The Infiltrator

The serving tray was heavy.

No one knew how long they would have to wait at the sides of the main banquet hall.

Worst of all, he could not hear anything.

The sounds from inside were too muffled. Kaoreish realized he should have brought a high-grade listening device. (Forgot who he was? See Chapter 548.)

He had thought he could get close enough to hear what was happening inside with his own ears, but it now seemed he needed to revise his plan quickly, or all the risks he had taken would be for nothing.

He should have been comfortably holed up in Arkham, in a nest that was not exactly cozy but still comfortable enough, living off his ever-growing wealth. Yet a single order from above had turned him into a spy.

A position he was utterly unfamiliar with.

"Supervisor?"

No sooner had he spoken in a low voice than a butler walked over to him.

"What is it, kid?"

the butler asked. Several other attendants holding trays in the line turned to look.

"How much longer, Supervisor?"

Kaoreish straightened his tailcoat and asked politely.

"As long as it fucking takes."

The butler's reply was far from polite.

"But Supervisor, the sauce is going cold. It needs reheating. I would rather die than serve inferior food to the great national hero and his guests."

Tonight's banquet was especially grand because it happened to be Ben Lier's forty-fifth birthday. Dunwich's elite, even the elite of the entire state, had gathered here.

Hearing this, the uniformed butler nodded.

"Take it back to the kitchen. Move fast. They'll summon us soon."

"Yes, Supervisor."

Kaoreish answered, leaving the line and hurrying toward the servants' exit of the tent with the tray in hand.

Once outside in the night, he stopped and dumped the