Chapter 29: 29

Chapter 29

“Private Smith.”

“Yes.”

“Relax.”

His voice was very soft. As the tall captain held out the cup, Fred leaned forward and received it politely.

“…Thank you.”

It was disrespectful to give back the alcohol that was given. However, Fred was afraid that he would make a mistake by getting drunk. Because of that, he drank only enough to wet his lips and slowly set the glass down on the table.

Winston, watching him, removed the cigar from his lips and spat out long white smoke.

“I’m calling you here today because I have a mission to entrust you secretly without the superiors knowing. I picked the right person to do it, and you’re one of those candidates.”

Stunned by the unexpected situation, Fred blinked. He only thought that Winston was displeased with him because of the last time he vomited in the torture chamber.

‘…It wasn’t that?’

This was perhaps a golden opportunity to infiltrate the intelligence department as a key personnel and make a contribution. Then, he might one day win the trust of Little Jimmy and become an officer in the Revolutionary Army.

Fred didn’t hide his joy as he greeted Winston.

“It is an honor.”

Winston smiled as he tapped the ashes into the ashtray and curled the corners of his eyes.

“The two kids in front of you were eliminated. So, I have high expectations for you.”

“Do not disappoint the Captain.”

As Campbell assisted by his side, Fred exclaimed with a determined expression.

“Yes, I will do anything if you leave it to me.”

“He’s already reliable.”

As Winston smiled at Campbell, Fred smiled along with him.

“Private Fred Smith.”

“Yes, Captain!”

“I heard you’re from Fairhill in Leven, right?”

The moment the question was asked, Fred’s smile went into incontinence.

“Yes, yes. You’re right.”

No, it was false. It was just fake information in Fred Smith’s personal statement that was fabricated by the upper management. Fred swallowed a gulp, trying to remember information about Fairhill Village he had heard in the pre-infiltration training.

“I have work to do there.”

“…Yes. If you leave it to me, I will work hard.”

“It’s not a big deal, the town council has been informed that Blanchard’s bastards are mixed in. I want you to go and do some research. It’s the town you’re from, so even if you go around a bit, no one will doubt you.”

Fred was relieved. It was because the revolutionary army would not send spies to a small mountain village with a population of less than five hundred. It seemed that Winston was wasting his time on misinformation.

“Ah, the name of the village chief of Fairhill…”

Winston looked at Fred, rubbing his forehead with the hand holding the cigar as if in trouble because he couldn’t remember.

“…It’s Mr. Mason.”

Fred only hoped that the answer he remembered with difficulty was the correct answer.

“Oh, right.”

At the reply, he let out a breath he had been holding back.

“It’s famous for skiing in winter.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“I also went on a family trip when I was fifteen. Private Smith was born and raised there, so maybe you ran into him.”

Fred only smiled awkwardly instead of answering.

How did a wealthy man like Winston end up in the countryside where there were no luxury hotels…?

“Oh, come to think of it, something really funny happened.”

As Winston turned his head to Campbell, he began to quibble about his memories of Fairhill, “There was a tavern under the ski resort.”

‘…Is this person really drunk?’

Fred, relaxed a little, took the whiskey glass in front of him and moistened his dry mouth.

“There, they sell warm vin chaud, and the owner thought I was an adult just by looking at my size. That day, Jerome and I both had a drink and fell in the snow on the way out of the tavern.”

“Oh, my.”

“If the tavern diners hadn’t found us, we would have frozen to death. It is a pleasant memory.”

“It must be a terrible memory for Mrs. Winston.”

As the two burst into laughter, Fred laughed and put down the glass. As soon as alcohol was added, his stiff body loosened.

“Fred, you know Mr. Albert? The pot-bellied tavern owner.”

“Ah, yes, yes.”

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Even though he didn’t know, it did not make sense to say he didn’t know. Winston grinned at Campbell as Fred gave him a quick chuckle.

“He was a delightful guy.”

