The Flouc

Obelix's corpulence, Bérurier's banter, Colombo's raincoat and Maigret's pipe had never helped make Hyppolite Durieux a renowned cop, but today his abilities would be put to the test. . Indeed, a crime had just been committed in Noirmoutier in full departure of the Tour de France and its reputation could cross the borders of the island. He should not miss the opportunity.
His first concern was to go to the scene of the crime: a technical truck of a team in sight in this one hundred and fifth Tour de France cyclist, the "Great Loop". His divisional had made more recommendations than usual. It was not to tarnish the reputation of teams, the Tour and its sports organizers and especially, especially, those of local officials.
Arriving at the car park that housed the technical staff, he immediately recognized the logo of the team he was looking for. Anyway, an impressive cordon of police and gendarmes was already present. He could not have been wrong. His "nose" immediately told him that something was wrong.
Seeing the policeman arrive from his heavy gait dodeling on both sides of his prominent belly, the colleagues present discreetly moved away. He passed worthily in front of them, the basques of his open raincoat floating in the light wind, and entered the bus-workshop by returning his belly.
- Name of name, it is who who fucked me doors so p'tites. Do you think there are only wasps that cycle?
The interior of the truck was tidy. Everything seemed in its place and only a large blood stain was a mess in the middle of the vehicle. A policeman in white dress seemed to be picking up items from the storage shelves.
- And where is the stiffness? the policeman wondered.
- There is no corpse.
- No ?
- No. Shut up the guy.
- Name of name! I knew ben that would me shit this cunt!
- Inspector, let's see!
- Well, whatever happened?
And it was explained to him that the corpse had been discovered by a technician, about six-thirty in the morning. He had rushed to the team manager's office to warn him. He had to go to the brewery "La Terrasse" at Herbaudiere, at the end of the island, to find him and explain the matter at length, the director seeming not to understand and realize. When they came back, the body was gone, leaving only a trace of blood.
Durieux Hyppolite scratched vigorously with her tousled red hair. He went to settle in front of a café at "P'tit Noirmout" where he lit his first pipe of the day despite the early hour. He summoned the director of the team immediately. As usual, he immediately saw a possible solution with a procedure to follow to conduct his investigation.
- Hello Headmaster. I'm in charge of investigating this weird murder. I'm going to need your help to understand how your cycling world works since I do not know anything about it.
- Hello inspector. I understand your concern, but the Tour is leaving in four hours and my team needs me. I'm afraid you have to go without me.
- I will disturb you as little as possible, but must what is said here.
He decided to call all the members of the included riders team to question them. He began with the cyclists to release them very quickly, because he thought they were for nothing and that the start of the Tour would be despite everything.
The interrogations were brief and very succinct. Lieutenant Durieux absolutely wanted to keep with him the team director for possible translations, because he only spoke the purest French, according to him, the popular French that his uncle Herbert Defaitte, a donkey farmer, had taught him. job. Her (it was his nickname) Defait had raised him since his father had died at sea aboard the lobster "The Hardi". The ten riders on the team did not know anything, did not see anything, did not hear anything.
The inspector, however, heard comments outside him calling him soft-whipped cop and chuckles. He kept this for himself. For the moment, he told himself, for the moment.
- Bou diou de bou diou! There's no talking to your pedal guys, Hyppolite told the team director.
- You know, in our job, we are stingy with words. We need all our energy to pedal and it is not always easy, the director answered.
"Well, bring me the technicians," he said to his assistants, looking through the pockets of his dubious beige raincoat, his tobacco pouch to light a new pipe.
They passed one after the other, except for a certain Pierre Bennotte, a native of the island, who had to leave hurriedly this morning for an unforeseen family, "with the authorization of the team director" had declared with a pinch the technical manager. Technicians also nobody had seen anything, heard nothing. They were all busy preparing bicycles for their cyclists and did not waste time looking at what others were doing. The one who had discovered the corpse stated that the body was lying on his stomach and that he had not seen who it was. Inspector Durieux freed the technicians.
- I would like to go now too, inspector, asked the director of the team.
- Yes OK. I have to check, go ahead.
- Thank you, he said, getting up to leave.
- Ah, but by the way, one last thing. You told me that your cyclists needed all their energy. And if they do not have enough, what's going on?
- Well we lose the stage, we lose the premium, we lose prestige, we risk losing everything and that is inconceivable for a team of our fame.
- Ah ... Inconceivable ... Thank you very much.
The team director was about to cross the threshold of the coffee shop door when the policeman called again.
- And this guy Pierre Bennotte, you allowed him to leave for what motive?
- A problem in his family. His dying father, I believe.
- Thank you. See you soon.
As these interrogations unfolded, time passed and the hour of the great departure of the first leg was approaching at a crazy speed. The advertising caravan made a hell of a stir with its horns, the shouts of its mountebanks and those of the spectators who fought over the generously distributed giveaways. The speakers installed by the municipality for the occasion poured their flood of local advertising.
People were running everywhere, the gendarmes were trying to channel the many curious who were hailing from one sidewalk to another to greet each other. The journalists sneaked up, holding out their pickups and shouting their questions in the middle of this jolly mess. The sellers of French fries and sandwiches were already enjoying themselves, sweet smells of pancakes scented the atmosphere and the seagulls disturbed by all this upheaval shouted their offuscation.
The festive atmosphere contrasted with the wrinkled forehead of our inspector whose brain was looking for a way to understand what had happened this morning in this technical truck. While thinking, Inspector Hyppolite Durieux rubbed his prognathous chin and half closed his right eye.
