Chapter 957: Schiller

“What did you say? Repeat it!” The lead Black agent stared into Schiller’s eyes and took a step forward; Schiller stood firm, unmoved, meeting his gaze and saying:

“I said I am the organizer and leader of the Central American revolutionary movement. If you don’t want to hear the sound of KGB gunfire, you’d better apply for witness protection for me immediately.”

The Black agent immediately waved his hand; all agents drew their guns, four of them moved to the entrance and sealed the door, while the Black agent pulled out a recording device. Schiller glanced at it, noticed his movements, but said nothing.

Behind him, Merkel’s eyes bulged, but he reacted quickly, stepping forward to say: “Apologies, Federal Bureau of Investigation agents—my employer is currently experiencing a psychiatric episode. He must be taken to a hospital for treatment…”

Schiller turned his head slightly; Merkel saw his icy gaze, then heard Schiller say: “Go get me a raincoat. Thank you, Merkel.”

Merkel wanted to say more, but seeing Schiller’s expression, he turned away to fetch the coat.

Batman spoke up: “You claim he violated the espionage law—where’s the evidence? Where’s the arrest warrant?”

“Shut up,” Schiller said, looking at Batman. “This isn’t some cops-and-robbers game. No one owes you an explanation.”

Then Schiller turned to Brand and said: “Could you cover my classes for a few days, Brand?”

Brand sighed, said nothing, and nodded. Victor opened his mouth, but Schiller cut in: “Don’t worry about me.”

Finally, Schiller called Jason over, knelt down, patted his head, and said: “Go on. Go to class.”

He stood up again, meeting the agents’ eyes: “I know you have many questions—but until I meet your superior, I won’t say a word.”

Batman studied Schiller’s expression and noticed he was barely standing; without the umbrella’s support, he likely couldn’t maintain eye level with the FBI agent.

His pale face and trembling fingers gave him an entirely different kind of presence.

Some people rely on their bodies to show strength; others reveal the true power of their soul and spirit only when their bodies fail. When Schiller’s soul rose, it stood like a silent tower, alone in the rain-soaked night.

Schiller’s demeanor struck Batman as deeply strange—he seemed to be preventing anyone from defending him, even appearing eager to leave with the agents.

Central American revolutionary movement? Batman thought. What did that have to do with Schiller? Why bring it up now? Why rush to confess, without resistance at all?

As the agent leader gestured, armed agents closed in to take Schiller away. The agent’s gaze fell on the umbrella in Schiller’s hand. The leader cleared his throat: “Sorry, sir, but you can’t take anything out of here.”

Schiller looked down at the umbrella in his hand, then, before Batman and Constantine’s stunned eyes, slowly lowered it.

He extended his trembling hand to straighten his tie, then walked forward with steady steps, following the agents out.

Before leaving, he cast one final glance at Batman—his expression told Batman he had long known this day would come.

Finally, dozens of agents surrounded Schiller, led him out of the Rodriguez Estate, and into an FBI vehicle. The headlights cut through the rain ahead, then vanished into Gotham’s darkness.

The Black agent leader turned away from the estate’s gate, unaware of Batman’s narrowed eyes and downturned mouth, and didn’t notice the slight tension in his fingers gripping the Bat-symbol.

Sitting in the car, the female agent turned to him and asked: “What’s wrong? It’s just a routine arrest. Why do you look so tense?”

“Do you know what he just said?” The Black agent’s voice was stiff. Seeing his colleague’s confusion, he said: “Rodriguez claimed he’s the organizer and leader of the Central American revolution. He wants witness protection.”

A sharp screech of brakes— the female agent slammed into the steering wheel, but before she could cry out, she raised her voice: “What? The organizer of the Central American revolution?!”

She exhaled in disbelief, then added: “Isn’t this the mystery every intelligence agency in the world is chasing? Who planned it? Who led it? Who executed it? No one knows!”

“Even the CIA’s mole inside the KGB couldn’t get us useful intel. And he just claims he’s… Are you sure he’s not messing with us?!”

»

The Black agent rubbed his sore shoulder. “Lower-level agents never get near this case. Most agents don’t even grasp its significance. The fact he used it as leverage to demand witness protection proves he understands the current situation.”

“It proves he knows no one in the world has an answer—and just knowing that alone means his level isn’t low.”

“What the hell is going on?” The female agent slapped the steering wheel. “FBI, CIA, KGB—all poured in manpower and still can’t figure out where this damn fire started. I never believe such an organized uprising was launched by some corn farmers!”

“I don’t believe it either,” the Black agent said, taking several deep breaths. “But prepare yourself—Rodriguez better be lying.”

“If even part of it’s true… trying to outmaneuver someone like him… Have you heard of Philby?”

“Of course I have,” the female agent restarted the car. “Almost became head of British intelligence, turned out to be a KGB mole, and even got acquitted—returned to the USSR. Didn’t they make a huge fuss over his body case just a few months ago?”

