Conan: Begins to collaborate with Miss Bayonetta and become famous

Chapter 871 The Imprisoned Woman

"Actually, this system has been abandoned for a long time." Gin's voice was steady, as if he was recounting the history of an antique that had nothing to do with him. "Twenty years ago, we handed it over to the National Weather Service as... a bargaining chip to continue our cooperation."

He paused briefly, his eyes sweeping over the retro devices gleaming with a cold light. "This is the only one of its kind we have that's still barely operational."

The blond man's gaze was fixed on the stern photo of Baijiu on the big screen. He pressed on, "So, with these 'antiques', can they help us find that mysterious ace agent who once worked in your group?"

"I'm afraid there's nothing I can do about this." Gin gave a cruel and truthful answer without any hesitation.

He frankly admitted this fact, which was a bit embarrassing for the organization - they often felt helpless when faced with liquor.

"However," Gin changed the subject, half-turning his head and looking at the main screen, "it can help us keep a close eye on another key figure."

"Snapped!"

He snapped his fingers with a crisp, clear, almost cruel sound.

Following the call, the image on the central screen quickly switched, and Grace's face, which was somewhat mysterious and nervous, instantly occupied the entire screen.

"Who is this woman?" The blond man was already somewhat used to it. As the head of the intelligence agency, he was actually unfamiliar with most of the key figures in this operation.

"The intelligence we intercepted shows that the two of them had a brief contact at Abu Dhabi Airport." Gin spoke slowly, revealing limited information.

The blond man frowned, clearly dissatisfied with this vague answer. He pressed the issue, trying to elicit more precise information: "So, can you tell me the whole story? Who is this woman? Where is she exactly now?"

Rome, Italy. Somewhere in a secret interrogation room.

The afterglow of the setting sun filtered through the narrow gaps in the high windows, barely squeezing into the deep room, but it was unable to dispel the cold and heavy atmosphere within.

The surrounding walls are covered with thick dark red wood and are very old.

The texture of the wood itself is distorted in the dim light, like solidified blood, adding a strange and cold sense of oppression to the entire space.

In the middle of the room, a woman with long hair was being interrogated with a confused look on her face.

Her hands and feet were locked with heavy metal shackles. Even so, there were two guards in dark blue uniforms with stern expressions standing on her left and right.

Still dare not relax or neglect in the slightest.

The instructions they received were very clear: the woman before them was no less dangerous and cunning than the internationally famous Kaito Kidd.

Spread out on the interrogation table were passports of various colors and from different countries, as well as several stacks of banknotes of various denominations, like a silent exhibition of evidence of guilt.

"The reason you are here," a voice broke the silence.

The speaker was a middle-aged man with deep features and sharp features.

He sat opposite the woman, leaning forward slightly, his hands crossed on the table, his expression a calmness that had been tempered through thousands of trials and tribulations, almost indifferent.

He looked at the woman, the expression on her face that was almost overflowing.

It clearly said: 'Are you fucking sick? I didn't do anything! What do you mean by kidnapping me?!'

"It's because the Italian police received a highly credible anonymous tip-off." The man continued in a steady tone.

"A woman who closely matches your appearance will arrive in Rome from Abu Dhabi this afternoon."

He casually picked up a dark green passport from the pile of passports on the table and held it elegantly in his hand, as if he was admiring a unique work of art.

“The owner of this passport,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion, “is wanted in St. Petersburg for large-scale fraud.”

After saying that, he flicked his wrist and threw the passport rudely onto the table in front of the woman.

"Jewelry thefts in Antwerp, top-notch art thefts in Monaco." He picked up a few more and, like handing out death notices, threw them one by one onto the center of the table, gradually piling them up into a small mountain symbolizing global crime.

"Involved in massive corruption in Milan and transnational extortion in Mumbai."

Finally, he picked up a dark blue passport, and a subtle, almost appreciative smile even appeared on the corner of his mouth. "And this one is my personal favorite."

He gently waved the passport in front of the woman's eyes. "In Rio de Janeiro... violently resisted arrest and successfully escaped."

There was no usual blame and anger in his eyes, but instead a hint of novelty and some indescribable wonder.

Being able to commit so many shocking crimes and yet get away with it again and again, maybe it was luck once or twice, but to do it so many times is jaw-dropping.

It's hard to describe this as "legendary".

He gazed at the "female Kaito Kid" before him and asked the core question: "Under these many masks, which one... is the real you?"

The woman seemed to have been holding it in for a long time and finally found the opportunity to speak.

She raised her face, revealing an expression of extreme grievance, even a little pitiful, and her voice trembled slightly, "But... I've never seen these passports before."

Of course, the man scoffed at this poor excuse.

This is as ridiculous as when all the students fail to hand in their summer homework on the first day of school and claim that they "forgot it at home."

Even a three-year-old child could easily see through this excuse.

"But," the man responded slowly, leaning back in his chair, as if he was already used to dealing with all kinds of "hard-talking stubborn people".

"These passports, without exception, were found in your carry-on bag."

His smile deepened, revealing a knowing sneer. "Besides, the photo in every passport is... you."

"Can I... take a look?" The woman still maintained the look of an innocent victim, as if she was truly unaware of all this.

"Go ahead." The man made a "casual" gesture, appearing to be indifferent.

"Clang...clang..."

The metal shackles made a dull grinding sound.

Because her hands were handcuffed together, she looked clumsy and difficult in picking up her passport.

But out of some professional instinct, she quickly adjusted her posture and adapted to the restraint.

She picked up a passport with two extremely slender and nimble fingers, so fast that it almost left an afterimage.

She skillfully opened the passport and scanned the portrait on the photo page and the detailed information such as name, age, address, etc. printed next to it.

When she saw the name "Grace", her expression did not fluctuate at all, and was as calm as a pool of deep water.

She continued in that aggrieved yet sincere tone, "The person in the photo... does look a lot like me. But... sir, this really isn't me."

As she spoke, she closed her passport naturally.

At the moment she closed it, her sharp eyes had already caught sight of a small paper clip cleverly hidden inside the side spine of the passport.

With an extremely natural and unnoticeable movement, her thumb gently rubbed the life-saving paper clip and hid it deep in her palm.

"I've said this many times," she handed the passport back to the man, trying to put on a helpless, slightly tired smile.

"I'm a normal teacher from Brighton, England, currently on leave. I have no idea what I'm getting myself into."

"No matter what you are involved in," the man leaned forward, his eyes as sharp as a knife, as if trying to find flaws in every tiny crack in her expression.

But his heart began to waver.

Because the other party's performance was so real, it was perfect.

He couldn't help but think: If this woman were to go into acting, she would definitely be an Oscar-winning actress who was delayed by the stealing industry!

"One thing is very clear," he continued, "your enemies... are very powerful, and they clearly want you to disappear completely."

at this time--

"Dingle bell! Dingle bell!"

The old landline phone on the desk behind him suddenly rang sharply, breaking the tense silence in the interrogation room.