The preliminary interrogations had given nothing. The only point of attachment was the technician supposedly left that morning. The audit was under way to control the information. Hyppolite Durieux then expanded his research and the police quickly questioned all the teams and all the staff present on the site. Time was pressing. The hour of departure was approaching and the tide was beginning to descend, which would allow the advertising caravan and the runners to pass through the goï, this road flooded at each high tide, to reach the continent.
That's when someone approached the inspector.
- Hi Hyppolite. I think I found a corpse.
- Bou diou! Albert, do you have me?
- Come see. I found it just now in a carnation, under a meter of salt. I slowly brought the salt to the edge of the eyelet with my and all of a sudden I saw a piece of hand that exceeded the mule.
The inspector noticed on the spot that his school friend was telling the truth. The murderer must have hidden the body to be discovered as late as possible, eaten away by salt. However, the corpse had been hidden there rather quickly and the pile of salt had been reconstituted by an amateur, in a hurry.
- That's why I wanted to raise the salt. The mulon was not compliant and I do not like when the job is badly done.
Hyppolite returned to the camp of the Tour. He thought that the traveler was Pierre Bennotte, a guy from Gueriniere, a few miles away, who apparently had not gone home, contrary to what had been said to the policeman. He began to orient his research towards this track when the UCI controller's manager came to see him.
- Hello Inspector. Is it you who is conducting the investigation? he said with a strong English accent.
- Yes my lord. Who are you?
- I lead the team of controllers of the International Cycling Union. Our job is to control the riders to avoid doping, and also to control the equipment, the bicycles, to see if they weigh the good weight, etc ...
- Ah yes. Those who have never seen that ... well let's move on. I had forgotten you. So what ?
- Then one of my controllers has disappeared. I had assigned him to take care of the team where the murder was committed.
- Oh, shit! Come with me. I'm leaving with the director of the team to see a corpse. I need to know who it is.
Once there, it was clear. The director said:
- It's not Pierre.
- My God, it's my controller exclaimed the Englishman.
The problem was getting worse. The policeman started pacing up and down, puffing at his pipe. His red hair was floating in the breeze of the sea charged with the smell of iodine and some sea spray torn from the tide came to whip his old formless rain. He hummed, imitating in this his idol Berrurier, a song of his own: "The walk of salt workers" ("Saunions, saunions, because we are salt-workers, my brothers." Let's sing about our muloons, because we are roosters with salt ... ").
An idea made its way into his head. He mumbled incoherent sentences between two stanzas and his assistants watched him walk, his head bent to his right, his pipe in his left hand raised over his shoulder. From time to time he stopped for a few seconds and then started again, pushing his big belly forward from left to right.
The sun was already high in the blue sky of the island, only troubled by little fluffy white clouds. The seagulls were yawning over the harbor, and were still circling near the Museum of Shipbuilding, above the Town Hall Square.
- Inspector, the advertising caravan will leave in a quarter of an hour. We let them leave the island?
- Yes Yes. They can leave. But not the controllers or the technicians. And not the team directors either.
- But it is inadmissible regimba the team director. My men need me. Finally, Mr. Inspector, it's not our fault if you do not move forward!
- And who tells you that I'm not moving forward? Hyppolite Durieux said looking at him in a funny way. But you are right. Let everyone go except the head of the UCI, this gentleman and his technical manager he said to his deputies while the team director exploded with rage.
The police inspector returned to town and settled in the brewery "Le P'tit Noirmout" near the Town Hall. The warm room, with its exposed stonework, its red painted beams and its wooden floor, helped it to reflect. He ordered a beer from the country, beer brewed in the neighboring commune of La Gueriniere.
- An N'O please Gaston. And a little dish of mogettes to the fressure.
- At this inspector's hour?
- Well what, we could right to fill his belly when it is empty?
He summoned again the protagonists of the affair. It had been almost four hours since he had received the instructions of the commissary. He felt confusedly that he was close to solving the riddle. He was pretty sure of what he was thinking. He had two things checked on the Internet and then he received the chief controller of the UCI first.
"Sit down, mister the Lord. And tell me everything.
- Tell you what, Sir Durdoyl? Or should I call you Sherlock? replied the sitting Briton who played his accent to maliciously misrepresent the name of the French policeman who teased him about his nationality.
- Well, tell me whatever you're looking for in this truck, for example.
- My colleague was responsible for checking the conformity of the equipment with the rules of the race. He had inherited this team in control by simple administrative designation. Nothing more.
- You mean that this team was not suspected.
- No team is suspected a priori. We are more focused on what controls are ... how do you say "deterent effect", oh yes, dissuasive.
- So your controller was doing a routine job.
- Yes, that's it.
- And this routine work led him into the truck.
- Uh, there, I would not say that like that.
- What would you say ? And, addressing the waiter while wiping drops of hair on his chin and his napkin hung by a corner between his neck and his shirt, Gaston, another ration of fat with a N'O, is pleased. You want a beer, Sir? One of us.
- No thanks. I would say that if he got into the truck, there was something that intrigued him, probably.
- Tell me, apart from the weight of the bike, what is it that might not be in accordance with the rules?
"Well, we have been looking for some time for electric frauds.
- Electric frauds! On bikes? Thank you, Gaston. Are you sure you do not want a N'O beer?
- No. Finally, no N'O beer. Or, an Ok.
- It's no ? It's OK ? Is it yes or no?
- Yes for an Okells brand English, we say an Ok, home.
- They are crazy, these English !! Hein, Gaston. Okay, so what are these electric bike stories?
The Brit sighed. He was beaten at this little game. He understood that the inspector had already inquired between interrogations and played with him in the cat and the mouse.
- These are small electric motors hidden in the tubes of the bike and help to turn the wheels when against the clock or in the mountains. This allows to go a little faster and especially to tire less. We win stages and therefore money thanks to this subterfuge.
- Is it really true? With this system, it is no longer necessary to use drugs.
