Chapter 660: The Crimson Sea

"What's going on with the recent peasant-worker movement in Mexico?" Kela hurried down the stairs in the Metropolis CIA outpost, her tone sharp with irritation: "You can't even keep track of something this important? Do you have any idea how much flak I'll take for this?"

Her subordinate wiped sweat from his forehead and said: "Our agents were watching him closely, but that leader of theirs keeps vanishing—we have no idea where he came from…"

"The news says he's collaborating with drug traffickers… My God, now we're getting our intel from the news?" Kela rolled her eyes. "Rapidly mobilize personnel to stop them. Do I really need to spell this out?"

"But all our people in South America are embedded in drug cartels—we can't move freely. If we try to bring in agents from the East Coast, they won't blend in. I've already pulled a team of local agents to track them down," the subordinate replied.

"The West Coast Drug Enforcement Agency will cooperate. Ease off drug operations for now—focus entirely on this. The pressure from above is unbearable," Kela sighed. "We all know how vital Mexico is. It must remain invisible—or rather, it must stay invisible. It cannot afford to spiral out of control."

"By the way, when you find them, don't act rashly. I heard their leader isn't ordinary. If you spook them and they vanish again, you and I will both be resigning by year's end."

After speaking, Kela strode into her office, tossed her keychain onto the desk, sat down, exhaled heavily, and rubbed her temples with worry.

Before she could relax, her subordinate knocked and entered again: "Boss, we've got a call from above. Do you want to take it?"

Kela stood up again, walked to the opposite office, picked up the phone, and said: "Hello? … Yes, we've been monitoring continuously. Are you really ready to activate him now? But he hasn't even… Alright, I understand. I'll try."

After hanging up, she turned to the people in the office and said: "Now, bring me every file on Clark Kent. Above wants to activate him."

"Activate him? But he hasn't even joined us!" the newcomer said, startled. Kela rubbed her temples. "Yes, Congress always assumes everyone is naturally ours. They think brainwashing an innocent college kid is that easy?"

Soon, a bearded agent walked in and shouted: "What's this? Activate Clark? Who came up with this idiotic idea?"

"A few days ago, we noticed Clark seemed to have spotted our surveillance team. We were planning to lie low—and now they want us to approach him directly??"

The bearded agent crossed his arms. "Even if we could convince him, what if he goes rogue? What happens to Metropolis's security? What about the safety of my agents?"

"Owen, calm down," Kela stepped forward and patted the big man's shoulder. "You know the head of the Bureau is under immense pressure. No one anticipated Mexico's situation—we've got zero intelligence."

"Who approved this? Who organized it? Who executed it? From Mexico to Moscow—what exactly happened? We know nothing. This is already a major failure…"

"But that's the Moscow team's fault! They even captured their top leader—how could they not know who's behind this Mexican movement?"

"New update, Boss…" another female agent entered, holding a file. "Moscow CIA station reports this may have been a KGB rogue operation. Their leadership didn't authorize it—and didn't even see it coming."

"How is that possible? Which intelligence agency would act without orders? … Well, I suppose they might. A bunch of dying dreamers. Can we even trace which KGB division did it?"

"It's hard to trace. We've infiltrated parts of the KGB, but their personnel system has always been the hardest nut to crack—there's no clear lead."

Kela took the file, studied it carefully—it conveyed nothing useful.

In short: Moscow's leadership didn't know how the movement started. Reasonable speculation points to a rogue KGB unit—but no one knows which one. In effect, they found nothing.

"A movement doesn't arise overnight," Kela analyzed. "First, you need an ideological leader, then a capable executor—ideally someone with extensive guerrilla experience, familiar with the local environment. Along the way, you need specialists to relay intelligence and help them evade capture." Everyone in the room knew this.

After decades of chess with the KGB, the CIA wasn't incompetent. They understood how the KGB built movement after movement—but the results always remained astonishingly effective. This time was no exception.

"More importantly, they had to seize the right moment. That massacre gave them that moment. I recommend forming a small team to investigate the massacre. If we can prove they planned it, Moscow's reputation will be ruined forever," Kela narrowed her eyes.

"What if we can't get proof? Can we fabricate it? … Alright, the KGB isn't stupid. If we're exposed, the fallout will be worse." The bearded agent stroked his beard, said nothing, and turned to leave.

After the others left, Kela headed toward the exit. Before leaving, she told her subordinate behind her: "I need to contact the DEA again. Stay alert. If they call again, say I'm too busy to answer."

"Understood, Boss," the subordinate gave a thumbs-up, standing by the door as he watched Kela depart.

Kela drove to the hospital and met the female doctor again. As usual, the doctor closed the windows, drew the curtains. No sooner had she finished than both spoke at once: "What's going on with the Mexican movement?"

They both froze, surprised, then said together: "It wasn't you?!"

"Of course not!" Kela said. "Do you think I'd risk my position by doing something like this? I confirmed with Lila—it wasn't our people on the West Coast either."

"Then it's strange. No word from the East Coast either," the doctor took a deep breath. "You know organizing such a movement requires deep revolutionary experience. Few such people exist even in the KGB—who could it be?"

