Chapter 5 spy on vacation

Rand waits for Layla Gade at Heathrow Airport.The flight she was on took off from Egypt and was about to land.Even though they hadn't seen each other in over a year, he recognized her immediately as soon as she passed through customs.She was still the same small, dark-haired woman from their adventures in Egypt together.Her lovely high cheekbones and deep black eyes still seemed to mock him. "Glad to see you again, Rand," she said, giving him a quick sister kiss. "Long time no see." "Indeed. I hope I can make it up." He helped her with her luggage and led her to the car parked in the airport parking lot.

"Shall we go to London?" she asked. "Settle you down first. I promised you a tour of the English countryside, and I'll keep my promise," he flashed her a quick smile. "No sailing on the Thames gives the Nile Mermaid a chance." She looked cheerful, "Isn't the Thames river polluted and greasy?" "There is no pollution in the upstream. Let's go to Abingdon first, and from there we will sail to Hampton Palace, stopping and stopping along the way. After four or five days of independent travel, you will experience the most charming British rural life."

"Can the Secret Communications Bureau let you go?" She asked with a bright smile. "I'm on leave. The Covert Communications Agency is far away now." "very good!" In the past few years, they have ventured together in Egypt three times. At that time, Russia invested a lot of money and manpower in that area, and the situation was extremely tense.Although Russia has now withdrawn, the shadow of the latest Arab-Israeli war has not dissipated.Leila eventually chose to quit her job at the University of Cairo to spend the summer in England, possibly planning to take a teaching job at a British university.

They stayed in the apartment Rand had rented for her before driving to Abingdon.It was early enough to avoid the afternoon traffic rush hour. Along the way, Rand talked about British politics and the ongoing elections these days. "If you leave, you'll miss the vote," Layla said. "Small loss. There is no contest at all in my constituency. The Tories dominate." "Tories?" "Conservative Party," he explained with a sneer. "I have a lot to learn about your country." "It's yours, too. You told me your mother was Scotch."

"Yes, but I have always lived in Egypt." Rand had a great conversation with her.The familiar scenery of the English countryside, also because of her company, made Rand feel refreshed.At this moment, his chaotic Secret Communications Agency office was as far away as another world.So when she asked, he was almost annoyed. "How about spy work during this time?" "To me, it's terrible. Taz has retired from Moscow, the government is laying off staff, and everyone is talking about deceleration." "In my world, war and killing never stop." "yes."

"But it has nothing to do with Britain?" "There are a lot of other problems with us. We're in a very bad economic situation." She sighed and leaned back in her chair, "Rand—" "I wish you called me Jeffrey." "Okay—Jeffrey. Let's not talk about work—not this week. I shouldn't have mentioned espionage to you." "You're right." He patted her hand with a smile and stepped on the brake.Here they are.They reached Abingdon. For the week's excursion, Rand had hired a handsome old-fashioned twenty-eight-foot boat, known as a Thames, because the stern sloped so that it was level with the water.There's also a small cockpit big enough for three, and the canvas top can be folded back when not needed. "Like it?" he asked.

"Absolutely in love with it! Shall we drive this down the river?" He nodded. "About forty miles." "I didn't expect the Thames to be so narrow here." In fact, it appeared to be less than fifty yards wide. "It's pleasant sailing. The river doesn't widen until it passes Windsor Castle." They let go of the cable and sailed downstream with the gentle waves. "Where is upstream?" she asked curiously. "Oxford. Do you want to visit and get a teaching job?" "No thanks. Not on vacation!" Her major is archaeology, and she has explored the bottom of the Nile and the top of the pyramids.Now, as they cruised the sun-drenched river at the top speed limit of five miles an hour, she became fascinated by the Tudor and Victorian buildings that lined the banks.

