be all over the news. Nobody will search for bugs if they think it’s an assassination attempt.

Finally, Illiomarius Segarra kneeled into the tide at the base of the cliff and vomited out his sickened stomach, letting the slowly rolling waves and rain wash away the evidence as he headed away into the darkness, and back to safety.


Xendarmeria Headquarters, Villa Romera
United Republic of Gran Aligonia
2020-12-15 / 11:52 AM

---

*bzzz*
“…the government has officially declared a three-day mourning period for the now wido…”
*bzzz*
“…with more bipolar news as the stock market dips today following continued unrest on the archipelago…”
*bzzz*
Finally, the TV switched off.

Hadrian del Villar perched in his office, staring at his desk phone; the very same one he had used to call Artús the previous night. The red carpeting and mahogany of his desk did well to brighten the mood, but it seemed again the crisis was heating up. Now was the time. He peered at the phone for another second, and then dialed the number he had been given upon his appointment to the position. Mordecai Azoulay, the RYIS station chief responsible for Gran Aligonian operations. He’d yet to call the man, even though the number had been given as a gesture of goodwill. But too much was counting on it now.

Velezio Abellán, moving mysterious trucks full of who-knows-what throughout the archipelago? An attempt on the Chancellor’s life leaving his wife dead? And two agents, coming up to him, saying RYIS beat them to their only lead on the whole affair?

He dialed the number.

“Hello? This is Hadrian del Villar. I have a team to put you in contact with, regarding this whole Abellán situation.”

[Yisroel]

Co-written with Gran Aligonia

Yisraeli Embassy, Main Compound, Senior Officials’ Level, Villa Romera
United Republic of Gran Aligonia
2020-12-15 / 11:53 AM

---

Mordecai Azoulay sat reading online news articles when his secretary buzzed him.

“Sir, Hadrian del Villar is on line 1.”

Azoulay mulled this over. Despite their country’s normalizing ties, the man, while purported in the media to be ‘pro-Yisrael,’ had, in fact, not reached out to him since Azoulay’s identity and rank was disclosed to him after Montecalvo was inaugurated. The sleight irked him, but he decided to let it lay, for now.

“Yes, Miriam, put him through.” He responded into his intercom. There was a click and then a somewhat husky voice in accented Anglic carried over.

“Hello? This is Hadrian del Villar. I have a team to put you in contact with, regarding this whole Abellán situation.” he paused, realizing he may have been overeager to speak, “Azoulay, is it? Forgive my indiscretion, but I believe there may be an urgent conspiracy developing,”

“Yes. Please call me Mordecai.” He paused as he heard the rest of the other’s sentence. More solemnly, Azoulay replied, “You have my full attention. Please go on.”


“Mordecai,” began del Villar, “Were your men at the Eivada Gaivota two days ago?”

The Yisraeli station chief paused momentarily. While the GA was viewed as a friendly power nowadays, he was loath to reveal too much of Yisrael’s island operations. Still, he had direct orders from President Katz to aid the Montecalvo government and fend off threats to the current pro-Yisrael order. “In the interest of full disclosure, I did dispatch a team there.”

The voice on the other line paused a bit, as if pulling away from the phone momentarily, “Okay. Then it seems my agents were correct. This Abellán situation, of which I am sure you are aware, has come to our full attention with this attempt on the Chancellor’s life.” Again, he paused.

“Yes,” Azoulay concurred softly. “I can tell you that President Katz and His Royal Majesty Hezekiah III have both committed to providing any and all aid to solve this situation and protect the Chancellor’s life.”

“Very well. The information I am about to give you should be considered confidential. FIGA Director Murena dispatched a team to investigate shipping discrepancies on the eleventh, and we discovered a Garduna operation at the docks, transporting shipping containers filled with what we, at the time, believed to be contraband. Drugs, perhaps.

But a shootout erupted at the scene between the team we sent, and the gangsters. Most of them escaped and are at large, but...one of them disclosed they were working for Velezio Abellán. A day later, we find the truck empty, evidence of heavy loads being moved. Three days later, this attempt on the Chancellor.

Two agents who were at the scene and received the intel, Baltazar Duran and Olivia de Andrade, myself, and the Chancellor are the only people in the Gran Aligonian security apparatus who are aware of this potential Abellán connection. I cannot be sure to trust anyone else. I speak on behalf of the Chancellor here.”

