God of Blackfield

Nevertheless, seemingly disinterested in all of it, four men in white suits walked straight up to the desk like wolves amid a cornfield.

“Welcome.”

Despite the manager’s greeting, Choi Jong-Il just stared at him arrogantly.

Seok Kang-Ho quickly stepped forward.

“This is Mr. Mohammed bin Walad.”

“We’ve been waiting for you. I thank the Lord for blessing me with the honor of meeting such a precious guest.”

The manager of the Burj Al Arab Hotel clasped his hands together and greeted the group politely.

“I assume the room is ready?”

“Of course, sir.” The manager flashed a toothy grin. “How would you like to make the deposit?”

Seok Kang-Ho nodded at Woo Hee-Seung, and Woo Hee-Seung placed a square Chanel bag on the information desk.

Click, click.

The bag was filled with 100-dollar bills.

“Thank you for preparing this! No deposit is required.”

Seok Kang-Ho carefully whispered something in Choi Jong-Il’s ear.

Choi Jong-Il nodded and looked at the manager.

“Mr. Mohammed bin Walad would also like to extend to you and your employees a blessing from the Lord,” Seok Kang-Ho stated quietly as he pulled out three 100-dollar bundles and handed them to the manager.

“May God bless you, Mr. Walad,” the manager replied with a moved expression. He accepted the money, then practically flew around the desk.

Woo Hee-Seung took the bag, and Lee Doo-Hee—also holding a bag—stood beside Choi Jong-Il.

“I will escort you personally. The Burj Al Arab takes pride in the room we’ve prepared for you. This way, please.”

The hotel’s exclusive room, which Seok Kang-Ho had booked, cost about $30,000 a night.

Riding up the elevator with a view of the ocean, the manager opened the room on the right side of the hallway.

It had golden columns and red carpeting, a bed so big that four people could lie on it and not overlap, a sofa that looked like it could suck somebody in, and three other rooms.

What was the purpose of the big bed in the living room? Was it for people who’d be using the room alone?

“There’s an iPad on the table to help you with your room. If you need anything, please let me know.”

The manager politely walked away. Lee Doo-Hee then pulled out a phone from his breast pocket and pressed a button.

The sound of four Arabs chatting animatedly came over the speaker.

Lee Doo-Hee put the bag he had been carrying on the table and opened the lock. Afterward, he pulled out three palm-sized anti-bugging devices and handed them to Choi Jong-Il and Woo Hee-Seung. After a quick look around the room, the two placed and installed the devices in the most efficient places. They then regrouped.

Choi Jong-Il nodded, and Woo Hee-Seung nodded back.

They still couldn’t let their guard down, however.

Lee Doo-Hee flipped the switch on the main device on the table.

Blink, blink, blink.

The red light flashed three times. Finally, the anti-eavesdropping device gave a steady blue signal.

“No bugs, sir.”

Lee Doo-Hee picked up the phone and cut off the men’s conversation. He then removed the lining of the bag, revealing a pistol, silencer, bayonet, and magazines.

“Time check,” Seok Kang-Ho ordered.

“We have three hours,” Choi Jong-Il replied.

“Why is it so damn hot in this expensive fucking room?”

Seok Kang-Ho grabbed a white towel from a basket and wiped the sweat off his face.

Much like the room they were in, the ocean, anchored yachts, and buildings that looked like slices of watermelon created a view that reminded them that they were in an entirely different world.

Woo Hee-Seung pulled a map out of his bag and spread it out on the table.

“I saw a staff earlier stationed in front of the elevator connecting to the fifth floor.”

Seok Kang-Ho nodded in response.

This was something they were going to do anyway. One more staff member didn’t matter.

“Check our weapons. Just to be safe, keep an eye on the entrance as well.”

“Yes, sir.”

Woo Hee-Seung and Lee Doo-Hee moved to the window of the first room inside, where they could see the entrance to the hotel. They’d be able to see Jibril entering easily.

Click.

Seok Kang-Ho chambered a round in his pistol and closed the chamber.

After dinner, Jibril had appointments to meet with three people in a row.

That was their opportunity.

The only way to get up to the special room was the private elevator, so they reserved a room that was worth tens of millions of won a night.

Seok Kang-Ho viciously glared at the door to the hallway.

***

Alman bin Jibril looked down from the 139th-floor reception room of the Burj Khalifa.

The Burj Khalifa was named after Khalifa bin Zayed Al Nahyan, whose name meant flower. It was also the person that Jibril had met an hour earlier.

Jibril breathed out to stifle the laughter that kept coming. This must be how it felt to pour iced tea down a throat that had just swallowed ten dates at once.

He remembered the scene that he had seen on TV. Koreans weeping, holding white chrysanthemums and candles.

The Arab warriors in the heavens had to have clung to God. In response, for Jibril’s sake, the great God threw the disgusting murderer into hell!

