63: Chapter 63 Nostalgia in the Teahouse: A Glimmer of Hope

Diana stood on the stone floor, the fingerprints on her neck left by Commander Bibi still faintly purple, but her spine had straightened once more.

It was not that she was not afraid; on the contrary, she was even more afraid than she had been when facing the Grey Alien just moments ago.

It was just that she knew fear was already useless.

Her previous guesses were entirely correct.

The Deep State truly existed, it would truly come for her, and it was truly because she had not handled things cleanly, letting Edward and Musk slip through the cracks.

And now, the other party was already standing right before her.

What awaited her next was death.

And it was the kind of death that could not be resisted.

She had just seen with her own eyes this group of people beat those two Aliens like two dead dogs and stuff them into bags.

The five hundred armed death squads of the Hopkins Family, plus the entire elite of the Colt Association, would not last any longer than the Aliens against this group of people.

Diana was not the only one who had reached this conclusion.

Keating's old face, tempered by decades in the Defense Intelligence Agency, was now as pale as a stone slab just dragged out of an ice cellar.

He stood two steps behind Diana, his hands hanging by his sides, his fingertips twitching slightly and involuntarily.

He had exhibited this gesture once before in a safe house in Beirut that was blockaded by artillery fire; that time, he had thought he and the entire intelligence station would be blown to pieces before dawn.

Beatrice's fingers were still resting on Diana's shoulder, but it was no longer the support it had been moments ago; instead, it was a slight tremor, frozen in place, daring neither to withdraw nor to apply pressure.

Harlan managed to prop up half his body from the pile of rubble outside the hole in the wall. The excruciating pain from where his ribs had been broken by Rabu's repulsion wave caused his vision to black out in waves.

Yet, he still looked through the series of human-shaped holes in the corridor and saw the handsome man wearing blue gloves in the center of the courtyard.

He did not speak; he merely brushed aside the rubble beside him and silently counted with the calmness of a dying veteran:

"If the other party moves against the young lady now, how many more steps can I take?"

But another lamp was still lit in Diana's mind.

Her fear had not swallowed her ability to think; this was the greatest difference between her and her brother, Charles.

When facing fear, Charles would choose to lower his head and avoid it, while she would choose to stare at it and see where its weakness lay.

If Zhang Long wanted to kill her, he could do it at any time.

The two Men in Black from moments ago could have reduced her and everyone in the manor to charcoal with a single bolt of lightning, but they had not.

This man who called himself Zhang Long had not only refrained from acting immediately, but had instead strolled leisurely around the courtyard.

He looked at the old cycad tree, looked at the holes in the wall, and then casually mentioned "Leo Hopkins."

The tone in which her great-grandfather's name was spoken from his mouth did not sound like he was reading an entry from the file of a deceased enemy; rather, it sounded as if he were mentioning someone he had known a long time ago.

Diana raised her eyes to look at Zhang Long.

Just as the other party turned to continue walking forward, she spoke up: "Mr. Zhang, you just mentioned the name of my great-grandfather, Leo."

"You knew him, or rather, you had dealings with him."

"If you came today to take the lives of the Hopkins Family, you would not specifically bring up someone who has been dead for nearly a century."

"By mentioning him, you indicate that the Hopkins Family is, in your eyes, more than just a list that needs to be crossed off."

Zhang Long stopped and turned his head to glance at her.

In that gaze, there was no trace of being offended, nor was there any surprise at having his thoughts guessed.

He did not answer Diana's question directly but instead shifted his gaze away from her, landing on the small patch of sky visible above the row of sandstone buildings in the east wing of the manor, obscured by storm clouds until only a gray edge remained.

"Is the Boxwood Tea Room still there? The one at the end of the east wing corridor."

He spoke as if he had suddenly recalled a trivial matter, his tone as casual as if he were asking if an old piece of furniture at an old friend's house had been refurbished.

"Back in the day, that kid Leo would often brew tea for me there, taking the opportunity to curry favor."

"Although the old friend is no longer here, I suddenly want to go there and sit for a while."

After a pause, Diana's brain began to operate at high speed.

The Boxwood Tea Room; she knew that place.

It was an old-fashioned tea room in the deepest part of the east wing of Casablanca Manor, sealed off since her grandfather's generation; now, only old family servants went in to clean it periodically.

She had never known the purpose of that tea room; no one had ever used that room to drink tea, and no one had ever told her why it had been preserved all this time.

Yet Zhang Long not only knew the location of that tea room but also knew that Leo had brewed tea for him there.

Her great-grandfather brewing tea for an official from the Deep State—this matter had never been mentioned in a single word in the oral history of the Hopkins Family.

These pieces of information collided rapidly in her mind, occupying her for nearly three seconds of silence.

And Zhang Long clearly did not intend to wait that long.

He tilted his head slightly, his tone remaining peaceful, but his words now carried a faint trace of urgency.