It was the end of June, and many manors moored their private boats in the river, tied to the fence that separated the green grass from the blue water.Most were the modern luxury yachts you'd find in exclusive clubs and shipyards, but there were a few refurbished steamboats with big funnels. "There are so many types of ships!" Leila exclaimed, "It's a houseboat!" "I would have thought of renting a houseboat, but I thought you might prefer to spend the night in some fancy little hotel on shore." "You guessed it right." He docked at the next pier.They had dinner at a small restaurant called The Upstream Anglers.Sipping a cocktail, Layla said, "I'm amazed how calm and beautiful the Thames is. It doesn't look like a big river, it's like a small canal."

"It's really like a canal. In fact, we go through some locks downstream." There was a commotion around the bar as a man in a tweed jacket pushed his way through the crowd."I thought there was freedom of speech in this country!" he murmured as he passed their porch table! "What's the matter, sir?" Rand asked, recognizing the man's American accent. "They don't allow foreigners to make political comments here," he said.His sandy hair was matted, and his tweed jacket had been pulled apart by the bartender. "The election is heating up," Rand said with a laugh. "Come on, why don't you sit with us? They won't mind you here on the porch."

The man pulls out a chair and sits down. "Thanks, man. Glad you have some civilized people here. My name is William Saunders, and I'm a yacht broker." He introduced himself to Rand and Layla, taking a business card from his wallet. "I think this is a good place to buy and sell yachts," Rand said. "Well, that's true. It's just that the big profits come from big yachts, and really big yachts don't sail here. But it's a good business to do." "I'd say it's a typical American way of doing business," Leila commented. He glanced at her, not understanding what she meant by that, but he didn't ask further, just said to Rand, "I hope the election ends quickly."