Jibril wondered if there had ever been a more exhilarating moment in his life. All that remained now was to hurry up and complete the next generation of energy facilities, join hands with the Star of David, and crush Russia’s economy.

An infinite supply of oil would halve Russia’s economy. Once it had, they’d launch a large, powerful attack on the ruble.

“Hahaha.”

Although there were still many things to do, Jibril couldn’t help but burst out laughing. After a moment, he composed himself and turned around. An attendant in a white dress quickly approached and leaned over.

“Cancel everything after dinner.”

“Yes, sir,” the attendant answered, then stepped aside.

It was time to show his power. He needed to show people that he wasn’t like Abibu, who died in Korea like a fool.

Some people could think that he was already satisfied with everything he had. He had enough money to last a lifetime, so why hadn’t he given some of it away?

People who were never wealthy always spat out words that showed how lowly they were.

For Jibril, wealth was a measure of ability.

How could insects who lived from paycheck to paycheck imagine the pleasure of accumulating wealth? He couldn’t believe those things leisurely shopped and visited foreign countries when they were beneath him.

They thought they were equal to Jibril, to whom God had given a mission.

This world was doomed.

How could those insects, whom he could easily step on and force to tremble with his gaze, think they were his equals?

That was why Jibril hated people like Kang Chan—men who rebelled against money, power, and God-given authority.

The pathetic bastard could have enjoyed wealth and power for the rest of his life if he only bowed his head. Instead, he stood up for his country, people, and comrades.

In the end, someone he cherished sent a bullet through his heart.

Jibril let out a sigh as he felt exhilarating chills run through his body.

After dinner, he would cancel his schedule and get some rest. That way, he could display some more of his authority to the idiots who had been waiting days to see him.

“Moon Jae-Hyun?”

Jibril laughed like he was sobbing.

He pictured the South Korean president, who would probably stick his neck out to meet him just like the idiots staying downstairs.

Jibril would do whatever it took to make that happen. Now that Kang Chan had gone to hell, it would be easy to organize such an event.

***

Kang Chan and Gérard sat in a small cafe in front of the old European architecture of Garnich. With a face filled with mixed emotions, Gérard then looked at the four-story building to their left.

“Calm down,” Kang Chan said under the Gabriel mask he wore. “They’ve probably checked the chip in your body now. Once Jibril is out of the way, they’re bound to move in some form or another. Maybe they’re already tracking our movements.”

“Oui.”

Kang Chan lifted his cup and sipped the strong coffee.

Yoo Hun-Woo’s warnings about drinking coffee were still fresh in his mind. Unfortunately, due to their long flight, his body kept demanding strong coffee.

Click.

As Kang Chan put down his cup, a polite-looking middle-aged white man sat down at the next table.

The man opened a newspaper. Soon, an employee approached.

“Coffee.”

The employee took his order and moved to the cash register.

“The building you mentioned is owned by the PEP Investment Bank,” the man said quietly in French.

German and French were common here.

“Investment counseling is currently taking place in the building, but the public is only allowed up to the second floor.”

The man buried his head in the newspaper, and Gérard scanned their surroundings while sipping his coffee.

“I’ve left the weapons in a gray van across the street.”

Kang Chan lifted his coffee cup as he looked diagonally across the street, finding the van that the man had mentioned.

“The agents in Dubai are waiting in a special room at the Burj Al Arab.”

The cafe employee served the middle-aged man his coffee.

“Thank you.”

He leisurely took the coffee up and raised it to his mouth.

When the employee left, Kang Chan began to speak without turning around.

“We’re going to the van.”

Gérard followed Kang Chan up.

***

Ziegfeld glared out at the sea.

“You must be mad to call that a report!” he shouted into the phone, his voice unusually high and shrill. “Gabriel is roaming around a foreign country unattended? That would mean he has uncovered the secret, but how? He’d die if he ever refused to follow our orders! What about Gérard?”

After listening to the caller’s reply, he laughed in disbelief. However, he quickly regained his composure.

“Check Kang Chan’s grave! Cut off all contact with the outside world for the time being, and close the Garnich base until we get concrete results,” he ordered. “I’m moving to Hawk Bay. Make sure you inform Parthal.”

Ziegfeld slammed the phone down on the table.

“Has the South Korean National Intelligence Service always been like this?”

He laughed hollowly, like a man who’d been ambushed.

“So Scorpion was correct? Or is someone toying with us from the South Koreans’ shadows?”

Even now, he still refused to believe in the South Koreans’ capabilities.

“Vasili…?”

Ziegfeld tilted his head and pushed himself up from the table.

***

The container that Vasili was using had a wall that could be raised all the way, revealing the barren Mongolian landscape. It stretched out in front of him like an IMAX movie.

Vasili was sitting with the head of his bed propped up. Beside him was a table and Yang Bum sitting next to him.

