Chapter 280: National Treasure

“Arabs are honest? You must have misread them. Arabs are good liars, considering their useless pride. They don’t consider lying as an evil deed. They only consider it evil when the lies are exposed. Since spewing out lies is a part of their lives, they add words like ‘Wallahi[1],’ ‘Uksum Billah[2],’ and ‘sadiqnii[3]’ to emphasize their credibility. That only indicates how normal lying is to them.”

“Havuç, the Syrians I met are honest people. Aren’t the Turks known worldwide for their unyielding pride?” Black Mamba countered Havuç’s criticism.

“Hahaha, that’s true. We’re funny humans who treat men without sex experience like idiots while debating the purity of women. However, I heard Koreans are good liars and have extreme machismo tendencies?”

Black Mamba closed his mouth at the counterattack. He wasn’t wrong, after all.

“They didn’t add a single phrase like ‘I swear on God’s name’ or ‘believe me.’ This means that they have accepted you as their true leader. You should be a political leader rather than some operative agent.”

“What are you talking about? They’re victims of Turkey and Syria’s religious intolerance and racist governments. Their lives, which revolved around the practice of takfir[4], were too devastating. I couldn’t ignore them simply because of my compassion. A temporary deviation, so to speak,” Black Mamba jumped to protest.

A political leader! Chills ran down his spine. Were there any decent political leaders in Korea? Those politicians poured out promises they couldn’t keep during the election period and chased after their own greed once elected. Just listening to the appellation made his body tingle as though fleas were crawling all over him.

“I don’t agree with the government’s racist policies, either. Takfir is a practice that should cease to exist. You did something that no one else could have done. I’ll call you God if you dislike being called a politician that much. Who else could take pity on the refugees and save them?”

“Ugh, stop it. I’ve got goosebumps all over me. Havuç, I feel like we’ll be good friends.” Black Mamba waved his hands.

“I get it. A friend’s abilities should be kept secret. All the agents who witnessed your unique abilities won’t speak of it either. Even if they mention it, it’ll be nothing but drunken ramblings.”

Havuç’s gaze softened. A destructive agent wasn’t a human but a cold-blooded animal. They committed inhumane, unspeakable actions without a second of hesitation once they began an operation. The kind of romance and love that appeared in 007 movies only existed in movies.

Unknowingly, Havuç was drawn to Dong-bang-bull-pae, someone who was young enough to be his youngest brother. He was too humane to live as an operative agent. A person with unique abilities and a warm heart, how charismatic! Perhaps it was due to their ancestors’ friendship, but he was fond of Korea. They also shared racial similarities with Turkey. Havuç didn’t know his increasing affection was a result of the strengthened resonance waves. Of course, Black Mamba didn’t realize that, either.

Black Mamba nodded. While there was a saying that said it was better to trust a woman’s mouth more than an informant’s, Havuç seemed like a person he could trust. Within the intelligence community, there were several superhumans from the States, the Soviet Union, and Israel. It couldn’t be helped if some of his abilities were made known. No secrets could be kept hidden from the world. The Ange de la Mort, who was France’s secret weapon, was bound to be exposed. It didn’t matter as long as Mu Ssang, which was his biggest secret and also his Korean identity, remained unexposed.

“Let’s hurry, friend. A jet is waiting for you at Hatay Airport. The French officials might feel anxious, fearing that we’ve kidnapped you.”

“That’s their problem. A week turned into two months. I’m growing attached to Syria.”

Black Mamba turned to look at the clump of Mindungsan rocks glistening under the strong sunlight in Nahob.

On October 10th, 1984.

The 15,000-ton Pariah passenger ship carrying 540 Syrian refugees headed toward İskenderun Harbor. 10 French immigration staff and 20 officials from the Ministry of Interior rushed toward them the moment they boarded. Their ragged clothes were replaced with fresh ones, and citizenships were issued on the spot.

The refugees, who were rendered speechless, hugged each other and cried in disbelief. At the continuing miracle, they reaffirmed their belief in Sir Ddu-bai-buru-pa’s status as God’s apostle.

One person pouted and grumbled the entire time. It was Jamal who couldn’t be by his master’s side. Black Mamba had ignored Jamal’s desperate gaze. He’d grown tired of Ombuti’s overwhelming devotion since following him out of the Sahel.

The 18-seat jet landed at de Gaulle Airport. A passenger walked down onto the runway. The person was a tall, strong Asian carrying a large backpack which covered his entire frame. It was Black Mamba.

