Finishing his drink, Alekse set off at a brisk pace through the central street. The warmth afforded to him by the spiyrt shielded him from the sharp sting of frigid air typical of these mountain villages.
The gondola up Mt. Vema was a ten-minute walk from the bar via the main walkways, but Alekse, ever the diligent reporter, had found a shortcut prior to arriving at the resort. More time to drink had never hurt a man, after all. As he walked, he grasped the flask in his pocket he intended to give to the informant. Surely the man wouldn’t mind if he never received it, right? It seemed fair penance for choosing a meeting place so high up. No, on second thought, it was best to loosen his tongue with some karjinova before Alekse pressed him for information.
Pushing past a gaggle of skiers, Alekse arrived at the chapel and furtively glanced around at the various characters in hopes of picking out the man he was looking for. Great divine, who was this man? Did he not know how to pick a location for a meeting? This was a busy town, and Alekse had only been told his source would be in the plaza. For such a promising lead, it was panning out rather poorly.
Near the center of the crowd, a rather rotund man dressed like an episkop was speaking furiously from a soapbox. With his interest piqued, Alekse moved closer to listen. He had been hearing rumors about this sort of street preaching happening more often since the war, but hadn’t had a chance to see it in person. The sort of extreme religious thought this man was spitting was, at least in Alekse’s experience, limited to the small-town churches and the less fortunate Veiidic countries. What was it doing in an upscale resort community in Novenad? Was this a new trend? If this informant didn’t show, perhaps it could lead to an article with some further research, maybe a graph or two. Certainly enough to satisfy the editor in chief for the week.
Just when he was about to resign himself to writing an inflammatory article about modern religion, the crowd parted slightly. Alekse caught sight of a portly man across the square from him, looking anxiously at his watch before hurriedly signaling the waiter for his check. Alekse cocked his head and recalled the description he received. A brown leather uschanka, a red jacket, and green boots? Alekse was not up to date on fashion trends, but this combination was simply too much. It certainly stood out.
The man let out a small yelp when Alekse tapped his shoulder from behind.
“Sorry to startle you, sir, would you by chance be Mr. Kolarov?”
The man drew himself up taller. “That would be me, yes.”
“Wonderful. I’m Alekse, the reporter. Do you mind if we talk here?”
“We’ll talk privately on the gondola.”
Alekse grimaced. Wonderful, heights.
Mr. Kolarov remained silent until the doors of the gondola shut behind them. Alekse gripped the handrail tightly and shut his eyes as they lurched forward, transferring from the ring to the main cable.
“Here, I bought this bottle for you, Mr. Kolarov. I’d like to say that I think what you’re doing is very honorable.”
Mr. Kolarov accepted the karjinova gratefully and took a drink.
“It’s all I can do. When you print this story, will you need my name to make it credible?”
Alekse rubbed his chin. “It would help. You’re in a fairly high position, and people would trust the paper better if they knew the source, obviously. That said, if your accusations are very serious, an anonymous source might be enough to start an investigation. Even if the government apparatus does nothing, other news agencies will be under pressure to dig up the truth. I’d prefer to print your name, but if you want I will forget Mr. Kolarov forever.”
Mr. Kolarov suddenly looked rather frail in his bright colours. “Please don’t print my name. I have people… people I need to protect from this.”
Alekse leaned back in his seat. “As far as I’m concerned, I only ever received a pseudonym. I will have to record our conversation, will that be alright?”
“Yes, that’s fine.”
“Perfect. You’ve made me very curious to hear what you have to say. Please, lay it on me. Which of the ministers is having an affair this time?”
Mr. Not-Kolarov chuckled briefly. “They killed someone. A Novenadian.”
The gondola was quiet, save for the wind and snow chanting an eerie melody against the detachable grip.
“Elaborate.”
Mr. Not-Kolarov took a deep breath. “I read your article on the illicit trade of Karjinova and narcotics back in ‘08. You know the Zmaj cartel rather intimately, so you’ll remember when he was found dead in his villa up north, right?”
“I wrote that it was likely an assassination by a smaller cartel trying to muscle in on some of the Zmaj cartel territory in the following upheaval. I must have been wrong, because nothing came of it. What’s the connection?”
“He died shortly after Operation Complete Evisceration was announced to combat the drug trade. From the outside, it seemed ineffective aside from the capture of a couple narco-subs and opiate seizures. Those of us inside the administration in our various roles understand what happened. Zmaj was killed as part of a coordinated special forces operation to quickly eliminate the leadership of various criminal organizations, thus cutting off all the monster’s heads as it were.”
Alekse started chewing the end of his pen. “Which branch of special forces?”
“It was the 1st Special Terrain Company. I don’t know specifics about the operations, but I think they were all conducted at long range with guided projectiles. A friend of mine handled the forensics investigation for Zmaj, and buried the reports about the weapon used so it didn’t cause a fuss. Bad publicity for Lovric if it looked like the cartels got hold of restricted military equipment. We don’t export the HS-4 Marksman variant.”
The gondola passed the halfway mark, rattling over the wheels. Alekse’s knuckles went white against the handrail again.
“Who was involved in the planning of this operation? How high up does it go?”
Mr. Not-Kolarov reached deep into his overcoat and procured a thick manila envelope. “Everything you need to print a full story is in this envelope. The minutes from meetings about the operation, maps, folders on the victims, and a signed order by the prime minister authorizing the use of military force without permission from an Assembly. I must’ve pulled a hundred favors in the NOA to get all this together. Is there anything else you need to publish this?”
Alekse marshalled his thoughts. “A couple things. I’m sure you’ve thoroughly covered the first, but how was this approved without a Citizen’s Assembly?”
“Someone in the military arranged things so they could do it in the dark. I don’t know who, I’m sorry. The document was just to reassure some of the more junior officers they were operating in the light of day.”
“I see. That leaves me to ask you why you’re doing this.”
Mr. Not-Kolarov, taken aback, looked sharply at Alekse. “What do you mean, why?”
Alekse hesitated as they passed another pole, nearing the top of the gondola.
“You’ll have to forgive me for being cynical, I am a reporter. And while I do understand the severity of what this operation did, the people killed undoubtedly deserved it, and if I’m right about you then you’re with the NOA. You’re what, 70 years old? You’ve probably worked there your whole life. You could retire and spend your pension money on a better wardrobe. Baskaia knows you need one. Why would you mess that up because of a few evil people getting their just desserts?”
Mr. Not-Kolarov deflated, putting his face in his hands. His age showed for the first time since they’d met this morning.
“I fought in the revolution for something more tangible and concrete, more black and white than this grey you see. I’m not trying to avenge those men by releasing this. I’ve seen a changing of winds in the past few years, and I know what will happen when people find out. I suppose you’ll just have to see.”
The two men remained quiet as they approached the top of the gondola. Mr. Not-Kolarov got out without a word, and disappeared into the crowd of tourists. Left alone with his thoughts and a folder of damning information, Alekse realized with a jolt that he was no longer afraid of heights.
~
Some explanatory stuff that I decided to leave out of the main story:
Alekse is a freelance investigative reporter who will undoubtedly show up again someday, and perhaps he'll be a little less drunk when he does. He'll likely sell his story to the Balgred Star, a very large news company who he often does business with.
The resort they're at is Kivinst, a ski resort chain with some other locations in Veiid.
An episkop is a bishop of patrist churches, of which there are several. See here for a famous patrist episkop: https://forum.kerbalpowers.org/viewtopi ... iskop#p644
Also see Zmaj's assassination here:
https://forum.kerbalpowers.org/viewtopi ... =Zmaj#p458