"What? You wouldn't welcome me to go there and sit for a while, would you?"

Diana snapped back to reality, her voice two degrees hoarser than before, but she spoke extremely quickly, picking up the conversation almost the moment the other party's voice fell:

"Of course you are welcome! It is the honor of the Hopkins Family!"

"I will have people prepare it right away!"

She turned and made a gesture to Keating, her voice pressed low and steady:

"The Boxwood Tea Room. Have people go clean it immediately and prepare fine tea and refreshments. Be quick."

With the quickest expression in his twenty-plus years of intelligence field service, Keating gathered up the pallor on his face and turned to trot out of the courtyard.

Diana faced Zhang Long again, lowered her head slightly, and made a gesture to lead the way:

"Mr. Zhang, I will personally lead you there..."

Zhang Long raised his hand in a very brief gesture of refusal.

It was not heavy, very casual, but the "no need" contained within that gesture was non-negotiable.

"No need."

"I know the way. After all these years, some paths are not forgotten."

He clasped his blue-gloved hands behind his back and strode toward the east wing of the manor, his leather shoes treading on the stone path interspersed with rubble and scorch marks, his pace neither hurried nor slow.

Before leaving, there was no farewell, no extra instructions, not even another glance at Diana.

As he passed the first armed death squad soldier standing guard at the entrance of the east wing corridor,

the young man, who a second ago had been gripping his M4 carbine with trembling hands, instinctively took a step back, his heel striking the wall base with a dull thud, and then he quickly lowered his head.

It was not forced down by anyone; at that moment, his body automatically executed an instinct of obedience more deeply rooted than any military order.

All the armed personnel on both sides of the corridor, the Colt Association special agents, and several family guards who had just withdrawn from the outer defense line and had not yet had time to put down their guns, all lowered their heads as Zhang Long passed by.

There were no orders, no threats, and no one had spoken to demand they do so.

A man wearing a pair of blue gloves passed through their midst, and they intentionally lowered their breathing to the absolute minimum, as if afraid that the airflow from their own breathing might offend the hem of his garment.

Zhang Long's back disappeared at the end of the east wing corridor.

The old boxwood door of the tea room, which had been personally pushed open by Keating, emitted a slight creak,

and then the door closed again, isolating everything inside.

Almost at the same moment the door closed, Keating and Beatrice hurried back to Diana's side.

Keating's lips were still somewhat pale when he spoke, but the old intelligence officer's judgment had largely recovered.

"Young Lady, he just mentioned the name of the old master, Leo."

"It wasn't just a mention; he specifically named that he wanted to return to the place where the old master, Leo, used to brew tea for him to sit for a while."

"Judging by his tone, his way of addressing the old master, Leo, carries a kind of..."

"I can't quite put my finger on it, but I have seen it many times in the intelligence system. That was not the tone used for an enemy; it was the tone of someone who knew, was familiar with, and was willing to spend time remembering him."

Beatrice picked up quickly, her speaking speed still efficient, but there was an almost imperceptible loosening in her tone:

"If he wanted to kill us, he wouldn't need to go drink tea first."

"And there would be even less need to specifically ask if that tea room was still there."

"The subtext of asking such a question is 'I am reminiscing about the past,' and someone about to execute a silencing mission would not reminisce about the past with people who are about to die."

She paused for a moment and lowered her voice to a level that only the three of them could hear:

"It seems that this big shot from the Deep State... is actually quite nostalgic."

Diana was silent for several seconds.

She stood on the slab of stone in the center of the courtyard that had been scorched black by lightning, the pinch marks still visible on the side of her neck, her hair disheveled and clinging to her sweat-dampened temples.

In her chest, her heart, which had been squeezed almost to a standstill by Commander Bibi's gravity gloves moments ago, had not yet fully returned to its normal rhythm,

but she heard her own breathing gradually slow down.

Diana looked toward the closed old door of the Boxwood Tea Room, the expression on her face calm to the point of being abnormal.

"Nostalgia is good," she whispered. "I would only be afraid if he weren't nostalgic."

She turned and walked toward the tea room, her steps steadier than when she had gone to meet the two Grey Aliens moments ago.

At this moment, the movements on the periphery of the manor had nothing to do with her.

But it was not hard for her to guess.

At the same time she was passing through the east wing corridor to head to the tea room,

the most elite armed squads of the Hopkins Family had already departed from the manor, searching in all directions along the outer desert dirt roads.

No one had given this order; Diana had not, Keating had not, and Harlan was still lying in the hole in the wall.

But after several squad leaders exchanged glances, they simultaneously reached the same conclusion:

The man from moments ago had said the words "Deep State."

The Deep State did not want the public to know of their existence.

Therefore, any passing civilians, any drones that might have accidentally captured footage of the spaceship crash, and any recorders from suspicious vehicles that happened to be near the periphery of the manor in the middle of this night had to be disposed of.

This was standard operating procedure; it did not require instructions.