"It's over tomorrow," Rand said. "Isn't it strange that there are elections as soon as summer comes?" "As soon as the government loses public trust, a new round of elections can start. But the election process is very short." "Is everyone waiting until midnight to watch the election results on TV? Like in America?" "London. But it's not the same in small towns and villages. In some small places the votes are not counted until early in the morning. At night the ballot boxes are locked in the cells of the local jail." "too weird!" Rand smiled. "This is England. Come and have a drink with us." They chatted for half an hour until the food was served.The American bowed to Layla, took his leave, and disappeared into the dusk. "He's a nice guy," she said after he left, "and I can't imagine that nasty bartender kicking him out." "These country restaurants like it quiet. They don't like having an American talking about local politics." "I guess it's British too." Rand smiled, "I'll show you more after dinner." Early morning came early in England at the end of June.It was not yet four o'clock, and the sun was already streaming through the window of Ryland's room in the hotel.In his London apartment, thick curtains block out this sun intrusion, but here, he can only enjoy the blessings of the sun. He rolled over and got out of bed, seeing that the door leading to the room next door to Layla was still closed, he began to think about everything about her.Finally, he buried his head in the pillow again, trying to sleep again.But an hour later, he got up and woke Leila for breakfast. "It's only five o'clock!" she protested. "We'll have breakfast and then head out before the river gets crowded." After hitting the road, her protests died down."It's beautiful! Thank you for waking me up!" she exclaimed as their boat left the shore, surrounded by the softly rippling water. They traveled downriver, via Dorchester and Wallingford, through the Glen Glen to Pembourn, and on to the medium-sized city of Reading.There are often friendly people on both sides of the river waving their hands, or other boats stop to say hello.They had lunch in a quiet country restaurant, across the river from a towering Gothic church large enough to be the local cathedral in any other city. They were on their way from Reading to Hanley when they came across a tourist who was in trouble.Standing on the deck of his small yacht, the middle-aged man asked for their help. "I say, old chap, I'm out of gas. It's troublesome." Rand pulled the boat closer. "I still have a spare can of gasoline, which I can give you. Although it's only two gallons, it's enough to last you all the way to the city." "Thanks, sir." With a stubble on his chin, Rand guessed he was a busy Londoner who had just started his vacation.They often grow their beards for two or three weeks and then shave them off before going back to work. "My name is Clayton," he said, taking the gas can and holding out a greasy hand, "Dev Clayton." "Jeffrey Rand." "Nice to meet you. Your ship is truly extraordinary." "It's just for rent," Rand argued. "Come on, at least let me buy you and your wife a drink! I have to repay you." Layla beside Rand blushed, but did not deny the relationship. "Great," Rand agreed. "You've kicked my alcohol addiction." As it turned out, Dev Clayton was a pretty good drinking buddy, although his so-called drinking party consisted of inviting them aboard and serving ice and cheap Scotch in plastic glasses. "I'm a botanist at Kobe University," he said, stroking the stubble on his chin, "I'm teaching and doing research at the same time. But I'm on vacation this summer." "I'm a civil servant," Rand said lightly. "I do clerical work in London. My office overlooks the river, so I've always wanted to come here for a holiday." "It's just in time," Clayton agreed. "I need some ice." He picked up the empty plastic bucket, jumped ashore, and walked to a nearby restaurant. "Be right back." When they were alone, Layla asked, "Do you think he's a spy?" "I can also meet one during vacation, it can only show that I am very lucky." She looked out and tugged at Rand's arm. "What is that man doing?" A thin young man with long hair and glasses stopped Clayton as he walked towards the restaurant.The young man gave Clayton a hard push, knocking the empty ice bucket to the ground.Rand leaped ashore and ran across the lawn. "Get away from me!" the dark-haired man yelled. "Hey! Stop it or I'll call the police!" Clayton yelled. "Call!" "What happened?" Rand asked. "This guy picks fights," Clayton replied angrily. "We don't want trouble," Rand said to the young man, "you go." Under his thick eyebrows, a pair of eyes stared straight at Rand, then stepped forward and swung his right fist at him.Rand took a step back, dodged the blow easily, grabbed his arm, twisted slightly, and the man fell to the ground. "I told you, let's go." Rand waited for the man to rise, but he sat