"Well, yes, Mr. Inspector. It exists.
- So your controller could have gotten into the truck to look for rigged bike frames.
- Yes, or something else. We recently found a pedal with a mini electric motor hidden in the axis itself.
- In the axis? And how to discover this thing?
- We have electronic tablets that detect electrical waves when we pass them within a centimeter of the tube or the axis.
- Less than a centimeter! And if we go a little further, or so quickly ...
- We do not detect anything.
- And we have to go and control that in the truck.
- No, it must be checked at the start or on the road during the race to see the criminal use.
- So what made your controller in the truck?
"I do not know, sir, I do not know.
The interview stopped there. Hyppolite thinks for a moment before giving very precise instructions to one of his deputies. Then he brought in the chief technician of the team involved in the murder. The man looked sickly. His eyes seemed to look everywhere for something. He sat down and began to wring his hands feverishly.
- You are the technical manager of the team. How far is your responsibility? He said his mouth full of shreds.
- I must guarantee the proper functioning of the bicycles assigned to the riders. Every champion has his bikes. I mean every bike is tuned for one athlete and not another. And they all have three custom bikes based on their size, weight, how they pedal, etc.
- And you guarantee also the respect of the rules of the Tour?
- What are you talking about ? he replied, embarrassed.
- The weight of the bike, lenticular wheels ... Or to check that the bike does not include a little hidden thing ...
- Ah, it's the doctor who takes care of the possible drugs.
- The doctor also takes care of electric motors?
"I do not know what you mean," he replied, fidgeting in his seat.
- Boudiou! Is not it strange that a technician of your level does not see what I'm talking about? Who gives orders in your team?
- He's the team director. I do not know anything. It's not me who buys the bikes at the base.
- Why are you defending yourself? Are you hiding something or are you scared? And then I talked about electric motors, not buying bikes. There are electric bikes in your very famous team?
- I tell you it's not me. And worse this morning, I was not up at five.
So it was five o'clock. And the guy Pierre, he was at the truck at five o'clock. You confirm ?
- But I said nothing, me. It's not true. I do not know anything ! It's the team director who allowed him to leave, it's not me. The man was sweating heavily now.
The inspector did not insist more. He had understood everything. He pulled the techie out of the back of the brewery between two policemen. He took another pause and gave new instructions to his deputy after hearing the report he gave him about the deceased controller and Pierre Bennotte the missing technician. Then he brought in the director of the team.
The Tour had been gone for half an hour now. The director stepped into the chairs as he passed, apparently drunk with rage.
- It is unacceptable ! he shouted. Who do you think, little cop of a lost hole! A species of redneck! A little "flouc" is what you are. You will hear about me, I tell you!
- I notice an insult to a police officer in his role of representative of the police force. I order you to stay up and not move if you do not want to end up with handcuffs on your wrist.
The director seemed to be clubbed on the head. His fulminating gaze turned into a questioning gaze, then a shadow of fear passed in his eyes. He calmed down immediately. How could this redneck, this little cop, this "flouc", allow himself to speak to him like this?
- Tell me what you were doing in the truck this morning at five o'clock with the UCI controller and Pierre Bennotte.
"But, but, I was not there," he said, destabilized by this frontal and direct attack. I do not know what to talk to you about
- Well, I'll tell you: you were buying the controller's silence.
- No, I do not understand.
- Did you give Peter the money before or after the murder?
- But I'm innocent. I do not know what you're talking about.
- I'm talking about electric motors hidden in the axes of the pedals. I'm telling you that the controller was blackmailing you and that you had had enough. I'm talking about the murder that you committed to end this. I'm telling you about the corpse you asked Pierre, the local guy, to hide in the salt shakers. We have all the evidence.
Seeing that the pot with the roses was discovered, the director literally collapsed on a chair while exclaiming:
- I did not kill him. It's Pierre.
- Well then. My services have just discovered Pierre, hidden in the attic of his house in Guérinière. Not end the stone. In fact, he gave us the envelope that contained five hundred thousand euros on which we will surely find your fingerprints. He has already confessed almost everything, the inspector lied.
Then the director told the whole story. Engines hidden for two years in the frames then in the axis of bottom bracket. The day before, the controller of the UCI had discovered by chance the new system of cheating invented this year with electromagnets scattered all around the rim of the rear wheel. By controlling the frame, his tablet was close to the tire and reacted.
The controller had offered them a financial arrangement and the team director had accepted after consulting the main sponsor.
- It will be enough for me to pass the tablet to more than one centimeter of the frame or the tire and to pass it quickly so that nothing is detected, had promised them the controller of the UCI.
But at the time of the delivery of the envelope, in the truck, he had asked for a second for the following week. The director of the team had gone out of his way, he had jostled him and the controller had fallen, hitting his head on a shelf edge.
Pierre was in the corner, the director had asked him to remove the body in exchange for the envelope, and disappear for a day or two. It had been necessary to invent a story for the chief technician who only later understood the real reason for Peter's absence.
The truth was known to all before the arrival of the stage. The boss of the sponsoring company was stopped in the paddocks in La Roche-sur-Yon at the moment when the winner of the stage, a rider of the team concerned, crossed the finishing line with a little too much ease. Hyppolite taste.
Inspector Durieux was sitting in front of P'tit Noirmout's TV, a good N'O and a big cock in salt crust in front of him when the Divisional Commissioner called him on the phone to congratulate him.
- A case well conducted, inspector. Bravo. The results of this survey will be global. It's a real scandal. You will become famous. What is your feeling at the moment?
"Boudiou, commissioner, we should not take ourselves for nonsense! he answered his superior, sputtering everywhere. That's scandalous, is not it?
- Yes, Durieux, yes. This is what is scandalous.