“Mon dieu, c’est un faible.”[5]

A slim man with a grown beard greeted him with a bright expression. Claude was taken aback by Black Mamba’s fine form. Not a single scratch was seen on his body. No one knew what Black Mamba had gone through better than himself. He’d been expecting a wreck and had even prepared an ambulance.

“Faire vos propre travaille.”[6]

Claude flinched at his cold words. The monster wasn’t happy. Sirens went off in his head.

Black Mamba was actually displeased. His mood had turned sour because of the other person’s cheerful attitude. Zaitun had revealed that the manager of the Middle East’s intelligence department was a planted seed. Claude was the manager of the Middle East’s intelligence department. He had no reason to happily greet someone who had shoved him into a s***hole. Claude might have been the one who had assigned Zaitun to him. Things came and went in equal measure.

Another reason behind his sour mood was the guilt he felt from the many lives he had taken. He’d killed, but this time, he had killed too many. The number of people he had killed couldn’t measure up to the body count in the Sahel. It wasn’t his intention, but the results were destructive. Now that it was time to calculate his deeds, his mood changed for the worst.

He recalled the Sahel plan in which he had earned money from killing the FROLINAT guerrillas. Earning money based on the number of people he had killed? The scent of blood, which he had managed to wash off, rose again. He couldn’t help but feel depressed.

He didn’t care about the evil ANO and Horazan terrorists’ twisted judgment. He’d unintentionally killed too many Syrian soldiers. Regardless of Assad’s greed, the soldiers had been carrying out their duties loyally and had their own families.

“A car’s waiting for you. We’re heading straight to the headquarters.”

“Did manager Ariba go babysitting? Why are you here?”

“He, my friend, has caught the Ange de la Mort phobia. He claims that he breaks into cold sweats just by looking at your face. So, I’m here instead.”

“I’m nicer than I look.”

F***, did you wipe out 1,000s of people with your kindness? I’m about to s*** here. What happened to that damned Zaitun b*stard? He must be dead since he didn’t kill this b*stard. Claude complained internally.

When they had met in N’Djamena, it was as though he was facing a predator. Now, he felt as though he was looking at a calm lake. That scared him even more.

“Mon dieu, national treasure!”

Upon entering, Bonipas ran toward Black Mamba as though he was about to welcome him with a hug.

“I’ve no interest in men.” Black Mamba shook his head and collapsed onto the couch.

An operative agent should not behave that way before the head of the intelligence department, but the special military advisor was a non-commissioned officer. Both were of equal ranks.

This b*stard’s unnecessarily scaring people.

Bonipas’ face creased. A middle-aged man, who was seated by the meeting table, leaped to his feet and raised his hand.

“Director of Intelligence, Musa Kabaye”

“Black Mamba. Call me, Dong-bang-bull-pae.”

Black Mamba gently held the man’s hand and released it. There was a risk of the billion’s water armor shattering his hand.

“Dong-bang-bull-pae, I’ve hindered your mission by giving you the wrong information. I apologize.”

Kabaye, who was sharp-witted, apologized as fast as he could. A strange light flickered in Black Mamba’s eyes. If he was the director of the DGSE, he was third in power. A director offering a personal apology was unusual. An issue, which he was planning to hang over Bonipas’ head, disappeared.

“On a Day when their tongues, hands, and feet will bear witness against them as to what they used to do. On that Day, Allah will pay back to them in full their just reward, and they shall know that Allah is the evident Truth.”

Black Mamba didn’t churn out an answer but recited a verse from the Quran instead. He’d come to like the verse that Zaitun had recited before his death. Jamal had translated it into French for him.

Damn, the guy’s pissed off.

Bonipas and Kabaye’s expressions grew stiff. Their hearts sank at the verse, which mentioned that one would be rewarded as much as they confessed. Just as expected, a direct response flew in their faces.

“I’ll dismiss the surface-to-air missiles. However, I need to go over the issue with the guide. Zaitun was the third shadow from the DIA’s Middle East Regional Headquarters. In my opinion, he was the DIA’s representative for Syria.”

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“Hm!” Bonipas and Kabaye groaned at the same time.

From the coded message that had been transmitted, they had figured that it wasn’t an ordinary matter. They had no excuses for planting a high-ranking DIA spy as Black Mamba’s guide, even if that meant being beaten to death. Safe to say, the project that the U.S. had been advancing in Syria was just as important. They were in a situation where they had to reset their internal information system.

“Is the b*stard dead?”

“There isn’t a single person who breathes after going against Dong-bang-bull-pae.”

