Testimony of Mr. J. Stanley

I didn't expect it myself, the idea came out of the blue, maybe it had been lurking there when I got back from the cabin in Leckenston, waiting to jump out at the right time.Jason sat there staring at me like I'd thrown a glass of ice water in his face.So I said it again, 'I resign'.Leave the office and go downstairs to find my car. Stanley rubbed a pinhole surrounded by blood on the back of his hand, "That's how I left IntelGenes, Miss Gibson, like rolling down a long, slippery staircase, abandoning the 'photon' experiment Groups, equity, patents, survived two full months of messy financial and legal nightmares. The lawyers fed by IG didn't even let me take a paper clip. "

"Except for that flash drive, they didn't know it existed, not at the time."

"I took the train to Cornwall and rented an old boat house, which is the kind that is convenient for tourists who come to sea fishing in summer. There is a diesel generator and a simple camping stove in the tool shed; it is [-] meters away from the nearest road. Miles away, half an hour's walk to the train station, through real moors, snake tails gliding through the grass, a creek with more mud than water, deer's hoof prints in the moss."

"On a non-foggy day, you can see the night train passing in the distance from the kitchen window."

"The beach is very close, and the rocky beach. To be precise, you can imagine what this place looks like in winter, a stone cemetery. I walk there every day, three hours, four hours, thinking about everything and nothing. The flash drive was in an aluminum business card case, and I carried it with me. I considered making copies and mailing them, anonymously, to three or four newspapers, but never did. Part of the reason is that if Razor Labs wanted to Kicked to hell, I'll be dragged down; partly because I only have this one bullet and IG has a dozen Kalashnikovs, if they decide to put 'Photon' in East Africa's-"

"I'm afraid we need to remove East Africa from your testimony, it will bite you on the heel."

"Do you think so, Miss Gibson?"

"I don't 'feel', I 'know'. Prosecutors may use this to attack you, but until then, don't actively put weapons in their hands."

"Ok."

"How did you dispose of those data in the end?"

"I made a phone call."

-

The number was not difficult to find. It was in a number book with fuzzy edges provided by the post office. He copied this string of numbers on the white border of the newspaper and walked two streets to find the telephone booth.

Stanley would have believed it if someone had said it was the last public phone booth on the entire Southwest Coast.The number keys were faded from the touch, and the "0" was so dented that he had to push it down with his thumbnail.The walls of the phone booth were covered in graffiti, and Stanley listened to the dial tone, looking sideways at the crude impromptu drawings and philosophical questions scribbled on the plexiglass with markers.

"New Observer Magazine."

"Good afternoon, uh," he switched the receiver from his left ear to his right, "I'm looking for Mr. Danny Mussel."

"Of course, I'll transfer it for you."

Another dial tone.Stanley's fingers tapped on the plastic receiver in turn. A car stopped not far from the phone booth. An old lady in a cardigan came down, opened the door of the passenger seat, and took out a small Yorkie.There was a slight click on the phone.

"This is Marcel."

"Danny, this is Gasper, Gasper Stanley," he looked away, fiddled with the piece of paper with the number on it, "I want to talk to you about Razor."

There was a long silence. If it wasn't for the occasional ringing of the phone and the crackling of typing on the keyboard in the background, Stanley would have thought the phone had been hung up. "Danny? Are you listening?"

"Jesus," the reporter said quickly, words crammed together, "Aleppo, don't you mean—"

"Don't over-interpret it, okay, I just said that I have some information about the 'razor' laboratory here, and you may be interested."

"We can't talk on the phone," said Mussel, "there's this pub on the corner of Grove and Navy Street called Goblet and Marmot, the owner knows me well enough to borrow our bar." A cubicle where I always meet my informants. Do you think you can find it? Where are you? Can you make it this afternoon at, say, four o'clock?"

"I can find it. Tomorrow afternoon, I'm afraid, in St. Agnes."

"Cornwall far from civilization, may I ask why?"

"No. See you tomorrow afternoon, Danny."

He hung up the phone, put the paper in his pocket, and pushed open the door of the phone booth.An old lady in a cardigan came out of the flower shop with her puppy in one arm and a large bouquet of roses in the other.The dog yelled at Stanley, kicking its hind legs. "I'm sorry, but you must forgive little Polly. She rarely goes out."

