Chapter 54: Auction Item No. 113 (Please follow and recommend!)

"I must confirm the truth of this matter, Roan."

After hearing Roan's account, Verinise closed her eyes with a grave expression. She massaged her temple with her right hand for a long moment before opening her eyes and addressing Roan:

"As for this contact named Daisy, have Lydia write down everything she knows about her and give it to me. I'll find a way to look into her background."

"Understood, ma'am."

Roan nodded, took the pen and paper, and left the study.

He knew just how difficult this would be; after all, the other party was NSA—the National Security Agency of the United States, and not just any part, but the upper echelons. A bar owner trying to topple a high-ranking official from one of the most renowned intelligence agencies of the federal government... In a miraculous country like America, where there is supposedly no corruption and all political donations are legal, the chances of success were probably even lower than Roan running for president and winning.

But the matter had to be reported. Since Roan had learned of it from Lydia, that alone was reason enough for the NSA’s leadership to send someone to silence him. Although Roan had his system and felt he was in no immediate mortal danger, he had no desire to become a real-life 007, pursued by governments around the world.

He didn't want to end up captured and dragged into a lab, poked, prodded, and dissected.

Still, Roan wasn’t too worried. His observations in recent days had made it clear that Verinise’s background was far from ordinary.

It was 2005, and for a woman to become a team leader in the male-dominated FBI—no one in their right mind would believe she had no powerful backing. And after noticing the signal jammer under her desk earlier, Roan was even more convinced of his judgment.

He didn’t know Verinise’s exact background, but her response—listening to the entire story without ordering him to forget it or pretend it never happened, but instead saying she would verify the facts before making a decision—proved she was someone who did things by the book.

Roan smirked—this was good. Let big shots handle big shots; there was no need to get involved in the power struggles between parties and departments. As an ordinary FBI agent, getting some tangible benefits was the wisest course.

A few minutes later, Roan placed the information Lydia had provided about "Daisy" on Verinise's desk. She nodded, gesturing for him to wait outside.

Closing the brown box, Verinise compiled Daisy’s information into an email and sent it to the leader of the Second Investigation Unit, who was on duty at the New York FBI field office that day, requesting a speedy and confidential investigation into Daisy’s identity.

Half an hour later, the encrypted information arrived in Verinise’s inbox.

She read about an elderly woman found dead in her car in a garage, shot in the forehead. Nothing was missing from her apartment, yet the LAPD had classified it as a burglary-homicide. Verinise narrowed her eyes.

After a moment’s thought, she bent down, picked up a black brick-sized mobile phone, and dialed a number.

"Why are you calling this number, Verinise?"

At FBI headquarters in Washington, the elderly white man Clement straightened in his seat as his secretary handed him the oversized phone, his face stern.

But upon hearing Verinise’s voice on the line, his expression soured and he said irritably, "You know what this number signifies. All this, just for an agent?"

"No, for the NSA."

Verinise wasted no words and, in the third person, relayed Roan’s entire story, then finished with a grave expression: "That’s the situation. I’ll send you the files shortly. Mr. Clement, the NSA has overstepped this time."

The NSA—the National Security Agency—falls under the Department of Defense, responsible for monitoring radio broadcasts, communications, and the internet. The FBI, under the Department of Justice, deals with counterterrorism, counterintelligence, and criminal investigations.

"You’re right, someone has crossed the line."

After listening, Clement narrowed his eyes in thought, trying to deduce which NSA executive was behind this, and simultaneously weighing what advantage he might gain from the situation—perhaps a step up the ladder.

Don’t imagine that America’s intelligence agencies are harmonious. More often than not, they’d like nothing better than to take each other out and claim all the power for themselves. Which intelligence chief hasn’t dreamed of becoming the next J. Edgar Hoover?

"You’ve handled this well, Verinise."

After a long pause, Clement decided to visit the NSA chief at the White House the next day. Then, satisfied, he smiled at the phone and said, "You truly are a member of the Clement family. Even as a woman, you outshine the men of other families."

"This wasn’t my discovery, Mr. Clement."

Verinise snorted coldly at his words. "It was my subordinate, Agent Roan—the one you rejected for the Foundation, saying he wasn’t qualified—who uncovered this."

"…"

Clement fell silent, then shook his head with a wry smile, "Verinise, I know you value Roan Greenwood, but lying is a bad habit. You must understand, elevating someone beyond their abilities will only end with them trampled underfoot."

Verinise cut him off, "It was Roan who found the case."

"…"

"He found the witness."

"…"

"He persuaded the witness to request protection and agree to testify."

"… Enough, Verinise, you’ve made your point. I believe you."

At headquarters, Clement rubbed his forehead in frustration, his expression complicated. At last, he sighed, "Very well, I’ll approve Roan Greenwood’s application to join the Columbus Foundation, and promote him to senior agent. Is that enough?"

"Not quite, Mr. Clement."

Hearing the resigned sigh on the other end, Verinise’s lips curled in satisfaction. She recalled Roan mentioning during his briefing that he had neither car nor house. Her eyelids flickered as she continued, "The FBI is about to auction off a batch of confiscated criminal assets. There’s a small apartment in Greenwich Village, Manhattan, worth $900,000. Why not let Agent Roan buy it for $500,000?"

"No! That’s not funny, Verinise."

Clement's voice rose instantly, his refusal firm, "That apartment is worth over $1.2 million on the market. Selling it for $900,000 is already the limit of internal perks. $500,000 is out of the question... How about $800,000?"

"$500,000, and that’s final. I’ll tell Roan, and if he’s interested, I’ll call you back."

With an insider’s knowledge of the real situation, Verinise smirked and hung up without another word.

"Damn it, extorted by my own niece!"

Listening to the dial tone, Clement’s face twitched. He took several deep breaths to quell his irritation. Still, $500,000 was the starting bid for that apartment. He hadn’t actually lost money—he simply hadn’t made any. For some people, though, not making money is as bad as losing it.

After a long silence, Clement stood and left his office. As he opened the door, he tossed the oversized phone to his secretary and said gravely, "Get the car ready. I’m heading to the White House. And remove item 113 from the auction list for now—someone will be in touch to buy it later."

The secretary nodded, unfazed by the instruction. "Yes, sir."