When Sherlock followed John into the so-called intelligence market, the sight before him left him staring in disbelief.
Across both of his lives, he had never experienced anything remotely like it.
A ring of small, collapsible booths had been erected around the open ground at the center of the settlement, making use of the surrounding ruined walls for support.
Each booth stood apart from the others, with Continental attendants stationed in the gaps.
The entire market had only one entrance and exit.
At the center of the circle stood a large counter staffed by the kind of administrative personnel Sherlock had only ever seen in movies during his previous life.
Several makeshift bars had also been set up around the counter.
Like the booths, they were designed to be dismantled or destroyed at a moment’s notice.
Countless hooded figures waited in line before the single entrance.
One by one, they entered the booth beside the gate, emerged a short while later, and continued into the open market.
Rather than an intelligence exchange, the whole scene looked more like the gathering of some secret cult.
As John led him into the line, he began explaining how the market operated.
The booth at the entrance was staffed by Continental employees.
Everyone entered alone because anyone wishing to access the market was required to reveal their identity inside.
There were no exceptions.
Anyone who refused simply would not be admitted.
After verifying their identity, the staff issued them a metal wristband permanently linked to their records.
The band could not be removed until they left the market.
Only then were they allowed inside.
Once admitted, every visitor had to register a “request” with the administrative staff at the central counter.
That request could involve information, money, gold coins, a favor, or virtually anything else they could imagine.
A person could even offer someone else’s life—or their own—as payment.
Based on the request, the staff arranged a private meeting in one of the surrounding booths.
The wristbands notified both parties where to go, which room to enter, and at what time.
Once both participants were inside, the booth locked automatically.
Whatever happened after that was none of the Continental’s concern.
The price, the reward, and the terms of the exchange were entirely up to the two parties involved.
They could even resort to violence, interrogation, or outright theft if they wished.
However, anyone who did so had better ensure that they were the last person to use the room—or hope that the next visitor did not immediately report what had happened.
If the Continental learned that someone had violated the rules, the offender would not necessarily be executed or declared excommunicado as they might be at the New York branch.
Instead, the Continental would publicly reveal the identity concealed beneath their cloak and confiscate the garment itself.
In a market operating under war-zone rules, that was often worse.
Once exposed, an intelligence broker had countless ways to arrange someone’s death after sunrise—or even inside the booth before the night was over.
The protection applied only to guests wearing their cloaks and members of the Continental’s staff.
Put simply, the cloak was the only thing granting anyone the protection of the safe zone.
Losing it was the equivalent of having every trace of one’s identity and location leaked to the entire underworld.
Few people survived that kind of exposure for long.
The local Continental also changed locations almost every day.
Abandoned settlements like this one were common throughout the region, making it easy to dismantle the market and reestablish it elsewhere.
After hearing John’s explanation, Sherlock could only marvel at how brilliantly the Continental had designed the entire operation.
The system effectively created an artificial dark forest where everyone concealed their identity, distrusted everyone else, and feared revealing too much.
The intelligence market itself was essentially a contest between deception and counter-deception.
Nothing in the rules prohibited anyone from selling false information.
The Continental, meanwhile, benefited more than anyone.
As the organization maintaining the system, it could collect the real identities and genuine needs of everyone present without spending any effort of its own.
A person’s needs were valuable intelligence in themselves.
Once those needs were matched with a confirmed identity, the Continental could often infer a great deal about that person’s plans, alliances, enemies, and current situation.
All of that information fed back into the organization’s network and helped sustain the circulation of its gold coins.
Did no one worry that the Continental might misuse what it learned?
Of course they did.
Anyone capable of surviving in the intelligence trade could see exactly how the system worked.
So why did they willingly hand over such sensitive information?
Trust and security.
The Continental had spent centuries building its reputation.
That history gave its clients confidence that private information would not be distributed carelessly.
More importantly, the Continental enforced its rules.
Those rules made intelligence deals safer and more reliable than anything the participants could arrange on their own.
The entire system functioned like a trusted financial clearinghouse: its reputation created confidence, while its power ensured that everyone honored the process.
Sherlock could only admire the audacity of it.
The Continental had built a system that cost it almost nothing, provided it with enormous amounts of valuable intelligence, and left its clients with no meaningful alternative.
It was a perfectly rigged bargain.
Refuse to participate, and you lost access to the market.
Participate, and you knowingly surrendered information to the very organization controlling it.
For a lifelong shut-in who had spent his previous life as an ordinary office worker, the Continental’s methods were genuinely eye-opening.
Sherlock and John advanced with the line until it was finally his turn to enter the verification booth.
The process was far simpler than he had expected.
After stepping inside and making sure the door was closed, Sherlock placed a finger on a scanner.
He then removed his cloak long enough for the system to take a photograph.
Once the verification was complete, the scanner automatically fastened a heavy metal wristband around his arm.
Sherlock put his cloak back on and stepped through the other door, officially entering the intelligence market.