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What a story !

What a story !

A girl had been killed. There were four of us in the waiting room at the police station. Twenty years ago, a Swedish camper accused me of rape, we had drunk so much that night that neither she nor I could remember if she said yes or no. The affair had ended in a rut. Because of this old story, I was one of the suspects today. I pulled out my card as soon as something happened. When the girl died, I was at my cousins' house in Limoges, everyone had seen me at the mass, the bistro and the flea market. I am unable to rape or kill anyone. I should not have too much trouble convincing the police.

On the bench in front of me, there was a tramp ... They make good suspects, tramps, wander, booze and sleep anywhere. He did not look worried. He hummed and winked at us.
To my left, there was an Arab. Whenever there is aggression, there is always a witness who has seen an Arab! He was scared to death; for them, it's always more complicated.
And then, in the middle of the room, there was a madman running in circles, constantly shouting that he had killed the girl and asking that he be executed. He was the one the cops called first.
Very quickly, in the office, we heard shouts of voice. They did not keep it long. The door opened and they pushed him towards the exit.

- You make us waste time with your delusions, Marcillon ... Let us work. We do not want to see you anymore, do you understand that? Go see a psychiatrist and get treatment. And do you feel happy that you are not being sued for contempt and obstructing police investigation?

I had heard of those patients who accuse themselves of the most horrible crimes to make headlines or to be punished. They are lucky to live with us. In some countries, we do not waste time looking for evidence, confessions are enough. There, he would already be hanged or beheaded!
I was politely received: after the madman, I brought calm. They noted the names and addresses of the people I mentioned. Time to check my schedule, I had to stay at the disposal of Justice. It is always a test to be suspected, even if nothing has been done wrong. When I got out of the office, the tramp gave me a wink.
Arabic had a beaten dog look.
I was heading to the bar across the street. The iron curtain was slowly descending. He stopped halfway up when I reached the door and the boss made me a sign that he was closing. Customers were coming out, bending their heads under the curtain. Among them was the agitated accuser of the murder of the girl.

"They have not kept you long," he said.
- They quickly realized that I had nothing to do with this crime.
- Think again, they are stubborn and have understood nothing at all. Believe me, I'm in a good position to tell you. Did you come for a drink?
- Yes, but I think for tonight, it's missed
- I must have a whiskey background, I offer you one at home?

The guy looked a little exalted but did not seem threatening. These patients are rarely dangerous, aggression is directed against them. I followed him in a rather well-kept building. The apartment was tastefully decorated, many paintings adorned the walls and an impressive library sat in the living room. He made me sit in a deep leather chair and took a bottle of whiskey out of a rosewood bar. On a low table illuminated by a lamppost, I saw a copy of Edgar Poe's Extraordinary Stories, from which a papyrus bookmark went. The house evoked ease and the man had a certain class. The image of the sneering madman with a funnel on his head is reassuring: this madness is not likely to happen to us ... But the distinguished and intelligent crazy intrigue and I was eager to question this mouse who threw himself into the clutches of the While the majority of them spend their lives avoiding them ... This glass was probably a pretext and he would surely take the initiative to plead his case. He remained silent. To give me a countenance, I flipped through the Extraordinary Stories. The bookmark was positioned on the "The Stolen Letter" page.
- Have you read them? he asked
- Some, my memories are from college. Edgar Poe, an American writer translated by Baudelaire. As for the Extraordinary Stories, I had only read "The Golden Scarab" and an improbable story of a murderous monkey.
"We must read them all," he said. At this moment, I reread "The Stolen Letter" is a small wonder of psychology.

We talked about literature, it seemed tense and I decided to set foot in the dish.

- What an idea to accuse you of the murder of this girl Monsieur Marcillon ...

He sprang from his chair and began to turn in circles as in the waiting room of the police station.