“Forget Britain. The U.S. has had its own cases too. The more dangerous ones are always the hardest to handle.” The Black agent’s expression turned cruel. “If he slips through our hands, we’ll be laughed at by the CIA for the rest of our lives.”

The female agent felt the tension tighten; her breathing quickened. After turning a corner, she hesitated: “Shouldn’t we hand this over to the CIA…?”

“Don’t even think it,” the Black agent lit a cigarette, smoking as he spoke. “Our boss won’t let him go. You forget our friction with the CIA? This is our chance to prove we’re better. I don’t want to end up with nothing, only to see them take him away.”

He exhaled smoke, coldly: “We’re not British gentlemen who only ask polite questions.”

“He’s a world-renowned psychologist. Standard interrogation won’t work. But if we get vital intel, we’ll use any method necessary.”

His cold voice, transmitted through the wiretap to Batman’s listening device, made him immediately hit the disconnect button and stand up. He knew he had to act fast.

Batman understood how desperate America was about the Central American revolution—they were nearly out of their minds.

Since the revolution began, they’d chased every lead, tried infiltration and cyber-intrusion—zero results. To get the specific intelligence Schiller mentioned, they’d stop at nothing.

In the past, Batman wouldn’t have worried. He knew Schiller could turn into mist; ordinary attacks couldn’t harm him. But now, things were different.

If the brain—or the spirit—controlling the body was compromised, no matter how high the defense or how clever the technique, it would be useless. If Schiller couldn’t even react, he couldn’t dodge.

From Schiller’s condition when he was taken, the sedative Brand gave him clearly wasn’t enough. Batman remembered clearly: Schiller’s hands were still shaking before he got in the car.

Batman realized the biggest mystery was this: the FBI suddenly arrested Schiller—but Schiller had every means to escape. Yet he skipped demanding evidence, challenging the warrant, or resisting at all.

He even helped their arrest: first, admitting he was a key KGB agent; second, claiming he held an extremely important status.

Finally, he shut everyone’s mouth with icy silence, preventing anyone from speaking up in his defense. It looked unmistakably like a deliberate confession.

The original arrest charges, though numerous, would’ve led to a standard trial and imprisonment.

But once he applied for witness protection, this could become a power struggle between two superpowers—and the person caught in the middle rarely survived well.

Philby was an exception. His strength and fame forced both sides to hold back.

But such people are rare. Most who think they can manipulate both sides, playing them against each other, end up crushed.

Batman couldn’t understand Schiller’s motive at all. He couldn’t even be sure Schiller wasn’t delirious from fever. But one thing was certain: he had to find a way to get Schiller out.

Proving Schiller guilty in court was one thing. Letting the FBI and CIA take turns sabotaging him was another.

For this, Batman knew exactly who to seek out. After all, this entire chain of events ultimately traced back to one organization: the KGB.

When Batman returned to find Alfred, he discovered Alfred had taken Dick to school.

In Alfred’s room, only Elsa remained, also searching for the butler. Batman picked up Elsa, intending to take her away—but she began screaming uncontrollably, babbling:

“Wah! Wah-wah! Toy! Yesterday! Toy! Book! Book side! Want toy!”

!」

Batman frowned. “Aren’t all your toys in your toy bin?”

Elsa grew more frantic, shouting: “Not toy! Not! Yesterday… new toy… new toy! Red! Shiny! Prickly! Book side… here! Right here!”

Red! Bright! Prickly! Next to the book... here! Right here!」

Most of Elsa’s fragmented words confused Batman, but he caught the last two: “book side… here.” He guessed she meant Alfred had given her a new toy yesterday—in this room, beside the book.

Elsa screamed in his arms, giving him a headache. He decided to search the bookshelf for the toy, get her to sleep, then investigate.

He walked to the bookshelf and noticed a faint glint beside one book. He reached out, touched a hard metallic object, and pulled it free: a Red Banner Medal.

Batman froze. He’d suspected Alfred had ties to the Soviet Union—but never imagined he’d earned a Red Banner Medal.

Elsa snatched the medal, cheering loudly. Batman turned to leave—but as his hand brushed the book’s edge, he noticed a corner of an envelope sticking out.

Curious, he pulled out the letter. The paper had already been removed from the envelope. He unfolded it—and the first line stunned him.

“Comrade Pennyworth, your remarkable achievements in Mexico have filled me with profound shock and admiration!”

Batman didn’t even read the body—he immediately scanned the signature. It bore a name that had appeared countless times in news reports over the past few months: Vasilievich.

It was a personal letter from the new leader of the Soviet Union.

So… Alfred was the true leader of the Central American revolution??

Batman looked up, stunned—then Schiller…

Elsa, clutching the medal, watched as the black figure vanished from the room in an instant.

Only after he left did the letter drift slowly to the floor—like a leaf in late summer, light as air, yet heavy with crushing weight.