motionless on the grass. "Just trying to pick a fight," Creighton said. "Come and push me!" "do you know him?" "Never seen this guy before." "Go back," Rand said, "we can get ice elsewhere." They stayed with Dev Clayton until the evening. When he finally left, Layla summed up her comments about him. "He's more English than you!" Rand smiled slightly, "Many people are like this." They had eaten at another nice-looking country restaurant, and as they were leaving, Leila suddenly grabbed Rand's arm. "Isn't that the man who found fault and fought?" Rand followed her gaze, "It's him, yes. I wonder what he wants to do now." The black-haired youth hovered at the door of the restaurant, as if waiting for something.Rand stopped, dragged Layla into a shadow, and watched from a distance.A group of people walked from the parking lot to the restaurant.As soon as the young man saw them approaching, he turned and slammed something against the window of the restaurant—a rock or a brick.Glass shattered, causing confusion. "He broke the glass!" Layla cried. "He must be crazy!" "Or drugged. He doesn't smell of alcohol." "Are you going to stop him?" "It seems to have attracted attention," Rand said.Three men, one of them a manager, ran out of the restaurant and overpowered the rioters.A few minutes later, a police car arrived. "The excitement is over." Leila said, turning around and walking towards the river where they moored the boat.They planned to go a little further before nightfall. "Strange." Rand stopped beside her and muttered to himself. "What's strange?" "The man. The whole thing. First he got into a fight with Clayton, and now he smashed a window. Chesterton once wrote a novel about Father Brown, a priest who commits a series of crimes." Crime, let the police track it down." "Well, if he wants to see the police, he can now! They're going to put him in jail." "Maybe that's what he was after." "Do you think so?" "In my opinion, he tried to get himself arrested on at least two occasions. This afternoon, he even urged Clayton to call the police." "But why would anyone want to be arrested?" Layla asked. "A small-town jail is not a good place to spend the night." "Especially on election night," Rand said. "what?" "I just remembered something. I told you before that some towns lock up uncounted ballots in jail at night. I wonder if they do the same here." "Is it important?" Rand considered the possibility. "It might be important. Come on, let's go back to town." They had no trouble finding the local jail.Without Rand asking, a car was parked at the door, and three metal ballot boxes were removed from the car under police guard.A tall man with white hair stepped forward to oversee the process, and Rand suspected he might be one of the candidates.He confirmed to a bystander. "The guy? His name is Michael Visbeach. He's running for Parliament." "I think so," Rand said. "Do you think he's going to win?" "I hope not! I voted for Rams." Rand grunted sympathetically, "Can you tell me who's the warden?" "It's Folkestone. I didn't see him. He must be in there." "thanks." "What are you going to do now?" Layla asked, tugging at his sleeve. "You're on vacation, remember?" "Whenever I suspect a crime, whether I'm on vacation or not, I will dutifully report it." "But your suspicions are unfounded," she argued. "The man wants to be arrested--I'm sure of it. He wants to spend the night in the prison, there must be something in it. If he's got tools--lockpicks or something. If he's trying to get out of his cell." , enter the room where the ballots are kept." "You're just guessing." "Of course I'm guessing, but there is a possibility." "I think we'd better go our way." Rand ignored her and stopped in front of a passing policeman, "Can I have a word with Sergeant Folkestone?" "Unless you have an emergency report, sir. He's got his head around the election. Can I help you?" Rand hesitated, then shook his head. "Forget it, it's nothing serious." He came back to Layla, who asked, "How is it?" "I've changed my mind. It's probably a very stupid idea." "Shall we go back to the ship?" "No," he decided, "let's see if the hotel is still available." The next morning, he got up very early.Layla buried her head under the pillow and muttered, "You must be used to getting up early." "I can't sleep. I'm going to see the warden." "Don't do that again!" "I'm afraid so. I can't let it go." She turned over, "Wake me up when you come back." The small town jail was busier than he had imagined.The people counting the ballots had arrived, and the warden sat in his office sipping a steaming cup of tea.His weather-beaten face seems to tell people that he has spent his whole life at sea. "Sheriff Folkestone?" Rand asked standing at the door. "Warden," the man corrected firmly, "what can I do for you?" "I happened to see you arrest a man last night." Rand expressed his suspicion. Warden Folkestone listened intently.When Rand finished, he