- It's not an idea, it's the truth! You will see well. They say I'm wasting their time, but it's them who lose it. It would be enough to listen to me. For the cops, a culprit must necessarily hide, run away, deny. But remorse, what do they make of remorse? The worst thing is that with their stubbornness, an innocent person may end up in prison. The tramp, the Arab, you ... maybe ...
- Did you really kill this girl or do you think you killed her? I said.

Marcillon gave me a bad look, I had just entered dangerous territory. I doubted, I implied that he could be delirious. He breathed deeply as if to control himself.

- I stabbed her and threw the knife into the bushes. They did not even bother to look for it.

According to the newspapers, the girl had been strangled with her headscarf. At no point was there any mention of stabbings.
We can be smart and completely crazy. This man seemed to me very ill and it would probably have been dangerous to contradict him. I thanked him and found myself in the street.
All this had made me cocky and I did not want to go back to my room.

I decided to visit Emma, ​​an old friend from the neighborhood who taught French at Collège François Villon. When I arrived, she was correcting some copies, I suggested that she return to another day. Emma told me that this work was not urgent and that in fact, she was moving a little. She put the copies back in a folder and she stuffed her red pen. We talked about the rain and the good weather and then, as I had big on the heart, I told him my day. Emma knows me well, she knows that I am a good guy and I have never hurt anyone, no more Swedish than this poor girl. I told her about my meeting with Marcillon. She described to me with scholarly words the clinical picture of self-accusing melancholy and attempts to explain their troubles.
I was speaking to the French teacher ...

- Do you think "The Stolen Letter" is a little marvel of psychology, Emma?
- That's the subject of the dissertation, professor?
- If you want ... Marcillon told me about it. I have not read it and I would like you to tell it to me.
"The Stolen Letter" is one of Edgar Poe's Extraordinary Stories and she's actually pretty cool. A letter of the highest importance was stolen from the King's boudoir. The police know when she disappeared and the identity of the thief. They search his home from top to bottom and find nothing. The entourage of the King is very worried, the owner of this missive could put pressure on him. The police then appeal to Auguste Dupin, a famous detective who restores a few days later the famous document to the Prefect of Police. The police had however disconnected the mattresses and cushions, probed the furniture in search of double bottoms, raised the floorboards, used microscopes ... The letter was placed prominently on a desk! It had been folded upside down, with another stamp and another writing. The genie of the thief, and then that of Dupin, consisted in thinking that the police would look for something carefully concealed and pay no attention to a prominent letter.
A week had passed. The investigation stalled and public opinion showed signs of exasperation. During a white march organized in memory of the girl, some eggs were thrown in the direction of the police station and the press did not hesitate to denounce "the impotence of the Police".
We were again summoned. On his bench, Marcillon had a big smile. His day had arrived and the truth was about to break out. We were finally going to believe it! The tramp was humming and the Arab carried all the misery of the world on his shoulders.
As I stared at him, Marcillon suddenly appeared uncomfortable.

- Why do you look at me like that? You too think that I'm dingo, is that right? I do not even know your name. What is your name first?
- Dupin. Auguste Dupin, I say. You're screwed, Marcillon

His face turned grayish and his mouth began to shake.
He jumped on me, his fingers closed around my neck. We rolled on the ground making a noise of thunder. Police came out everywhere and quickly separated us.

- Are you crazy or what? shouted the Commissioner
"No one is mad, Commissioner," I said. Especially not Marcillon that you would be well advised to listen carefully when he says he is the murderer. Marcillon, who has, from the beginning, put his "madness" prominently on your investigation, like a letter on a desk. Then it was enough for him to become so noisy and visible that he could not be heard or seen.
- I will end up believing that you are as disturbed as each other. What is this letter story on the desktop?

Marcillon had his head in his hands, he had just understood that he had lost and no longer wanted to fight.

"It's an extraordinary story, a little marvel of psychology," he said. I will tell you this, Commissioner.

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The latest Khashoggi news violates significant standards

The latest Khashoggi news violates significant standards

The latest Khashoggi news violates significant standards

The first page of the Washington Post has a disclosure: the CIA believes that Saudi Crown Prince Mohammed receptacle Salman had an immediate job in the slaughtering of Post journalist Jamal Kashoggi. This is enormous news and another scoop for the Post's phenomenal group of journalists. They have done their activity well.

What's more, it ridiculously is an issue that they have succeeded. In typical occasions—by which I mean the whole course of the American Republic, and surely the time from 1945 until only a few years prior—the CIA's decisions about receptacle Salman would have been probably the most profoundly characterized privileged insights inside the American government, subject to dissemenation to a little, select gathering of people. The purposes behind this mystery are, traditionally, two-overlap: First, divulgence of what we know denies the nation's pioneers of opportunity of activity, to act with learning that U.S. foes don't realize we have and to choose blueprints that augment America's advantage. Second, divulgence of what the administration knows will frequently "consume" sources and techniques with the goal that the request is of the "one and done" assortment. Whenever U.S. rivals realize what America knows, they frequently figure out how America knows it—and change their conduct in like manner.

Thus it is crazy that some in the CIA (or somewhere else in the ordered network) feel the need to uncover this Top Secret data openly through the Post. I comprehend their inspiration—the deviation of Donald Trump is great to the point that they have no confidence in his capacity or ability to process insight investigation reliably. I share their worry—in spades. Be that as it may, damaging standards of conduct and the criminal law isn't the best approach to improve the issue.