The RYIS station chief mulled this over as his Aligonian counterpart explained. Unbeknownst to del Villar, he was aware, via the agency’s wiretaps on FIGA’s internal computer network, of the dockyard incident, but his opposite number didn’t need to know that. Also unseen was his twitch at the mention of Olivia de Andade, the daughter of one of Yisrael’s highest-ranking informants on GA and a subject of a failed RYIS cooperation attempt by one of his senior operatives, Osher Berkowitz. Berkowitz, who had just led the team to the nightclub…

“I understand completely, Hadrian.” Azoulay spoke aloud. “I can tell you that we received independent information - off-island - that Catalia and Velezio Abellan, whether together or separately, seem to be planning some sort of operation. Our current working theory is that they want to restore the monarchy and one of them will sit on the throne.”

“Yes, Catalia has been quite loud on the news outlets for quite some time,” rasped the voice on the other end, “But we did not consider that she was an active actor in this; she’s young, and married to Arnulf of Staalmark. Yes, she has had revanchist tendencies, but not the power to realize them, barring an intervention from an outside force. Velezio Abellán, however, has a considerably larger pool of funds and,” he paused momentarily, “What makes you think Catalia is involved substantially in this ‘operation’?”

Azoulay stayed silent for a moment, considering how much to reveal. He would err slightly more on the generous side, lest Yerushalayim feel he wasn’t sufficiently helping an ally.

“We have reliable intelligence from our network in South Ottonia that figures close to her and her husband have been making inquiries and engaging in black market deals. Weapons, mercenaries. Nothing substantial yet, nor do we believe that the South Ottonian state is behind this effort, but perhaps a small clique loyal to Catalia and her husband may be behind these efforts.” He paused, carefully putting the next words together in his head before speaking: “Our…contacts in the Gran Aligonian financial community suggest Velezio is moving lots of cash around, electronically, for purposes yet unknown.”

“You folks sure are effective,” began Hadrian over the other line, “My sister is married to one of ‘em and I don’t know half of this stuff. But I do have a paramilitary to run as well,” he huffed with a slight chuckle. “Thanks for the information, Mordecai. I want my two-man team in contact with any elements you have on the same investigative impulse. Is this acceptable? Consider it a gesture of goodwill.”

The Yisraeli chuckled. “It is life or death for us.” He paused for a full minute, strategizing mentally whether Berkowitz and de Andade’s teams should meet. On the one hand, she could expose that the RYIS tried to blackmail and recruit her; worse yet, she can finger her father for having Yisraeli ties, imperilling his usefulness. On the other hand, the Aligonians were putting themselves in a vulnerable position, relying on the RYIS to end the Abellan conspiracy. It could be a confidence-building exercise...one that, if successful, would further the president’s directive. Life was defined by living well and taking calculated risks, no?

“...I apologize for my silence, Hadrian. I was...considering a few things. I have no conceptual objection to our teams meeting and working together. I understand, as you said earlier, that Olivia de Andade was on that team. She ran into one of my operatives. It was an…unpleasant encounter. No violence or whatnot, but I want to make sure she can work with my men in good faith.” He presented it in such a way, if de Andade had not revealed the full encounter with Osher and her father Roberto, it would seem the issue was with her. If she had...well, Hadrian was a sharp man, after all. It would raise his esteem of his Aligonian counterpart if he knew and didn’t say anything, following good spycraft.

Another pause from the other end, but only a brief one. Hadrian continued: “Ah. You must understand I’m short on people who I can trust with this information, and she is, quite literally, one of two field agents up to the task of trustworthiness. If she gives your operative any trouble, you call me, I’ll sort it out. No need to worry about interpersonal squabbles in a, well, in a situation as urgent as this one.”

On his end of the phone, Azoulay smiled to himself. “Fair enough,” he intoned neutrally in response. “My man’s a professional, I trust they’ll be appropriate. I think our teams should meet tonight. What do you think?”

“I’ll send them the details.”

“Excellent. I have an old safe house they can meet by and discuss things.” Azoulay paused, before hanging up. “It was nice meeting you, Hadrian. I look forward to working more closely with you going forward.”