Yang Bum lit his cigarette and blew out a puff of smoke. He then turned to Vasili. “How long will you be staying here?”

“Until the French snake contacts me,” Vasili replied firmly.

“So you think Mr. Kang Chan is alive after all.”

Vasili tilted his head with an unreadable expression.

“Don’t you think the French DGSE has been acting weird? Romain has been awfully quiet. Knowing him, he should be causing a scene right now.”

Yang Bum looked as if he agreed, but he simply stared off into the distance.

“We already know what the NIS is capable of. However, that doesn’t explain why they would be set on assassinating Jibril. What’s even more ridiculous is that the reports of the men we dispatched to Monsieur Kang’s office are too ordinary.”

Vasili’s lips curved into a mysterious smile.

“You’d do better to learn from Lanok than from me if you want to lead an intelligence bureau. That snake is always doing things that are hard to predict like him not contacting me yet. He’s more brutal than I am in that sense.”

“Isn’t brutality inevitable in the world of intelligence?”

“Hmph! He’s ordered the death of a whole French gang before and even killed the vice boss of the organization inside the embassy.”

“Well, that’s not too…”

Vasili glanced at Yang Bum and shook his head.

“The order was given on the assumption that they were involved with the Star of David, but Lanok had a completely different reason behind their deaths. Even the Star of David failed to realize that Lanok had done it to keep them in check.”

Was that such a big deal?

Yang Bum stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray. Since he had taken charge of China’s intelligence bureau, he had been hoping to learn from Lanok and Vasili. Unfortunately, though, he couldn’t see the importance behind Vasili’s story.

“Iran.”

What was Vasili talking about now?

Yang Bum looked at him curiously.

“Why the Quds rushed in during the UN mission, why Abibu and Jibril had control of the Quds, and why Iranian fighter jets came out when Monsieur Kang headed to Afghanistan.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The next-gen energy facility they’re building in Saudi Arabia is a decoy. The real one is being built in Iran, and Jibril is using it to normalize relations between Shiite Iran and the United States.”

“What does the US get out of that?”

“If Jibril offers Iran a share of the next-gen energy facility in exchange for its nuclear weapons, wouldn’t the US be tempted?”

Yang Bum laughed in disbelief. Truly, there were no eternal enemies or eternal allies in this business.

“I never thought I’d see a man like Monsieur Kang in the intelligence world. He’s the kind of person I’ve dreamed of since my days in the Spetsnaz and the KGB…”

Vasili sighed.

“A man with clear enemies and allies, someone who sticks by me through thick and thin, even when the odds are against me. That’s the kind of man I wanted to be in the intelligence world.”

Vasili’s eyes seemed to search for something in the distance. However, in the blink of an eye, he regained his stoic expression.

“That’s it. If Monsieur Kang is alive, then my actions right now will surely help him. If he truly has been killed, then this will be my final sign of respect for how he lived.”

Vasili shot a sharp glance at Yang Bum. Yang Bum held his gaze.

“If I return to Russia now, Russia and France will be fighting a bitter fight against the United States, Britain, Germany, and China over the development of the next-gen energy facilities…”

Vasili smiled coldly.

“... until a new power emerges to re-establish the balance that Monsieur Kang once maintained. Either way, the eventual winner will be the Star of David.”

With a weary expression, Vasili turned his gaze to the open plains.

***

Creak.

Gérard and Kang Chan opened the doors of the van, finding it empty.

Gérard sat down in the second row, closed the doors of the van, and jumped over to the third row.

“Here they are.”

He carried a large sack forward. Pistols, MP5SD, rifles, magazines, bayonets, and grenades were inside.

Kang Chan attached a pistol to his waist and left ankle, and a bayonet to his right leg. He then strapped a leather belt with seven pistol magazines to the back of his waistband for extra ammo.

He loaded his rifle with a magazine and pulled the breechblock. Bringing a rifle into an investment bank that the public frequented would make him look like a bank robber, but he had no other choice.

European roads were often bumpy with stones. They were made for carriages and horses, and it was common to keep them that way in areas that didn’t have much vehicular traffic.

The old European buildings seemed quite eccentric and creepy to Kang Chan.

He felt like there would be a terrified child somewhere in the buildings or a nobleman accusing an innocent woman of being a witch and torturing her.

He didn’t know why he felt that way, though.

A throbbing pain made Kang Chan move his upper body around.

He wanted to end all of this once and for all and go back to Korea with Daye, Gérard, Choi Jong-Il, Woo Hee-Seung, and Lee Doo-Hee.

Kang Chan twisted his upper body to look at the cafe where he had coffee earlier.

“Captain,” Gérard sharply called.

Kang Chan’s chest throbbed when he quickly turned back around, but he didn’t pay it any mind.

“Xairo! That bastard is Xairo.”

He followed Gérard’s gaze and saw the yellow-eyed bastard walking toward them.