"My intel says even Moscow doesn't know. The CIA suspects a rogue KGB division chief acted alone," Kela frowned.

"Who's bold enough to do that?" the doctor exclaimed. "Don't they know the congress is about to open in a few days?"

"That's exactly what I fear. I think this might be a trap—they want to cause chaos on the day of the inauguration. But I can't figure out how."

"Right now, our priority is counter-infiltration. If Moscow calls asking what's happening, what do we tell them?" the doctor asked.

"Anyone who asks that is likely a CIA spy. Tell them the truth—we don't know who it is," Kela rubbed her temples. "Internal turmoil, external pressure—and still, this movement emerged. I want to know which division produced such a talent."

"Enough worrying. Your anxiety's flaring up again," the doctor glanced at her watch. "Five minutes are up. Go get your medicine. We'll talk next time."

Kela sighed and left. Then she went to the Metropolis Police Department's Drug Enforcement Unit and called Lila at the West Coast DEA. Only when she returned to her apartment did she feel utterly exhausted.

But she knew she couldn't stop. Too much remained to investigate. She began connecting the clues, trying to deduce what was happening—but the threads were too tangled, like countless stars in the sky, utterly disconnected, impossible to trace.

At that thought, Kela suddenly remembered a familiar person. Whenever she was confused, he always used his vast experience to answer her questions.

Kela picked up the phone and called Alfred.

It was still early; Alfred hadn't gone to tell Elsa her bedtime story yet. He answered, listened to Kela's account, then asked slowly: "So you don't know who did it?"

"Correct. I suspect a trap—but if it is, I don't believe the CIA has anyone this skilled to launch such a movement. Or if they do, they're definitely one of ours."

"That's unusual," Alfred said, his pace unhurried, his calm instantly soothing Kela's nerves. "But don't you see this as a good thing?"

"If even we don't know who he is, then the CIA and their moles in Moscow certainly don't. An anonymous figure—could there be a better leader?"

"Your fear of a trap isn't unfounded. The CIA is cunning, always scheming. But consider this: using a movement as a trap carries too high a cost."

"They really launched a movement in Mexico. No matter their goal, it's like setting fire to their own backyard. Even Congress isn't that stupid. The current panic from Congress and the CIA leadership proves it—they're already losing control."

As Kela's mind calmed, she realized Alfred was right. The movement had already begun. If the CIA had orchestrated it, they'd have shot themselves in the foot.

"No matter what trap you set, no matter who it's meant to harm—burning down your own backyard is too high a price. No one would do that."

Mexico was vital to the U. . They would never allow even a hint of red influence. Using this method as a trap was absurd. And as Alfred said, their panic proves the situation has slipped beyond their grasp.

"Exactly. They're so desperate they want to activate Clark Kent. We haven't even spoken to Clark yet—and they're already pushing to use him. They're losing their composure," Kela said into the phone.

"Clark?" Alfred murmured the name, then asked: "What will you do?"

"Of course, stall them. Say we can't persuade him—or better yet, say he's fiercely resistant and we dare not pressure him." Kela spoke with practiced ease. After all, a KGB mole embedded in the CIA must master the art of faking incompetence.

"Do you know Clark well?" Alfred asked.

"We've monitored him 24/7. We know his routines, habits, schedule…"

"No—I mean his character."

"Character? He's just an ordinary college kid. A small-town boy, naive, kind-hearted, always helping others."

"Have you ever considered letting him go to Mexico?" Alfred asked.

Kela fell silent for a long time before answering: "Wouldn't that be too risky? What if he actually helps the CIA…"

"That kind, innocent small-town boy—after witnessing the true nature of workers' and peasants' movements—do you really think he'll side with the CIA?" Alfred posed a devastating question. Kela couldn't answer.

Compared to Kela, Alfred understood Clark's character better. He knew this so-called innocent small-town boy possessed a brilliant mind and a saintly compassion.

He wasn't foolish. He wouldn't be fooled by surface appearances. And now, he was beginning to see and understand the world.

"Kela, I remember telling you long ago: if you haven't seen with your own eyes, felt with your own skin, and truly empathized with the suffering of the poor and oppressed, no amount of theory learned in school will matter."

"I hope more kind-hearted people witness the real suffering in this world. Even if they don't join us, at least they can become good people who help others, right?"

Kela took a deep breath. "... erhaps you're right, Alfred. I took this path because I saw the brutal working conditions of workers in Eastern Europe, the poverty caused by illness."

"I've almost forgotten those things. Work has become my entire life—solving one problem after another, achieving one goal after another. It's dulled my original ideals…" Kela spoke sadly. "I may never return to who I was."

"It's human nature. If everyone remembered their original ideals, things wouldn't be how they are today," Alfred said, without disappointment—perhaps he had long since lost all hope.

His ability to observe this so clearly, calmly, and objectively came from no longer being inside the system—he had become an outsider.

Kela fell silent for a long while, then finally made her decision. "Alright. We'll try to guide Clark there. Let his kindness help him feel these sufferings. Even if he never becomes a comrade, at least he can become a good person."