What's more, no doubt about it—this revelation of characterized data to the Post journalists is very likely a wrongdoing by whoever spilled it. Far and away more terrible, it in all likelihood does long haul, enduring harm to America's capacity to gather insight and consult with the Saudis. Consider only two models from the numerous one could refer to from the article:

The Saudis presently have affirmed that we can catch calls from their U.S. international safe haven to the capital. They may have suspected that previously—yet they may have additionally thought their countermeasures were adequate. Presently they realize they are not, and will modify.

In like manner, the Saudis presently likewise realize that the United States' best appraisal is that receptacle Salman has a firm grasp on power and won't lose it over the Khashoggi episode. Such a great amount for the U.S. capacity, should the organization need to practice it, to attempt and undermine the sovereign. He knows the U.S. realizes it won't work and can promptly challenge the American false front.

See, I get it. Trump is a variation. Since he was probably going to disregard the insight investigation, this break is the best way to give it cash and belief. Be that as it may, it is still off-base. As I have said before , we guard standards of conduct by shielding them, not by disregarding them. I realize I seem like a broken record, yet this is the third time (at the very least) that components of the insight network have spilled fundamentally arranged data in manners that accomplish more mischief than anything. Stop leaking. Just stop.

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If you notice this , you should continue reading !

If you notice this , you should continue reading !

If you notice this , you should continue reading !

This is Col. Jacob Wayne of the United States Air Force. In case you're perusing this at the present time, it is essential that you continue perusing until the end. It should take three to five minutes, and it is critical that you read painstakingly and adhere to the guidelines gave.

Humor me in the event that you should, however kindly don't turn away until you've completed the process of perusing. Gracious, and please attempt to remain quiet. Any expansion in your feelings of anxiety will draw Their consideration.

Hence, I won't broadly expound with respect to how you got where you are. How you arrived isn't as essential as getting you out. Trust me when I say we are dealing with that at the present time. The most ideal approach to help yourself is to continue perusing. Try not to examine ahead. Try not to peruse so anyone can hear. Simply read.

At this moment, you're presumably recalling on the previous couple of days and nothing gotten a handle on of the common. You approached your standard day by day exercises with nothing bizarre to report. That is on the grounds that They are great, so great the vast majority don't understand they're in the recreation.

Indeed, even as our code works its route further into Their program, They are checking you. So if it's not too much trouble resist the urge to panic.

It was dubious, yet we found a path in to discuss straightforwardly with you. We needed to implant this message into your every day schedule so it didn't draw Their consideration. You're likely perusing this on Reddit, Facebook, or some other online networking webpage. May even be in an email forward or a book, we don't have the foggiest idea. We can't control how the message gets to you; we just realize that you are getting it.

Subliminally, as your eyes are ignoring these words, a code is being transferred into your mind. Consider it a PC infection, or for this situation, an antivirus. Your cerebrum is a natural PC, and They abused that. They hacked directly into your subliminal personality and overwrote it with Their recreation code. That is the manner by which They got in, and that is the reason everything seems ordinary. You may ponder your day by day life, however in all actuality you're tied to a table with tubes standing out of your body.

Since the code is transferring, you may start to feel a few sensations. For instance, one ear may feel marginally hotter than the other. You may even feel a tingle or tickle. Try not to scratch, simply left it alone. Disregard the dull foundation murmur you may hear also. That is Their program. On the off chance that They get on before our code has sufficient energy to work They will prematurely end the reenactment. On the off chance that that occurs, you will be lost to us until the end of time.

Gracious, and don't be frightened, yet at this point They understand we are in Their framework. You may see some little changes, particularly a slight shortness of breath or that you need to control your breathing physically. This is typical.

We know from other correspondence endeavors that at whatever point They find a code break in, the principal framework They shut down is the one controlling your relaxing. Fortunately, even in the recreation you are equipped for breathing physically. Attempt it. Take in. Inhale out. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Great.

You're doing fine and dandy.

They've presumably made sense of there's a glitch, yet on the off chance that our code is working we've crippled Their capacity to complete a hard reboot. Along these lines, They will attempt different strategies to disturb the transfer. It is critical that you overlook anything that may draw your consideration from these words. In the event that They pull you away before the transfer finishes it will erase our code. Shut them out. Disregard the developments you find in your fringe vision. Those sounds you hear, the voices, they aren't family, companions, or collaborators needing consideration. They may even endeavor to utilize your pets. They know your shortcomings.

Ignore the notices springing up on your screen in case you're on a telephone or PC. Shut them full scale until the point when you complete the process of perusing. It's simply one more way They'll attempt to break our correspondence connect.

Clearly, if our code is working, the following thing you'll see is a mind-boggling inclination to swallow. You don't understand it, yet there's an encouraging tube down your throat. You'll just know it's there on the grounds that your tongue won't rest easily in your mouth. You may likewise progress toward becoming hyper mindful of the measure of salivation being created. Try not to go overboard. In the event that you need to swallow, simply swallow. It's solitary abnormal in the event that you make it unusual.
Along these lines, in case regardless you're perusing this, the code transfer is about 90% finish. We've bolted onto your area. You're doing extraordinary, however you're extremely going to need to concentrate now. Once the transfer is finished there will be directions you should pursue to leave the reproduction. That is, on the off chance that you've adhered to the guidelines and haven't turned away.