said, "Very interesting. You should have told me last night." "Can you check now?" Rand asked. "Can you check to see if he tampered with the ballot box?" Folkestone laughed dryly, "No chance! This prisoner is named Edward Brigham, and he can't get out of his cell. In fact, we found him dead this morning." "died!" "Stabbed to death. We believe the knife was thrown from outside the cell window." Over breakfast, Leila said sympathetically, "Jeffrey, you can't blame yourself for his death. Even if you had gone to the warden last night, he would have been killed." "But who killed him? Why was he killed?" Before she could express her thoughts, she saw a familiar face.William Saunders—the American yacht broker—was walking through the restaurant, apparently looking for a seat.He saw Rand wave to him, and came and sat with them. "Did you hear the election results? Visbeach beat the Lambs. Close vote!" "Is he the man you expressed your support for last night?" "That's him! I'm selling Visbeach a yacht. That's what I'm here for. He won't pay for it until after the election." "A strange thing happened before the ballots were counted," Rand told him. "The ballots were deposited in the local prison last night. A prisoner was killed in his cell." The American was very interested. "Won't you go into details? I haven't heard of it." He drank coffee with them, but seemed eager to leave. "I have to go to Wisbeach," he said. Explain, "See you later!" "Do you think he will?" Layla asked curiously. "what?" "See you later?" "Who knows? It's a small river." "Are we ready to set sail?" He thought about it, "Not yet. I'm going to go to the prison again. Something happened there last night, and I'm curious what happened. You go back to the boat and get ready to sail. I won't need too much Long." The prison is still busy.Rand recognized the tall, white-haired figure of Michael Visbeach coming out of the building to meet the congratulatory crowd.As he walked up to him, Rand said, "Congratulations on your win." He turned his deep blue eyes to Rand.After looking at him for a while, he simply replied: "Thank you." After Visbeach left in a stretched black Rolls-Royce, Rand walked into the prison and made a beeline for the warden's office. "It's you again," said Folkestone, looking up from the file, "what's the matter this time?" "The same thing. The killing of Brigham," Rand decided to identify himself. "It's probably a national security incident," he said, though he knew it was exaggerating. Folkestone stroked his chin. "Well, what can I do for you?" "I'm going to check the deceased's personal effects - everything that was on him when he was arrested." "There was no identifying item. When we arrested him, he gave us a name and an address in London. The only thing he had on him was this little notebook, which we found after his death. Some money and a Handkerchief." Rand opened the small notebook.No name written on it—nothing to identify the owner.It looks like a ledger, recording incomings and outgoings.On the last few pages of white paper, some words were scrawled.The most interesting one is this one: Cryptogams through Tuesday.Although the spelling is wrong, the meaning is obvious.Perhaps this is the task of the Secret Communications Agency again. "I'm going to take this," he said to Folkestone. "An IOU must be signed. We follow the rules here." Rand signed the IOU, left the prison, and hurried up the street.Then, on another second thought, he walked around the building.He wanted to see if the knife could be thrown through the crack in the bars.If that doesn't work, he may still have questions for Warden Folkestone. The windows themselves are easy to find.Just at the back of the building's ground floor, the windows with broken glass had been boarded up.The window was about eight feet off the ground, and Rand figured if the killer had thrown a rock into the glass to lure Brigham to the window and throw the dagger.It does work.Or he was killed by someone in prison. "Mr. Rand?" He turned around when he heard his name called.In front of him stood a young man with a gentle face and a pleasant smile.He was wearing an open-necked sweatshirt and was carrying a copy of The Times of London. "Yes." Rand replied. "There is someone who wants to talk to you. I have a car." Just as Rand was about to decline, he saw the folded newspaper in the man's hand lifted up, just revealing the muzzle aimed at him. "Please, Mr. Rand. You will not be harmed." "Looks like I have no choice." He followed the young man to a waiting car.Another man sat in the back seat, almost twice the size of the first man. "Don't play tricks, Mr. Land," he said. "We're friends." "Of course you are." He leaned back in his chair.It's too early to worry. The car passed through the morning light, and from time to time passed the fields where farmers were plowing.They were heading east, in the direction of London, but they hadn't gone very far