Testimony of Mr. J. Stanley

Chapter 13

The master, stamped his seal, and let him pass by with his hand.Passengers who survived a red-eye flight lumber around the baggage carousel like a swarm of ants around a candy bar, greeted by six blinking LCD screens at Roissy Charles de Gaulle, and if you need a taxi service, go to this door or that.Stanley had no checked luggage, clutching his shoulder bag with one hand, and walked straight to the exit.He rented a car, and the Hertz counter was on the other side of the terminal.Don't run, he told himself, don't run.

It may seem foolish to state your whereabouts in this letter, but if the package cannot be delivered, it makes no difference whether you leave an address or not; if the package reaches you safely, clues become very necessary.

A man in a plaid shirt appeared to be following him, and Stanley quickened his pace, glancing back at him.The man turned a corner, walked to the SAS counter, and was at the end of the line.He breathed a sigh of relief, and finally trotted up, took the keys in a hurry, threw the bag on the passenger seat, and started the car.An unassuming gray Renault with province 92 plates.

I spent a long time thinking about a suitable signature, to no avail, and realized it was because I didn't want to seal the package, which meant leaving the guest room and walking through the empty streets.But anyway, it was daylight.

your.

The writer did not sign his name, and "yours" stood there alone, like a wilted bouquet.Stanley lowered the window a few inches, and the wind came in, rumbling.At [-]:[-] in the morning, some heavy cold chain trucks occasionally drove by on the road.He glanced in the rearview mirror, only the gray asphalt road and the blinding sun.

Three hours later he bought mineral water, cigarettes and a lighter at a gas station, drove a few miles, and parked on the shoulder of the road.Stanley took the crumpled letter out of his pocket, unfolded it, and set it on fire.Flames rolled up from the lower right corner, quickly devouring the paper and the writing on it.He kicked the ashes away and watched them being picked up by the wind, blowing them over the hills and fields of Brittany.

-

"You burned the letter."

"Decision made on a whim."

"In other words, no one can prove its existence for you."

"I don't think so."

The lawyer sighed and wrote something in his notebook again.Stanley rolled up his sleeves, exposing arms covered in bruises and pinholes, rubbing his wrists lightly.Gibson reread what he just wrote down, nodded, and refocused on the person involved.

"What is your destination?"

"Where else could it be?" Stanley looked at his palm as if it were an incomplete map, "Saint Malo."

11

11.

Two seagulls are fighting over a dead fish, hopping around each other like irascible boxers, flapping their wings and threatening each other.Half-rotten fish viscera were scattered all over the ground, in a grayish-yellow pool.A seagull fled when Stanley approached, and the bold one put its flippers on the head of the fish and greedily ate the prey, paying no attention to humans.

The Irishman's inn was tucked away in a narrow alley, near the gray stone wall that separated the beach from the inner city.A scruffy organist leaned against the wall, smoking a cigarette, a few coins tossed in the open case at his feet.Stanley turned sideways to let the two tourists with suitcases go through the door, the wheels of the trolleys rattling on the scuffed floor.The front desk was empty, with a wooden door marked "Concierge" ajar, and a radio blaring indistinctly.

A brown tabby cat perched atop a keyed wooden cabinet, examining them, eyes glowing in the shadows.

One of the tourists reached out and rang the bell on the table, the radio was turned down, there was a rustle, the floorboards creaked, the door opened, and out came a tall, thin woman with red hair tied in a loose bunch, Dangling in the back like a severed fox tail. "My name is Nina, how can I help you?" she asked in French, then broke into German after hearing the tourist's answer, "Of course, sir, can I see your reservation? "

Her eyes flicked to Stanley, then back again, staring at him without moving.The German handed out two folded papers, but Nina ignored them, "Salma! Salma!" She knocked hard on the half-open door, and the radio stopped abruptly. The girl came out with her hands in her apron, "Help these two check in, I have something to do."

She walked around the counter and cocked her jaw in the direction of the kitchen.Stanley followed her through the deserted dining room, the ceiling much lower than he remembered, and he had only to tiptoe a little to reach the dusty chandelier.Sandstone peeked out where the carpet had frayed, and the tables and chairs were packed tightly together, and Nina moved deftly through them like a thin weasel.The floor-to-ceiling windows leading to the garden are all closed today, covered by faded curtains, and a stray bee stubbornly bumped against the glass, buzzing.