It doesn't matter, he totally understands.Stanley smiled at her, turned and walked in the opposite direction.

-

"Goblet and Marmot" has a long and narrow bar with three round tables against the wall. Next to the bar is a trap door flooded with colorful stickers and graffiti. The spiral staircase leading to the basement has thin galvanized iron steps that rattle when stepped on.The basement is the main body of the bar, with about twenty sets of tables and chairs, a stage not much bigger than the palm of your hand, and a lonely timpani on it.Framed pictures of varying sizes hung on the unpainted brick walls of strangers grimacing at the camera.

The cubicle was at the end of the basement, and Stanley glanced at his watch. It was 57:[-].The first two compartments were empty and the doors were open, and he knocked on the third and turned the handle.

Someone had arrived before him, but it wasn't Danny.Stanley took a step back, almost knocking over a chair.Heavy footsteps came from the direction of the spiral staircase, and two bodyguards wearing black ties blocked the only exit.

"Take it easy, Mr. Stanley," Jim Follett pointed to the empty seat across the table, "sit down, we need to talk."

8.

The arms dealer's hand rested on the back of the chair, and half of the dial was exposed from the edge of the cuff.He was grey, not just his clothes, the color of a fjord in midwinter, his face was a face of ravine-ridden rock that smelled like salt, and was covered with snow all year round.His graying hair, the tanned backs of his hands, and the corner of a striped kerchief poking out of the pockets of his improved hunting suit gave him a diluted colonial color. "Sit down, please," repeated Follett, gently, as the rider urged a recalcitrant horse to use the whip if kind words failed.

Stanley sat down. "Where's Marcel?"

"There are other arrangements." Follett's arm slid down from the back of the chair, his gaze was like a penis on the bridge of his nose, "Personal experience, don't worry too much about the chirping bird, of course, keep an eye on him, Listen to what song he sang lately, bug his phone, but there's no need to worry, because you can always pick up the gun and knock him down. Instead, the quiet ones," he gave Stanley an apology The smile is the kind that the auditor shows when he stamps and rejects a high-value insurance policy, force majeure, sir, I am also very embarrassed, but what can we do, "Those who hide in the grass, hide in the shadows, Those who don't make a sound are hard to guard against, don't you think so?"

"what do you want?"

"The right question is what do you want. That's what I've been pondering for the past few days, and it would be great if you could be generous with your insights. Imagine yourself as a book with a back cover bio that reads: Brilliant Young Scientist , 35. Chapter 1: "Boys from Boarding School" - boarding schools mark their students, I remind you, like ranchers mark cattle and sheep - parents separated early in life, father with a mild stroke Living in a nursing home with kidney disease, mother has a small house near Brighton with a charming rose stand in the yard. Turn page, page, reader starts to wonder, this is not a very lively guy, don't know what prompts He got out of bed every morning. Young Mr. Stanley lived alone in a furnished rental apartment. Young Mr. Stanley had occasional female companions, but none for more than two weeks. Maybe he remembered years ago and never looked back. Sasha who left without hesitation, or does he actually prefer the other end of the spectrum now?" Follett looked at Stanley's face, shook his head, and stroked the gray stubble with his index finger, "No, neither, maybe he just likes to be alone A loner. Quiet Mr. Stanley, the docile shadow of Dr. Coleman, we accepted the pace until - pardon the cliché - the plot took a sharp turn and you decided to act out a big adventure. Why? Readers had to go through it again Question. Money? You're not the type to write blackmail letters. Maybe it's justice, I understand justice, my business is built on it, and there's nothing like a good gun to defend your justice; but what's in a magazine Another lurid detective story that isn't going to bring anyone back to life. Now, Mr. Stanley, what are you going to do next?"

Young Mr. Stanley stole the tinder, and now he wants to burn everything down.he thought, and made no sound.The weight of the business card case with the flash drive in the inner suit pocket has never been more apparent.The two bodyguards standing in front of the spiral staircase stared at them sullenly.

Jim Follett tapped his fingers on the wooden tabletop in turns, playing notes only he understood