Confusing issues is the way that They currently know we're here, and They comprehend what we're doing. Their endeavors to occupy your consideration through the reproduction demonstrated unsuccessful, so now They will utilize your body's frameworks against you. THEY ARE IN YOUR BRAIN. They need you to squint. Try not to squint. Your life relies upon keeping your eyes open.

Nearly there, only a couple of sections more until the point when the code transfer is finished. Try not to look over, or up, simply continue perusing. I got you this far. Remain with me. Eyes open, eyes front, keep them bolted on the screen.

If it's not too much trouble FOCUS! I would prefer not to lose you. I've lost such huge numbers of as of now. Overlook everything! Shut everything out. Disregard that tickle on your scalp and the tingle on your arm. That is them, endeavoring a manual abrogate. Try not to surrender presently, you've made it this far. Battle IT. You're nearly there. Simply adhere to the directions beneath and we can get you out.

Implanted in this content are the means you have to pursue to unplug from the reenactment. In the event that we did this accurately, the primary letter of each passage will reveal to you what you have to do. Try not to LOOK YET. The transfer still needs to wrap up. I trust you didn't look.

Transfer finish. We've done all that we can on this end.

See you on the opposite side.

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My Boy Was All times a Poor Sleeper

My boy was a poor sleeper. A few evenings seven days he'd falter out of his room, rubbing his eyes and attempting to ward off tears. I was constantly wakeful, more often than not observing late night TV while my better half napped next to me. Dislike I would not like to rest. Obviously I did. Be that as it may, I was a watch cop and a sleep deprived person. Rest scarcely came under the most favorable circumstances. Those years weren't anyplace near the best of times.

"It is safe to say that you are alright, Daddy?"

"Better believe it, bud. I'm alright."

"I saw something alarming."

I'd go into his room and make a major show of checking his wardrobe, under his bed, and his window. The window extremely frightened him. "There's a trouble maker out there," he generally said. "I'm going to enable you to get him."

Noah was enthusiastic about getting miscreants. Not in the slightest degree astounding; I've been a cop since before he was conceived. He revealed to me all the time that he would grow up and get trouble makers, as well.

I quit checking his room around his fourth birthday celebration. He would at present wander out, lip shuddering, and asked a similar inquiry: "Would you say you are alright, Daddy?"

"Better believe it, bud. I'm alright."

"I saw something terrifying."

"It was only a bad dream, nectar. Simply ahead and return to rest."

Noah flickered lethargically. One eye was constantly squinty; he would never fully open it til he'd been conscious a decent ten minutes. So he took a gander at me, one eye shut like a little privateer, at that point gestured and faltered back to bed.

It was a similar content, after a long time. Possibly I took care of it off-base. I generally thought about whether it'd be better for me to overlook him, or even get furious. Be that as it may, other than this late night custom, he mulled over his very own fine and dandy. More often than not, he didn't considerably recall awakening.

These evenings mixed together into a warm, ruddy continuum. It was childish of me, yet I anticipated them. I worked third move with a reasonable dispersing of burial ground extra minutes. Because of rest and work, I infrequently observed Noah. That is the thing that made our evening time ceremonial was so valuable. It was simply the main time we truly had independent from anyone else.

My significant other was in every case snoozing at whatever point Noah came. Between her disease, thinking about Noah, and general pressure, she had no vitality. So most evenings off, I'd sit alert into the small hours, sitting in front of the TV in an inconsequential offer to smother the obscurity that was destroying me.

Noah drove the murkiness back. Not by much, but rather enough to shield me from sliding fast into that pit.

It went like this for just about two years, after quite a while. The specific last time he had a bad dream, the custom at long last changed.

Noah blundered out, rubbing his eyes. They were sad and his face was puffy. "Daddy, would you say you are extremely alright?"

"No doubt, bud. I'm alright." The words – very nearly a serenade by this point – obviously alleviated him.

"I saw a miscreant in the window."

"It was only an awful dream, nectar."

By me, my better half moved.

"I need to stop the miscreants."

"You will when you're grown up. Until at that point, I'm here."

He discharged a last shivering breath. "I adore you."

"I adore you as well. Simply ahead and return to rest."

I never observed him again.

At a young hour the following morning, my better half took Noah for a drive. He adored being in the auto. It was his most loved thing. The drive was relatively finished. They were three squares from home. She held up until the point that the light down at the convergence – a great two streets away - turned red. Sitting tight for the stream of activity to stop is the main safe approach to do it. That is the thing that she did. That is the thing that she generally did.

However, this one time at the correct wrong minute, somebody sped through the red light at seventy miles 60 minutes, hitting the traveler side and killing Noah. It pummeled him. We couldn't have an open coffin memorial service.

My significant other never recouped. I didn't treat her well in the outcome, either. She had a great deal of endless torment from her wounds, and over her medical issues couldn't work without solution. I didn't exactly set out to transparently reprimand her for Noah's passing, yet I mocked her for her painkillers. Called her dead weight. A medication fanatic.

We separated and never talked again. She kicked the bucket a couple of years back from difficulties identified with her disease. I miss her consistently. I never advised her, and now I never can.

I attempt to disclose to myself she wouldn't give it a second thought, yet I realize that is a lie.

After the separation, I ascended through the positions at my activity before long for some time. Yet, I slowed down out at senior investigator. The office doled out me to the sex wrongdoings unit, and kept me there for a long time.

I'd thought watch had destroyed me, yet this was an entire other beast. I made a considerable measure of adversaries, some in high places. Indeed, even revealed two or three my individual officers, including my closest companion. I turned into a working heavy drinker and pulled back from everybody. Fellowships and connections weren't justified, despite any potential benefits. How might they be, when there was no real way to tell who was great and who was a beast?

At last I needed to bite the dust. Consistently, before the drinking started, I unholstered my firearm and set it on the foot stool. At that point I asked that I'd get tanked enough to at last execute myself.

Sometimes I drew near. In any case, at whatever point that occurred, I'd wake up from the murkiness and for only a moment I'd be 31 once more, with my better half resting next to me and my child tromping down the corridor to inquire as to whether I'm alright.

Those minutes are what I live until further notice.

I was attempting to get to that point seven days back. I sat in the lounge like continually, part my concentration between the TV and my firearm while consistently drinking myself into a daze.
Some place in the house, an entryway squeaked open. I didn't focus. The house was old when we got it. It's extraordinarily drafty and I haven't actually been keeping up on repairs. It squeaks and shrieks constantly

Be that as it may, at that point something stirred in the lobby. I turned as a little, recognizable voice inquired:

"Is it true that you are alright, Daddy?"

What's more, there he was: Noah, four years of age with a major head and red night wear, squint-peered toward and rubbing his face as his lip trembled.

For an insane moment, I could nearly trust that the previous twenty years had been a terrible dream. "Better believe it, bud. I'm alright."

"I saw something frightening."

"It was only a bad dream, nectar. Simply ahead and return to rest."

He gestured and staggered back to his room.

Following a couple of minutes, I got up and checked the room. Void. Gotten out, similarly as it had been for two decades.

I slid to the floor. Splitting joints, sore muscles, and liquor sickness drove home the way that I was particularly fifty and especially alone. No terrible dreams for me. Just an awful life.

I sobbed well into the night.

Noah came to me for a few evenings after that. Bumbling out of that vacant room, squinty and tearful. Same content. Same words.

"It is safe to say that you are alright, Daddy?"

"Better believe it, bud. I'm alright."

"I saw something unnerving."

"It was only a bad dream, nectar. Simply ahead and return to rest."

I immediately learned not to check his room a short time later.

It wasn't much. I realize that. However, in all trustworthiness it's about as much as I had when he was alive. On the off chance that I could have this custom – simply this custom – for whatever is left of my life, I'd be upbeat.

Be that as it may, the previous evening, he turned out crying. "Daddy, would you say you are extremely alright?"

"Definitely, bud. I'm alright."

"I saw a miscreant in the window."

"It was only an awful dream, nectar."

"Daddy, I need to stop the miscreants."

My mouth went dry. Significant misery blossomed in my chest. So this was the end. Scarcely seven days, and as of now done. "You will when you're grown up. Until at that point, I'm here."

"No! I need to stop them now!"

A progression of muted pounds all of a sudden originated from Noah's old room.

All the hair on my body remained on end. "Come here, Noah."

Noah shook his head, hopeless. "No."

More pounds and a suppressed revile.

My firearm glimmered on the foot stool, unpropitious and welcoming. I lifted it up and crawled into the corridor.

Substantial strides radiated from his room. The handle shook and the entryway squeaked open.

The gag of a shotgun started things out, trailed by the gatecrasher. He solidified when he saw me. His eyes flashed abnormally, helping me irrationally to remember lacquered porcelain.

I shot him.

The back of his skull detonated, covering the entryway in blood and dull twists of cerebrum matter.

I swung to Noah, prepared to clear him up and comfort him. Be that as it may, he didn't require consoling. He was brilliant. Tears were dry and he was grinning. He'd never grinned amid our custom.

That let me know all that I had to know. My heart broke once more.

"I got the miscreant." He bumbled sluggishly down the lobby to his room.

"You did," I said.

He halted at his room entryway and discharged a placated murmur, careless in regards to the cadaver folded on the limit. "I cherish you, Daddy."

"I cherish you as well." My throat appeared to swell, interfering with the words. Noah held up calmly. I attempted to gain myself under power. We had a daily practice. A custom. What's more, I owed it to him to complete it. "Proceed," I whispered. "Furthermore, return to rest."

He went into his room.

Following a horrifying second I pursued him. Obviously it was as uncovered as ever. The vacancy decimated me in a way nothing else ever has. I crept to the corner where his bed used to be and cried.

I considered 911 a couple of hours after the fact. I apologized for the postponement, said I had a fit of anxiety and passed out. Nobody minded. I'm on a routine interior issues examination, yet that is only for show.

My eventual executioner was a person I'd put in prison years back. Tyke abuser, filth of the earth. I didn't significantly recollect him. I would prefer not to.

I know I won't see Noah once more. My child dozed ineffectively for twenty-four years as a result of me. He got the trouble maker and spared his father, so I'm certain he's resting now.

What's more, wherever he is, I trust there aren't any awful dreams.

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