Chapter 29

"Private Smith."

"Yes."

"Relax."

The voice was unusually gentle. As the towering captain extended a glass, Fred bowed forward and received it politely.

"Thank you."

To put the drink back after being given it would be a breach of etiquette. However, he was worried about making a mistake if he got drunk.

Fred took just enough to wet his lips and slowly placed the glass back on the table. Winston, who had been watching him, removed his cigar from the corner of his mouth and exhaled a long stream of white smoke.

"I've called you here today because there's a secret mission I need to entrust to you without the higher-ups knowing. I've selected a suitable person for the job, and you're one of the candidates."

Fred, taken aback by the unexpected situation, could only blink. He had thought Winston disliked him because of the incident in the interrogation room where he had vomited.

'Was I wrong?'

This could be a golden opportunity to infiltrate the intelligence department as a key player and build up his reputation. If so, he might eventually gain Little Jimmy's trust and become a revolutionary officer.

Fred greeted him with a pleased expression.

"It's an honor."

Winston flicked the ash into the ashtray and smiled, his eyes crinkling.

"The two guys in front of you have already been eliminated. So I have high hopes for you."

"I won't let you down, Captain."

Campbell, standing beside him, chimed in, and Fred responded with a determined look.

"Yes, I'll do anything you ask."

"You already seem reliable."

Winston smiled at Campbell, and Fred followed suit.

"Private Fred Smith."

"Yes, Captain!"

"I heard you're from Fairhill in Raven. Is that correct?"

The moment the question was asked, a crack appeared in Fred's smile.

"Yes, yes, that's right."

No, it's a lie. It was just fake information from his background that the higher-ups had fabricated for Fred. Fred swallowed hard and tried to recall the information about Fairhill he had learned during his infiltration training.

"You have a job to do there."

"...Yes, I'll do my best if you entrust it to me."

"It's not a big deal. We've received intelligence that one of Blanchard's rats is mixed in with the village council. I want you to go and investigate. Since it's your hometown, no one will suspect you if you stir things up a bit."

Fred felt relieved. There was no way the revolutionary army would send a spy to a small mountain village with a population of less than 500. It seemed Winston was wasting time on false information.

"Ah, the name of the village council chairman in Fairhill is…."

Winston, pretending to be in a dilemma, rubbed his forehead with the hand holding his cigar and looked at Fred.

"...Mr. Mason."

He hoped his answer, which he had barely remembered, was correct.

"Ah, that's right."

Fred let out a breath he had been holding.

"It's famous for skiing in the winter."

"Yes, that's correct."

"I went there on a family trip when I was about fifteen. Since you were born and raised there, you might have even met me."

Fred only managed an awkward smile in response. How did a big shot like Winston end up in a rural area without a high-end hotel?

"Ah, by the way, there was a really funny incident."

Winston turned his head to Campbell and began to reminisce about his time in Fairhill.

"There was a bar at the bottom of the ski slope."

Is he really drunk?

With the tension slightly easing, Fred picked up the whiskey glass in front of him and took a sip to wet his dry mouth.

"They served warm vin chaud there, and the owner mistook me for an adult just by looking at my size. Jerome and I drank a lot that day and ended up collapsing in the snowfield on our way out of the bar."

"Oh."

"If the bar patrons hadn't found us, we would have frozen to death. It's a pleasant memory."

"It must be a terrifying memory for Mrs. Winston."

As the two burst into laughter, Fred followed suit and put down his glass. The alcohol made his stiff body relax quickly.

"Fred, do you know Albert? The pot-bellied bar owner."

"Ah, yes, yes."

He had no idea. But it would be suspicious to say he didn't know. As Fred quickly chimed in, Winston smiled at Campbell.

"He was a pleasant man."

"Yes, he was. Ha ha…."

"Ah, and there was a festival held every winter…. Ah! The St. Maurice Festival."

"Yes, that's right."

"It was a really bizarre tradition. Ah, you have to hear this from a native. Fred, tell Campbell about it."

Winston took a puff of his cigar and leaned back into the sofa. Fred's heart raced under the expectant gaze.

'Have I ever heard of such a festival?'

Fred quickly searched his memory. Just as cold sweat was about to break out on his hands, he recalled the village's symbol.

A man holding his severed head in both hands.

"That's... because St. Maurice, who was from our village, was beheaded…."

"Right."

As Winston nodded, Fred moistened his dry lips and slightly lifted the corners of his mouth.

'Good job, Fred.'

Even his sisters, who usually treated him like a child and ignored him, would have to acknowledge his performance.

"The villagers bake gingerbread men on that day. Right?"

"Yes."

"Before eating them, they tear off the neck like this."

Winston grabbed the middle of his cigar and snapped it in half. It looked somewhat menacing, but as the others around him started to laugh, Fred joined in.

Winston tossed the broken cigar into the ashtray and exhaled a wisp of smoke. For a moment, it seemed as if sparks were flying from his ice-cold eyes, but it might have been Fred's imagination.

"Fred, do you want to hear another interesting story?"

He leaned in close to Fred. Fred also leaned in, listening intently as Winston slowly whispered.

"I've never been to Fairhill."

Fred couldn't hide his confusion at this sudden confession. Winston, staring intently at his trembling eyes, smiled chillingly.

"Even though I've never been there, I know this. The festival is not named after St. Maurice but St. Nicholas."

Winston suddenly stood up. Fred remained frozen in the position where he had been facing Winston. His fists on his knees turned cold and began to tremble. The sound of chess being played behind him abruptly stopped.

"Ah, and it's not gingerbread but rye bread."

A sneer followed by a harsh voice muttered.

"To fall for such a trivial trap."

He should have run, but his body wouldn't move. The only thing Fred could do was to move his eyes to look at Winston, whose trembling limbs were beyond his control. Winston was leaning against the window, gazing outside.

"Fred Smith. Why did you lie about your hometown on your enlistment application?"

Leon, pulling aside a thin lace curtain, followed something outside with his eyes, muttering to himself.

"My conclusion is…."

He slowly closed and opened his eyes.

"That you're a really terrible spy."

The two he had interrogated first were not spies. When pressed a bit, they confessed to embezzling funds for entertainment. It was truly a waste of time.

"Campbell."

As soon as the order was given, Campbell pulled out a yellow file from under the sofa and opened it. Soon, a reading of Fred Smith's enlistment application began, with the ridiculous jazz music from the radio in the background.

"Name, Fred John Smith. Father, Robert John Smith. Occupation, butcher."

"A son raised under a butcher father turns pale and vomits at the sight of blood. Campbell, does that make sense?"

"It doesn't."

"Did you hear that? That's your mistake, kid."

Campbell marveled at his superior's sharpness. It was a contradiction that others might not have noticed.

However, it was so trivial that the other party could easily claim it was a guess. Knowing this, his superior didn't touch on the contradiction but used leading questions to reveal more contradictions and lies.

The kid, who had unknowingly made countless mistakes, couldn't even utter a word in defense, trembling in fear.

He had slit his own throat by exposing his own belly.

"Arrest him."

The sound of chairs being pushed back echoed from behind Leon. The soldiers who had been waiting got up from the chess table. The rat tried to run away belatedly and fell clumsily, causing a commotion behind him.

"No! I'm not! I'm not!"

His denial was as pathetic as his attempt to escape.

The sound of his screams echoed through the hallway. When the echoes faded, Leon turned away with a bitter look. Outside the window he had been watching, a maid with chestnut hair was pushing a laundry cart toward the main building.