That sentence reeked of blood. Bonipas realized that Black Mamba was a starved predator once more.

“I apologize. That’s my fault.”

Bonipas meekly admitted his wrong. Black Mamba started cheering internally. He was now controlling the flow of the conversation.

“Zaitun used a Peskett CCW coated with botulinum toxin. I find it hard to believe that the U.S. supplied such a strong poison to a mere agent. Isn’t such a weapon and poison specialized by the KGB and Mossad?” Black Mamba questioned.

“Mm, botulinum toxin! That should be the Sergiev Posad Research Institute near Moscow. Botulinum toxin is purified and cultured while the Ebola genetics are professionally developed there. Zaitun might have been connected to the KGB. Perhaps it’s a cooperative operation between the KGB and the CIA?”

Bonipas and Kabaye’s faces darkened. A secret project had been progressing in Syria. Whatever that was, it was certainly a plan to meddle with France’s national profits in the Middle East.

“Yes. The Soviet Union’s Ministry of Defense and the KGB are working together to develop biological weapons. There were traces of the KGB and the CIA’s operatives meeting in Damascus,” Kabaye confirmed Bonipas’ suspicion.

Bonipas immediately raised the phone and sent down several orders.

“Is the manager of the Middle East’s intelligence department, Claude?” Black Mamba asked out of nowhere.

“Yes.”

“Here’s your first gift. Arrest Claude. He’s a planted weed of the KGB.”

Black Mamba threw a straight jab with the gift that Zaitun had left him.

“What?”

Bonipas and Kabaye’s eyes widened to the point that they almost tore.

“I don’t believe you.” Kabaye blinked.

“Director, Zaitun personally confessed it. He also left a clue that there’s a mole within the CIA,” Black Mamba said coldly.

Kabaye’s face paled while Bonipas leaped to his feet with the phone in hand. The Operations Department had a system that filtered out contaminated water within the DGSE.

“Ariba, arrest Claude immediately and lock him up. Activate the suicide prevention program.”

“Bonipas, this is unbelievable,” Kabaye, whose face was flushed, resisted.

“Director Kabaye, do you not know Black Mamba yet? He’s the national treasure. If we bash around the person who assigned Zaitun as his guide, a connection is bound to be found.”

“F***, I can’t believe this.”

Director Kabaye was in denial, but he couldn’t stop Bonipas’ orders. He sighed and collapsed back onto the couch. Managers were the core of the operations. If Claude was a mole, substantial information from the DGSE was possibly leaked to the Soviet Union. His position would be at stake too. His future was looking dim.

“What if Black Mamba’s information was handed over to the KGB too?” Kabaye looked anxiously at Bonipas.

“Director Kabaye, don’t worry too much. Claude’s security pass is only at level three. He has no access to Black Mamba’s personal information.”

Kabaye could only sigh at Bonipas’ assurance.

“Bonipas, here’s your second gift.”

Black Mamba took out various personal belongings from a pouch and spread them across the table. There was a car key, note-taking materials, a small notebook, a swiss multi-knife, a keychain, and a small Kukri.

“What is this? Did you go stealing things around the airport?” Confused, Bonipas looked at Black Mamba.

“The CIA went around stealing things. These objects belonged to a person who died from being tortured in a basement located in Ruman. I retrieved them since he looked like someone special. The b*stards named Shire and Dyson called him, Paskal Belmont.”

“Paskal Belmont!”

Bonipas and Kabaye leaped to their feet.

Crash—

The sofa overturned behind them.

Damn, these guys are dramatic.

“Is he dead?”

“I said he’s dead, didn’t I? He died from being tortured. The culprits were CIA agents with the code names Shire and Dyson. I got carried away by their inhumane torture methods and sliced off their necks,” Black Mamba said as though he’d sliced off a couple of ant’s heads instead.

Bonipas forced his eyes closed and gritted his teeth.

“Those damn Yankee b*stards, they’re going hand in hand with the ANO. I’m not leaving them be.”

“Who is Paskal Belmont?”

“He’s the regional director of the DGSE’s Middle East branch. He was kidnapped right before the Ruman plan. We’re in trouble. If the information was handed over, our plans for the Middle East would turn into dust.”

“Hehehe, it doesn’t matter what those b*stards got out of Belmont. I retrieved them all. Here’s your third gift.”

[1] I swear to Allah.

[2] I swear on Allah.

[3] Believe me.

[4] The practice of accusing another Muslim of apostasy or declaring another Muslim as an infidel.

[5] “My God, you’re a legend.”

[6] “Mind your own business.”

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