“Yes, it is. Haha…”

“Oh, and there was a festival held every winter…. Ah! Feast of St. Maurice.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“It’s a bizarre tradition. Oh, you should hear this from a native. Fred, tell Campbell.”

Winston leaned deep on the sofa, biting his cigar. Fred’s heart beat faster in his anticipating gaze.

‘…Have I ever heard of such a holiday?’

He quickly went through his memory. Just as his hands were about to start to sweat again, he remembered the symbol of the town.

A man holding his severed neck with both hands.

“That is… St. Maurice, from our village, was decapitated and killed…”

“Right.”

As Winston nodded his head, Fred moistened his dry lips and raised the corners of his lips slightly.

‘Good job, Fred.’

Now, even his older sisters, who usually treated him as a child and ignored him, would have no choice but to acknowledge him.

“The villagers baked and ate gingerbread in the shape of a human that day. Right?”

“Yes.”

“Before you eat, you rip off the neck like this.”

Winston grabbed the middle of the cigar and broke it in half. Even though it looked bloody, as the people around him started laughing, Fred laughed along with him. Then, he tossed the cigar in two into the ashtray and blew out a hazy smoke.

At one point, he didn’t even know if it was Fred’s misunderstanding that sparks splattered from his ice-cold eyes.

“Fred, can I tell you another interesting story?”

As Winston leaned close to him, Fred leaned over and listened to him as he whispered slowly.

“I’ve never been to Fairhill.”

Fred couldn’t hide his confusion at the sudden confession. Winston stared at him, who must have been shaking his eyes, and smiled softly.

“I’ve never been there, but I know this. The name of the feast is not St. Maurice, but St. Nicholas.”

Saying so, he suddenly stood up. Fred stood stiff in the same position he had faced Winston. The clenched fist on his lap suddenly became cold, and he trembled. The sound of the chess game played stopped behind him.

“Oh, and it’s rye bread, not gingerbread.”

After the laughter, a ferocious voice murmured.

“To fall into such a trivial trap.”

Although he had to run from here, his body did not listen.

All Fred could do was glance down at his trembling limbs and turn his eyes to Winston, who was leaning against the window and staring out.

“Fred Smith. Why did you write your hometown falsely on your enlistment application?”

Leon pulled back the thin lace curtain and followed something outside the window with his eyes, muttering to himself.

“My conclusion is…”

He slowly opened and closed his eyes.

“That means you are a terrible spy.”

In conclusion, the first two interrogated were not spies. After pushing it a little, it seemed that they embezzled public money and squandered what they had spent on entertainment. It was a real waste of time.

“Campbell.”

As soon as he gave the instructions to Campbell, he pulled out a yellow file folder from under the sofa and opened it. Shortly thereafter, a reading of Fred Smith’s enlistment application was held against the background of a funny jazz melody playing on the radio.

“Name, Fred John Smith. Father, Robert John Smith. Occupation, butcher.”

“A son who grew up with a father who works at a butcher’s shop, paled when seeing blood and vomits. Campbell, does this make sense?”

“No.”

“Did you hear it? This is your mistake, greenhorn.”

Campbell was tongue-tied again at his superior’s sharpness. It was a contradiction that no one else would notice.

However, it was so trivial that it would be over if the other party insisted that it was a conjecture. His superior, who knew this, revealed more contradictions and lies with suggestive questions without touching the contradiction.

Without realizing it, the spy made countless mistakes, and he was trembling without saying a word to refute them.

It was as if the rat had ripped open its own stomach and taken its own breath.

“Arrest him.”

Behind Leon’s back, the sound of pulling chairs resounded all at once. The waiting soldiers stood up from the chess table. There was a loud scream from behind him, perhaps the rat that had fallen tried to run away belatedly.

“No! Not me…!”

It was also unsightly to deny it too late.

His scream echoed in the hallway. Only when the echo faded did Leon turn his bitter gaze away and turn his back. Outside the window he had been staring at, the maid with brown hair was dragging the laundry cart towards the main building.

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