By Michael R. Hicks

Jack Dawson stood in his supervisor’s office and stared out the window, his bright gray eyes watching the rain fall from the brooding summer sky over Washington, D.C. The wind was blowing just hard enough for the rain to strike the glass, leaving behind wet streaks that ran down the panes like tears. The face he saw reflected there was cast in shadow by the overhead fluorescent lights. The square jaw and high cheek bones gave him a predatory look, while his full lips promised a smile, but were drawn downward now into a frown. The deeply tanned skin, framed by lush black hair that was neatly combed back and held with just the right amount of styling gel, looked sickly and pale in the glass, as if it belonged on the face of a ghost. He knew that it was the same face he saw every morning. But it was different now. An important part of his world had been killed, murdered, the night before.

He watched the people on the street a few floors below, hustling through the downpour with their umbrellas fluttering as they poured out of the surrounding buildings, heading home for the evening. Cars clogged Pennsylvania Avenue, with the taxis darting to the curb to pick up fares, causing other drivers to jam on their brakes, the bright red tail lights flickering on and off down the street like a sputtering neon sign. It was Friday, and everyone was eager to get home to their loved ones, or go out to dinner, or head to the local bar. Anywhere that would let them escape the rat race for the weekend.

He didn’t have to see this building’s entrance to know that very few of the people who worked here would be heading home on time tonight. The address was 935 Pennsylvania Avenue Northwest. It was the J. Edgar Hoover Building, headquarters of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the FBI. Other than the teams of special agents who had departed an hour earlier for Lincoln, Nebraska, many of the Bureau’s personnel here at head quarters wouldn’t leave until sometime tomorrow. Some would be sleeping in their offices and cubicles after exhaustion finally over took them, and wouldn’t go home for more than a few hours over the next several days.  

A special agent had been brutally murdered, and with the addition of another name to the list of the FBI’s Service Martyrs, every resource the Bureau could bring to bear was being focused on bringing his killer to justice. Special agents from headquarters and field offices around the country were headed to Nebraska, along with an army of analysts and support staff that was already sifting through electronic data looking for leads.

 Everyone had apart in the investigation, it seemed, except for Dawson. In his hand, he held a plain manila folder that included the information that had been forwarded by the Lincoln field office. It was a preliminary report sent in by the Special Agent in Charge (SAC), summarizing the few known facts of the case. In terse prose, the SAC’s report described the crime scene, the victim, and what had been done by the local authorities before the SAC’s office had been alerted. And there were photos. Lots of photos. If a picture was worth a thousand words, then the ones Dawson held in his shaking hands spoke volumes about the agony suffered by the victim before he died. Because it was clear from the rictus of agony and terror frozen on Sheldon Crane’s face that he had still been alive when... 

“I’m sorry, Jack,” came a gruff voice from behind him, interrupting Dawson’s morbid train of thought as Ray Clement, Assistant Director of the Criminal Investigative Division, came in and closed the door. It was his office, and he had ordered Dawson to wait there until he had a chance to speak with him.

Ray Clement was a bear of a man with a personality to match. A star football player from the University of Alabama’s Crimson Tide, Clement had actually turned down a chance to go pro, and had instead joined the FBI as a special agent. That had been his dream since the age of ten, as he had once told Jack, and the proudest moment of his life had been when he’d earned his badge. Jack knew that a lot of people might have thought Clement was crazy. “I loved football,” Clement would say, “and I still do. But I played it because I enjoyed it. I never planned to do it for a living.”

Over the years, Clement had worked his way up through the Bureau. He was savvy enough to survive the internal politics, smart and tough enough to excel in the field, and conformed to the system because he believed in it. He could be a real bastard when someone did something stupid, but otherwise worked tirelessly to support his people so they could do their jobs. He wasn’t a boss that any of his special agents would say they loved, but under his tenure, the Criminal Investigative Division, or CID, had successfully closed more cases than under any other assistant director in the previous fifteen years. People could say what they wanted, but Clement got results.

When he had first taken over the division, Clement had taken the time to talk to each and every one of his special agents. He had been up front about why: he wanted to know at least a little bit, more than just the names, about the men and women who risked their lives every day for the American Taxpayer. They were special agents, he’d said, but they were also special human beings.

Jack had dreaded the interview. Whereas Clement could have been the FBI’s poster child, Jack didn’t quite fit the mold. He was like a nail head sticking up from the perfectly polished surface of a hardwood floor, not enough to snag on anything, just enough to notice. Outwardly, he was no different than most of his peers. He dressed the same as most special agents, eschewing a suit for more practical and casual attire for all but the most formal occasions. His well-muscled six foot, one inch tall body was far more comfortable in jeans and a pullover shirt, with a light jacket to conceal his primary weapon, a standard service-issue Glock 22. While he had no problems voicing his opinions, which had sometimes led to respectful but intense discussions with his superiors, he had never been a discipline problem. He was highly competent in the field, and was a whiz at data analysis. At first glance, he seemed like what he should be: an outstanding special agent who worked hard and had great career prospects.

But under the shiny veneer ran a deep vein of dark emptiness. Jack smiled, but it never seemed to reach his eyes, and he rarely laughed. He was not cold-hearted, for he had often displayed uncommon compassion toward others, especially the victims, and their families, of the crimes he was sent to investigate. But he had no social life to speak of, no significant other in his life, and there were very few people who understood the extent of the pain that lay at Jack’s core.

                                                              收获的季节

by Zoe Wood

guardian.co.uk, Saturday 31 December 2011 19.29 GMT

翻译：Cathy

Shoppers queue outside Selfridges on Boxing Day before the sales begin. Photograph: Justin Tallis/AFP/Getty Images

Boxing Day 当天，还没开门营业的Selfridges门外已经排起了长长的人龙。

The cold economic wind sweeping Britain's shopping centres has yet to reach London's West End, which remains an oasis of prosperity. The influx of high-rolling Chinese shoppers has helped luxury stores beat the gloom.

Upmarket department store Selfridges said Chinese tourists were behind an 80% increase in VAT-free international sales last year as the capital cemented its reputation as a magnet for well-heeled fashion tourists. While Britons struggle to balance household budgets after Christmas, visitors from Asia were clamouring to get their hands on the latest collections from labels such as Prada, Gucci and Mulberry in Selfridges last week – and not just because they were in the sale.

The store's biggest spender on Boxing Day, who was described only as an "international shopper", splashed out £8,469 on a Chopard diamond necklace, although in this instance it was reduced from £18,820.

China's economic boom has fuelled a runaway demand for luxury brands, with Louis Vuitton, Chanel and Gucci the most coveted labels.

Li Bingbing, the Chinese actress, was among the thousands of shoppers who dashed to Selfridges on Monday, taking home a haul that was said to include fashion brands such as Paul Smith, Reiss, Mulberry and Nicole Farhi. Burberry has even hired Mandarin-speaking shop assistants for its London stores.

Consumer confidence among important luxury goods buyers – a field that is still led by the Middle East, but now includes China, Russia and India – has not been rocked by the European sovereign debt crisis, say analysts.

Per Setterberg, chief executive of card payments company Global Blue, said the spending power of these "global shoppers" far exceeded that of their domestic counterparts and was providing a shot in the arm for London's economy.

虽然正值圣诞新年假期，但依旧无法阻挡经济寒流肆虐英国各大购物点，而且寒流大有吹向富豪聚居的伦敦西区之势。而在此时大批涌入的中国游客无疑为伦敦西区的奢侈品店铺燃起了冬日里的一把火。

专卖高档货的著名百货购物公司Selfridges表示，在过去的一年，伦敦吸引了大批不差钱的海外时尚人士前来朝圣，其中中国游客在免税商品方面的消费额同比激增了80%。在过去的一周，来自亚洲的游客与圣诞过后勒紧裤腰带过日子的英国人形成了鲜明的对比， Selfridges里挤满了大声嚷嚷的亚洲游客们，他们疯狂地抢购最新一季的Prada、 Gucci和Mulberry商品，毫不在乎这些商品打折与否。

而在26号Boxing Day那天，一名“海外顾客”成为Selfridges当天的血拼冠军，该名顾客大手笔地以8469英镑的折扣价买下了原价18820英镑的一条Chopard钻石项链。

腾飞的中国经济引爆了中国人的奢侈品消费热情，而LV、Chanel和Gucci则是其中最受中国消费者欢迎的三大奢侈品牌。

在周日那天冲进Selfridges血拼的汹涌人潮中，中国女星李冰冰也是其中的一员，据说她的血拼成果包括Paul Smith, Reiss, Mulberry和Nicole Farhi等的时尚品牌。而奢侈品牌Burberry更是特意为其在伦敦的多家店铺聘请了会说普通话的店员。

分析人士表示，来自中东、中国、俄罗斯和印度的游客是购买奢侈品的主力军，这些游客的消费信心并未受到欧洲主权债务危机的影响。

免税店公司Global Blue的首席执行官Per Setterberg表示，海外游客的购买力远远大于英国国内消费者，他们的到来无疑为伦敦奄奄一息的经济注入一针强心剂。