Calais, France…
The usually bustling ferry port sits quietly for the moment, as moored ships have departed, and approaching ships have not yet arrived.
At the end of the northern-most dock sits a tall lighthouse. The point is vital to ships making the passage across the frequently fog shrouded English Channel, but now it sits dark. The day is clear and cloudless, and the bright sun gleams hotly overhead, and off the calm waters, the chalky white cliffs of Dover clearly visible in the distance across the channel…
Far away, a bell tolls unevenly atop the mile-marker bouy…
A stray newspaper tumbles by, caught on the gentle sea breeze.
A man approaches.
Clad in a heavy english greatcoat and a short brimmed hat, his stride neither hurried, nor casual. He places one foot after the other with the resolution of one going to meet his firing squad.
About half way down the pier, he stops. Setting down his briefcase and crystal topped cane, he stands straight and spreads his arms wide, turning slowely as though showing himself plainly to whomever may be watching…