before the driver turned the car onto a little-used side road.Under the shade of a big tree not far ahead, another car was parked. "Here we are," said the driver, "he's waiting for you." Rand got out of the car alone and walked towards the waiting car.A man sat in the back seat.Rand opened the door and sat beside him. "Well, Rand," said a familiar voice, "I hope you will forgive us for this deception." It was Hastings, Rand's direct supervisor in the complex personnel structure of the British Intelligence Agency. "What a surprise," Rand said earnestly. "What are you doing here?" "I should ask you that. I thought you were on vacation." "I was on vacation - sailing the Thames with a friend." "Ah! So you were involved in this incident by accident?" "Yes. In fact, I still don't know what happened. Yesterday, a man managed to get arrested, which aroused my suspicion. When I investigated him this morning, I learned that he was arrested in his cell last night. Killed." "I know," said Hastings morosely, "that he's one of ours." "Your people?" "You know, in the Secret Communications Bureau, besides supervising your work, I have other responsibilities. Among them is internal security." "Why does Brigham—whatever his real name is anymore—want to be arrested?" "I don't know either," Hastings replied. "Is it about the election?" "His mission is related to one of the candidates. That's all I can say." "You mean that a British intelligence agent put himself in prison in an attempt to falsify the election results?" "No, no, it's not what you think!" Hastings hastily argued. "Well, it looks like I'll have to tell you the whole thing. At least tell you what we know. Brigham—we'll That's what he's called—he's on a special mission. One of the candidates for the election yesterday was a businessman with a mafia background. You know, American companies are prohibited from selling certain strategic materials to Russia. This guy came from some Puppet companies buy these materials and resell them to Russia. He didn’t break any British laws, so we couldn’t arrest him. But if he enters Parliament and participates in politics, then we will be in a very embarrassing position.” Rand thought of the man who was looking at him outside the prison. "Is it Visbeach?" "Yes," replied Hastings. "He won." "He won," echoed Hastings, "and our Brigham lost. Got stabbed and lost badly." "Where's the other candidate, Rams?" "He didn't know it at all." "You can break that information to him during the campaign." Hastings blinked. "That's not fair enough." "I see," is the old British tradition again, "how do you know I'm here?" Hastings pointed to a car behind them. "They recognized you at breakfast. You know, you're well known in this industry." "Must they come for me at gunpoint?" "I guess that was easier than explaining. I apologize." "Since I'm here, what do you want me to do?" "Rand, you're good at this sort of thing. Since you were there, let me see what you know." He remembered the notebook in his pocket. "Visbich must have a contact—a contact working for Russia." "yes." "Probably your people have been after him. If you can't touch Wisbeach, you can arrest his contacts—arrested as unregistered foreign spies." "Does that explain why he put himself in jail?" "Okay. If he didn't want to tamper with the ballot box, maybe he went to prison to prevent others from tampering with the election results." "Anyone else? Someone from the police?" Rand shrugged. "Tell me—is there a code involved in Brigham's mission? A code, a cipher, or some secret message?" "No, as far as I know. The password is in your department." "It seems to be the case," agreed Rand, "that I'm not spared even on vacation. Are you going to stay here, or go back to London?" "Oh, I want to go back. If you need, I can save someone for you." "No, thank you," he asked just as he was about to get out of the car, "what about Brigham? Does he have a wife?" Hastings looked blank, "I don't know. You have to check his file to find out. We will do a good job in dealing with the aftermath. Call me if you find anything." "If only I had." After they shook hands, Rand walked toward the other car.The young man sent him back to the city, and by this time the pistol had disappeared. "It's a lovely day, isn't it?" said one of them. Layla was waiting for him on the river bank next to the boat. "Where have you been? I'm going crazy!" "It's a long story," he caught a glimpse of someone moving in the cockpit, "Do we have guests?" "Dev Creighton. He stopped by and chatted with me, and I couldn't get rid of him." Rand smiled, "He might want us to invite him back." He walked to the river and said hello. Clayton poked his head out, "This lady is very worried about you." "I'm stuck on something. Something happened in prison. Remember that guy you got into a fight with yesterday?" "Of course I do. Long black hair. Looks like a Communist." "Last night, he was arrested for causing