---

Undisclosed RYIS Safe House, Port District, Villa Romera
United Republic of Gran Aligonia
2020-12-15 / 9:48 PM

Osher Berkowitz, Michoel Eisenberger, and Moshe Hollander were all waiting in the disused safe house as their Aligonian counterparts were set to arrive. It was a downscale apartment, second story, overlooking a backstreet. Nothing spectacular.

There was a thin layer of dust, a few cobwebs. Berkowitz found it all irritating. Well, he was irked...because of his orders. He was to work with Olivia de Andade. One of the only targets he had failed to persuade, blackmail, or cajole over to working for the agency. He alternated between extreme annoyance and a deep respect that she was as loyal to her country as he was to his.

His fellows were playing idly on their RothPhones, tapping away on online games or texting a friend. All three wore less formal suits and ties, the black trench-coats hanging on the coat rack. There was a knock…

“Look sharp, chevra [friends/boys].” Berkowitz barked out. The younger two agents both jumped up out of their seats, nodding, and putting their phones away as they shuffled into a presentable form. Eisenberger sat back down and opened up a file stamped ‘confidential’ in Hebrew to look as if he was busy at work while Moshe stood and leaned casually against the other wall.

Berkowitz opened the door. Duran and Olivia, as expected. “Captain,” he began in Anglic, nodding respectfully. “Olivia.” She skewed him with a look. “Hat,” she replied in accented Anglic, sizing him up yet again. “Shame we missed each other at the club. But it looks like my hunch was right. About what you were up to there.”

Duran seemed to look at the two, not quite sneering, but certainly looking as if he at least had knowledge of the pair’s prior history. “Shall we get to work, then?” he said toward the group, “Those leads won’t find themselves.”

Berkowitz’s lopsided smile broadened. “My name’s Osher, by the way. I think it’s time we were properly introduced.” He looked at the older Aligonian. “Indeed. Please come in.” He gestured welcomingly. The two FIGA agents entered the apartment, both eying the contours of the space.

“My name is Osher, I am the head RYIS agent on this op,” he began, careful to avoid using surnames. He pointed at his two confederates in turn. “This is Michoel, and Moshe. My team.”

“Great,” replied Duran. “Nice to meet you both. I am Baltazar Duran, this is Olivia de Andrade. But something tells me you all...already knew that. Since she went and had a nice face reveal to you back when we were, well...you know, adversaries. But I hear Zuckerman’s not around anymore, that so?” he asked, feigning ignorance.

“There have been a few personnel changes,” Berlowitz said cryptically. He could barely contain his thin-lipped smirk at Duran’s reference to his and Olivia’s encounter months ago.

“Let us hope this...situation will resolve quickly enough that we can return back to our boring old lives,” smirked Duran. Olivia stepped forward, “So.” she paused, “The assassination attempt. The trucks at the dockyard. That’s all we’ve got to go by. It’s not much.”

The Yisraeli lead agent gestured and they all seated themselves around a coffee table with several folders on it. As they settled, Berkowitz nodded and Eisenberger opened one file, labelled in Hebrew ‘Montecalvo Assassination Attempt’.

“We don’t have much more than you, sadly,” he continued aloud. “The Xendarmes forensics reports suggests a single shot to Mrs. Montecalvo’s stomach. The lack of a firefight or any evidence your cops discovered of any clues leads to the suggestion of a single assassin. A group of assailants would likely mean dead guards and more...disturbances - cigarette butts, the like. If we go for a single-assassin theory, then it narrows it down to either an Abellán loyalist or perhaps a black market killer hired for the job.”

“The trucks, then,” reiterated Duran, “We found the last one with the shipping container removed, and evidence of a whole lot of heavy stuff being dragged out of it. Left quite the skid marks.” he explained. “We think it could be weapons. Or explosives. Or maybe light vehicles. But we have no clue where they’re going.”

Berkowitz grabbed another folder, opening it in front of the FIGA agents. Several clipped pictures graced its top edge. “Here we have Catalia Abellan and Arnulf of Staalmark. Plus a few Ottonian nobles and associates in their circle. Our network in South Ottonia has been tracking whispers and clandestine meetings. Catalia and her husband are buying enough weapons for a small army. Interviewing and signing up plenty of mercs and guns for hire, as well. Some of these weapons may be the ones from your shipping container shootout. Perhaps she’s moving them onshore to create caches for her supporters to use in a violent uprising?”

His gaze darkened. “Or...she might be arming left-wing protestors as a sort of false flag op, then come in with her troops, take them out, and claim public applause to sit on the throne.”

“Shipping container weapons weren’t anything new to us, just a bunch of Belfrasian SMGs and the like, at least from what we got from the corpses.” said Duran. At the word ‘corpses’, Olivia tensed up, clearly uneasy over the events that had transpired at the docks.

“No way they’re doing that,” butted in Olivia after a second of deliberation. “AAFT is fizzling out from what we can tell. Especially their more radical elements. That’s why we’re here, we think these weapons might be for elements in the Xendarmeria loyal to the old order, to Segarra specifically and the Abelláns more broadly. We can trust you, our former adversaries, more than we can half our colleagues. That’s the problem.” she crossed her arms, putting on a defensive stance.

Berkowitz nodded. “We seem to have three separate, but interconnected issues. First,” he began, his pointer finger tapping the pointer finger on his other hand as he counted off, “a likely single-killer assassination. Two, activity in South Ottonia by Catalia and Arnulf, gathering arms and men. Three, these shipping container weapons are associated with Velezio’s name. The big issue to me is this - are Catalia and Velezia working together or at cross purposes? Once we figure that out, these three separate webs will become clear, one way or another.”

[Enyama]

Outskirts of Waaldburg, Near the Hyldashuld Estate
The Union of Ottonia
2020-12-19 / 11:32 PM

A damp mist had crawled forward from the black waters of the small river, leaving Illiomarius Segarra’s glasses speckled with the smallest of particles. Waaldburg had grown quiet in the winter, caked enough with snow to turn driving into a slow crawl. Of course, snow hadn’t been an entirely foreign concept to the Aligonians; Segarra flicked out a case of cigarettes and removed a thin one from within, reminiscing of his days, four or five years past, accompanying the family to their Villa da Lúa in Olympia. But Belfras and its well-lit ski slopes were far more than a stone’s throw from the situation they’d found themselves in now. Segarra had picked a bench near a little creek that would work well for a rather clandestine meeting - he didn’t want to attract any unwanted attention from the broader Roan-Haefeld, at least not yet. He was due to meet Catalia and Arnulf here soon. The orange flame briefly flickered and then disappeared into the mist.

She wouldn’t be far. The whole rendezvous he’d designed with proximity to her family’s little estate at Hyldashuld in mind and that place wasn’t far off from where he sat now. Distant Christmas lights reflected in the water from across the bay; not theirs, but some less-esteemed neighbor’s estate on the outskirts of Waaldburg. He was right; before long, a sleek black Crown Felix revved into the parking space above and behind him, and two figures in elegant winter coats came down the steps along the quay to join him by the riverbank.

Catalia Abellán and Arnulf Roan-Haefeld of Ottonia. The former he’d known since she was still a girl; the latter he’d only far more recently become acquainted with. She looked elegant as normal, dressed in a two-button grey coat and but with a conspicuously uncovered head; her father’s blue-green eyes stared back at him with raised eyebrows.

“Illio,” she began, as the dark-haired Arnulf stood back, “What the hell did you do at the Villa?”

“I did my job,” Segarra finally said after a pause that sure felt longer than the second it had been. “But there was collateral damage,” he took a drag from his cigarette, his eyebrow twitching at the thought of having to further process what he’d done.

Catalia peered at him with a rather miffed expression, “Regrettably so. It’s a damn shame, but I trust that you had no choice?”

“...that’s right. You’re lucky I didn’t also have to kill Montecalvo after I was found out. That would have been a bigger mess,”

“You know, you’re awfully nonchalant about this whole damn thing,” finally said Arnulf, stepping forward from the shadows to stare straight into Segarra’s eyes. “Cat, tell him. We can’t afford to have this come back to us.”

“Illio, I’m pregnant.” huffed Catalia, with a look down at her feet.

Segarra stood silently for a moment, taking a final drag from his cigarette before flicking the butt on the ground and giving it a good step. “Congratulations,” he said with a slight smile.

“None of this can come back to you, but I suggest you stop your, er, purchases if you don’t want to be found, Cat. You know you have the support you need, you have them bugged, you have a lot of cards in play. But you’ve also been reckless. I have contacts in the Xendarmes regularly tell me that those truckloads of weapons you sent, they’re not exactly a secret.”

“And Uncle?”

“Velezio still thinks he’s the bossman. Can’t tell you why he’s so eager, but it looks like our plan is working. All of our men on the island who work for me, think they’re working for him, not you.”

Arnulf took a step backward to flank his wife, keeping his hands sternly crossed behind his back as the pair listened. “How many Gendarmes trust you?” he asked. His Anglic may have been excellent, but his Aligonian pronunciation nevertheless needed some work.

“It’s Xendarmes. And more than I expected. The Garduna are getting cold feet though. I hate those bastards, so I couldn’t care less, but their organizations tend to leak like a sieve. I’ve got reports from my contact in the port district that both FIGA and some Jewish men showed up to their boss’s place with some sort of briefcase.”

“How do you know you can trust him?”


Segarra looked around for a bit, sighed, and shrugged. “Her. It’s my daughter.”

Catalia’s eyes widened, “What the hell is Penelope doing anywhere near the Garduna?” And with that emotion from his wife, a notably more uncomfortable Arnulf asked, “Who’s Penelope, Cat?”

“A...friend. An old friend,” she explained. “Illio owes us his debt because of her. My father paid for her cancer treatment when she was little. She shouldn’t be anywhere near the Garduna, Illio!”

“Relax yourself, princess. She simply works at the Gaivota as a waitress. Not under her name. I arranged some things. She needed the money - rent, you know, exists.” gruffed Segarra, clearly short on words briefly. He sounded almost fatherly in his tone, much as he’d sounded towards Verucio for a decade and a half. He could begin to see the similarity in impulsivity between the siblings. Yet while Verucio had reformed himself into a better man with the help of his wife, Catalia, and Arnulf, for that matter, both seemed to have an increasingly larger bone to pick with the world every passing day. Power called to them.

“Don’t, Illio. Not now,” huffed Catalia, “Get her out of there. You said she said Jewish men showed up to the Gaviota too? Not just FIGA?”

“Aye. Went in to talk to Barriera.”

“Verucio owes Barriera a shit-load of money. Gambling debts.” commented Catalia, to which Segarra nodded. “I know. I was there. If they talked to him, they could know anything my Garduna men are willing to cough up for a few extra florins. But that’s beside the point. Those men...could be Royal Yisraeli Intelligence. They were on the island when I was Director-General; likely, they’d never left. I don’t know why they’d be talking to a fixer like Barriera if they weren’t, well, looking to…”

“Looking into what we’ve been doing.” finished Catalia.

Arnulf paced around with his back to the pair, staring at the river and the dim yellow lights beyond the other end of it. “What’s the plan, then?”

“I suggest you keep Penelope as far away from any of this shit as you can. She’s in no state to be your informant,” hushed Catalia towards Segarra as she gesticulated, “And get Barriera to shut up. Kill him, if you have to.”

“Cat…” began Arnulf, clearly eager to calm her down lest they be heard by some passerby. Catalia turned to face her husband, “Think about this, Arn,” she pointed to her belly, “If to protect my family, I have to off some bastardo de rata who enabled my brother’s antics for years, then so be it.”

“They might know my face. Just a thought, Cat,” muttered Segarra. “If you want me to do it, I am at your service, but...Velezio shouldn’t be kept totally out of the dark on this sort of thing.”

“Fuck Uncle. You find a way to keep my hands clean, and him in the dark, and you do it.” said Catalia, at a normal level of volume, which was perhaps too loud for Arnulf, who gesticulated toward the stairs up the quay. “Alright, you’re right, Arn. Illio...we have to leave. Keep us updated on what the bugs have Montecalvo doing. I’ll...fire my mercs and look for someone less conspicuous. If it makes you feel better. Stay safe...please.”

Segarra sighed and looked toward Catalia, remembering her as a teenager. Never in his life would he have imagined that the circumstances of his debt would force him into performing hits for her. But here he was. He nodded and adjusted his glasses. “I’ll get it done.”