"Jason told me you might show up and I said oh no old man I wouldn't recognize him even if he was standing in front of me with his name tag, but the truth is people always remember the first boy they kissed With her back to Stanley, she fumbled in the darkness of the closet, flipped a switch, and an unshaded light bulb illuminated a narrow staircase, the wooden steps polished by shoe soles descending into the darkness, surrounded by The stone wall was like a parched throat, and Nina led the way down, the keys clanking and clanging in her overalls pockets. "He doesn't look very good, I tell you."

The air smelled like minerals, mold, and laundry detergent, and Stanley cleared his throat. "You took over the hotel, I suppose?"

"Dad died five years ago, heart attack, Millie found him in the bathroom, called the ambulance, called the police, just put on a show, you know, the doctor said he had been dead for hours, wee hours Around two or three o'clock. Millie and I took him back to Dublin to be buried next to his mother. There were less than ten people at the funeral, all distant relatives whose names we don't remember. Millie stayed in Dublin. Sold Hotel, she told me, you don't want to spend the rest of your life on a remote rock. My dear sister, I told her, someone has to fix up that old house and put it up for sale, doesn't it? At least until this summer Finish it. Then the next summer, and the next summer, and the next—bend so you don't bang your head."

It was too late, and Stanley gasped as his forehead hit the protruding brick hard.Nina turned on a second light, and the basement was full of towels, pillowcases, sheets, and clothes waiting to be washed. "Millie called this the 'Rabbit Hole' and we moved our unused tables, chairs and gardening tools here when Dad was still here, and last year I converted it into a laundry room." In front of the door, a sign covered with patina said "coal" and "he's inside."

"Ok."

"Listen," Nina said, crossing her arms and looking at Stanley, "I'd love to help you, but if you're up to something weird and sneaky, I've got to tell the police, don't I? There's a hotel to run, and the cook, the gardener, and the little girls who do the cleaning, all have to be paid, don't they?"

Stanley said he totally understood.

"You're really in trouble, aren't you?"

A dozen excuses and euphemistic lies jumped out, and Stanley lifted the shoulder bag that was gradually sliding up, looked into the other person's eyes, "I'm afraid so, Nina."

The innkeeper's lips were drawn into a harsh thin line, which softened after a moment. "Tea?" she asked.

"Thank you."

Nina left, and Stanley heard her footsteps go away, and heard her loudly asking the chef "why hasn't this damn bucket of mussels been cleaned?"He counted five silently, raised his hand and knocked on the rusty iron plate, "Jason?"

The lock clicked and he saw the gun first and then his friend.Stanley froze in place, neither daring to push the door nor back away.

"Are you here alone?"

"of course."

"I can't risk it."

"I know," the shoulder bag was sliding down again, Stanley bent over slowly, put it on the ground, and raised his hands to show that he wasn't carrying anything more dangerous than buttons, "It's just me, put the gun down .”

Jason opened the door a little so he could see the shadows and the stairs behind Stanley.Now Stanley could clearly see the traces of his fugitive life, and the glasses did not hide the bloodshot and sunken eye sockets.Stanley took a cautious step forward, the way one approaches a shot elk. "Jason, listen to me," he reached out to the barrel of the gun, "I'm the only one here, you don't need a weapon."

"They sent Ryan to come to me because they couldn't have a sniper blow my head off."

Stanley's finger was only two centimeters away from the muzzle of the gun, "Who are 'they'?"

"MI[-], or the CIA, what does it matter? Once Tucker gets Apophis, he'll get rid of me."

"I'm not on their side, you know," he gripped the barrel, imagining how a bullet at close range would tear him in two, "I'm going to take it out of your hands, okay I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't pull the trigger."

The metal pressed against his palm, both cold and hot.Jason let go and let Stanley take the Glock 17. "Sorry, Gasper."

He returned the magazine, put it in his pocket, and returned the gun to Jason, "It's okay."

They stared at each other for a moment, then looked away.Jason gestured, "Come in."

Don't enter