trouble, and was later killed in his cell." "Damn!" He jumped ashore and stood beside Rand, "Do you know why?" "We saw him intentionally smashing windows of restaurants with rocks and sending himself to prison. At first I thought he was trying to falsify votes that hadn't been counted yet." "Is that so?" Clayton started toward his own yacht. "Come on, old chap, take your wife. And some whiskey." They followed him into the boat.Layla found a folding chair and sat down while Rand poured the drink. "I thought you were gone by now," Rand said. "Back again," Clayton muttered, handing Rand a cup. "What's the origin of this murdered man? Was it election-related?" "I said, that's what I thought at first. Otherwise why would anyone go to the trouble of sending themselves to a small country prison for the night?" "Why exactly?" Clayton put down the cup and started the boat's engine. "Let's go for a ride. I'll get you back." He reached out and untied the cable. "Later, I thought about it carefully and deduced another possibility," Rand said frankly. "It all made sense—why he provoked you, and why he broke the window." "why?" The boat slowly sailed away from the river bank, rippling with the slight waves of the river. "He broke the glass to get himself arrested, yes - just to protect himself. He knew he was being hunted, and prison seemed like the safest place to be. Unfortunately, it wasn't safe enough." "But why challenge me? The same reason?" Rand shook his head, "After I figured it out, I realized that finding trouble and fighting with you is the key to the whole thing. Listen, the reason he did this is just to pick your pocket-to steal your little notebook." Dev Clayton's expression turned grim. "I accept all your reasoning results," he said, conjuring a pistol out of nowhere, "I have already killed one person, and if necessary, I will kill again." Layla leaped from her chair with lightning speed, but still outpaced Creighton.He swung his other hand, grabbed her by the shoulder, and pushed her to the ground. "Hold on!" he warned, then turned to Rand and repeated, "Give me the notebook." Rand remained motionless, "No matter what, you won't let us leave alive." "Do you know what's in there?" "I have a good guess. It's a ledger involving the just-elected member of Parliament—Mr. Michael Wisbeach. He's been doing business with the Russians, reselling American strategic supplies, and you, It’s the middle man, the man behind it all.” "Smart," Clayton said. "You're too smart for a civil servant." "Maybe I didn't make my job clear," Rand said, grinning. "I work for a branch of British intelligence. You picked the wrong boat when you borrowed gas." They were still going downstream, the engine whining slightly, the damper closed.Rand wondered if he was going to throw them overboard. "I'm so unlucky," Clayton admitted, "and, how did you know it was my notebook?" "It could have been the deceased's own, but that was quickly ruled out by me. He had no pencils, pens, or other writing implements with him. So why did he have a notebook? I presume that he got it from someone else. And it was important to him because he didn't turn it in when he went to jail. He kept it on him. I think he felt that prison was the safest place for him and the notebook until the next day. "If he knows that his killer will come after the notebook, it means he stole it. I remembered that he provoked you, and then I figured out why. You killed him through the prison bars. He intends to find a chance to get the notebook back later. This morning, you probably pretended to be his relative, and the warden told you that I took the notebook. So you came here. When I came back just now, you looked Very suspicious, as if searching our ship." The yacht was lifted by the waves when suddenly another boat intercepted them. "What's the matter?" Clayton cried harshly, turning sharply. "Just friends," Rand told him. "Grab him, Layla!" She grabs him by the ankle, and Rand snatches the gun away.Another boat was approaching at this time, and two of Hastings' young men were standing on board.Beneath Rand, Clayton still struggled, grabbing his arm and touching something hard in his sleeve. "Did you catch him?" Layla asked. "Get the knife out of his sleeve. It's probably the same knife that killed Brigham." After the yacht docked, the two young men boarded the boat and escorted him ashore.Rand was surprised to see Hastings there. "I thought you went back to London." "They reported your plans to me, so I decided to stay. You should tell me about Creighton when we talk." “他们送我回城时，我才想到，我们先去图书馆查找cryptogams这个词。如果笔记本是属于杀害布莱根的凶手的，那么我想我能从中发现些什么。的确如此。cryptogams这个词和密码暗号无关。这是一种旧式植物学分类，指的是没有种子的植物，例如蕨类和苔藓，”兰德把笔记本递给他看，“这是克雷顿植物学课程的记录。也让我知道了这笔记本一定是他的。” “你也应该早点儿把笔记本的事告诉我。”黑斯廷斯闷闷不乐地说。 “我们都有自己的秘密，”兰德意味深长地笑着回答。之后，又压低声音，加了一句，“这里有个美国人试图向迈克尔·维斯比奇推销游艇。他不会也是你的人吧？” 黑斯廷斯清了清嗓子，“你负责克雷顿。把维斯比奇留给我们。”然后又转向蕾拉，他满面堆笑，说：“这位一定就是蕾拉·盖德了！杰弗里和我说起过无数次你们在埃及的经历。我真诚希望你喜欢我们这条河。”

---

Notes: