Chapter 50

The spacious office had been stripped bare, leaving only two sofas and a coffee table.

Baron sat facing Howard and Secretary Stella. In front of them sat a steaming cup of black tea and a freshly drafted contract.

Stella handed Baron a pen—the same Montblanc she had bought for a hundred pounds earlier.

Baron took it without hesitation and signed his name.

He had read the contract ten times. There were no traps, no hidden wordplay.

It was nothing more than an ordinary internship agreement.

Baron scratched his forehead, wondering if he had misread, yet the bold characters on the page clearly read: Westminster People's Bank Internship Agreement for Incoming Officers.

He glanced at Stella; the Secretary still wore her professional smile. Then he looked at Howard; the Deputy Director was on the phone, cleaning up the mess Baron had left in Moscow.

Apparently the Moscow vault had suffered serious losses. The local Director was furious, and Howard was declaring righteously into the receiver:

"Relax, old friend. Someone dared rob us on Westminster's turf—sooner or later we'll find the bastard."

Sounds like the Deputy Director plans to pocket the gold himself. Typical of a gold supremacist, Baron thought darkly.

"It's all that damned capitalism's fault!" Howard barked into the phone, then hung up. Accepting the cup of tea Stella offered, he took a sip and looked at Baron.

"Curious why I'm giving you an internship contract?"

Baron nodded.

The Deputy Director said, "With your current identity, if Westminster hired you outright, we'd be declaring war on the whole British Inner Side. An internship contract lets us avoid internal announcements, so no one will leak the news."

Westminster can't protect me either? Baron's heart sank.

Howard noticed Baron's expression and guessed his thoughts. "Those are the Director's exact words. He says only after you clean up your own mess can Westminster justify converting your post to a permanent one."

So much for leaning against a big tree to enjoy the shade—the tree wants me to go take care of the sun first.

Baron instantly lost interest and just wanted to bolt.

Howard sat unruffled. "You can't afford the penalty for breach of contract."

"I didn't sign my real name," Baron said.

Stella glanced at the contract on the table; the signature was Jack's full name.

"But I can threaten you," Howard said mildly. "For example, I could mention that you're in Westminster, or tip off those Enforcement organizations hunting you—tell them you're not dead after all."

Very Westminster of you.

Baron was silent a moment, then said, "Since Director Davis interviewed me, he knows exactly what sort of person I am. Without a benefit, why would I ever join Westminster?"

Howard smiled. "That's what I admire about you. A profit supremacist is exactly the kind of Westminster agent we need."

He added meaningfully, "An intern actually gives you many options. When a company causes a public uproar, the final fallout usually lands on some mysterious intern."

Baron saw the light: so the whole point of an intern is to be a scapegoat.

If the Moscow bank Director ever traced the theft back, the Deputy Director could simply claim "a temporary employee acted improperly" or "the intern has already been dismissed," and keep the gold.

Baron couldn't help sucking in a cold breath; the way he looked at Howard changed.

The old man really isn't a good person.

In the end, Baron still signed his own name.

"Then, Mr. Baron Constantine, I hereby extend to you an offer of employment on behalf of the European headquarters of Westminster People's Bank. From this day forward, you are a containment officer for the European division."

Stella announced coolly and flatly, "As an intern, and since the Director has not yet assigned a final grade, you will receive only the provisional benefits of a Westminster containment officer."

She tapped her wristwatch; the quartz face rippled like water.

Baron's gaze sharpened. That watch, like his own Dragon-Gall ring, was a containment object.

Stella drew an ornate mahogany box from the watch and set it on the table. Inside lay two transparent disks that looked like contact lenses.

"Crystals of Prying Mystery—Grade-C Forbidden Objects issued exclusively to Westminster containment officers, fashioned as contact lenses for convenience. They allow the user to overdraw spiritual power to glimpse the truth of any Forbidden Object they touch. The higher the grade of the target, the more complete the revelation."

Howard said, "Take that chain at your waist—Mimic's Chain. With a touch I learned some of its past and a portion of its authority... though the cost is another matter; it's Forbidden, not merely Mystic."

"Once worn, the lenses also automatically correct nearsightedness or farsightedness, cure trachoma, dry eye, cataracts..." he added. "The alchemists in the Chinese branch came up with them. You know how brilliant the Chinese are."

He slid the box toward Baron.

Crystals of Prying Mystery—seeing the truth of Forbidden Objects. No wonder Jack had seen straight through his Mimic disguise.

Without hesitation, Baron slipped the two lenses into his eyes.

When his hand and gaze brushed the silver chain at his waist, a line of text floated above his vision.

[Mimic's Chain: A chain forged for condemned prisoners. Once used to hang the mimic Louis; after death the chain absorbed Mystique and became Forbidden.]

He touched the Dragon-Gall ring—no response.

Stella explained, "The Crystals can only reveal Forbidden Objects tainted with Mystique. They have no effect on ordinary alchemical items."

So Mystique is what turns an item into a Forbidden Object. It's probably the First Law at work.

Baron wondered whether this trip to Westminster would end well or badly, but at least he had already profited.

Inside his Dragon-Gall ring still lay a gold ingot he hadn't yet surrendered—well, embezzled. Moscow would notice the missing bullion once they balanced their books, but if Howard intended to swallow it, then as Howard's underling Baron would hardly leave it untouched.

Still, he felt a twinge of regret.

Because the Cocoon of Delusion would never belong to him. If only he could carry that Forbidden Object everywhere—he could spend the rest of his life as a shut-in and fear no enforcer.

Yet... a sudden thought struck Baron. Every Forbidden Object demands a price. So what is the price of the Cocoon of Delusion?

At that moment, in the Logistics Department, trader Jack was tallying the betting books. After accounting for two anonymous wagers on S-class—he knew exactly who they were—plus the two news sales to the Westminster Times, and subtracting the operators' wages, he had cleared nearly sixty ounces of gold.

That equaled a whole year's income for a D-class agent, assuming he never ate, drank, or rested and spent every waking moment picking fifty ounces of gold off the ground—which only proved D-class agents had no human rights.

Jack was daydreaming about whether to vacation in the Maldives, Hawaii, or Sicily when the desk phone rang. Thinking it was that frosty S-class agent, he answered obsequiously, saying the money had already been wired, only to hear an icily familiar female voice.

Stella said coldly from the other end, "I bet on S-class. Transfer my winnings—fifty-nine ounces—to the Swiss account..."

Fifty-nine ounces!?

Jack's face went white. He had earned only sixty in total. This single demand nearly killed him.

He had almost forgotten—three people had bet on S-class. He simply never imagined the third would be Secretary Stella herself.

Of course she'd bet S-class—if the Deputy Director did, how could the Director's secretary not?

They were all in it together.

Jack had underestimated the size of the casino.

Before he could respond, Stella continued, "Come to the office later. I need your help with a new recruit. Do well, and the Deputy Director will petition the Director to promote you to C-class."

Without waiting for an answer, she hung up.

In the office, Stella set down the phone and looked at Baron. "Next you'll need an alias to register for a temporary officer black card. Have you decided on a name?"

"L. Just call me L," Baron said.

Though Westminister containment officer L doesn't sound as good as demon-hunter L.