"Please fasten your seatbelts." The heterogeneous crowd of airplane passengers was slow to comply. There was a general feeling that it was impossible to have arrived so quickly in Geneva. The half-asleep murmured and yawned. The sleepy ones had to be gently but firmly awakened by a flight attendant.
"Please fasten your seatbelts." The colorless voice from the loudspeakers was also insistent. It explained in German, French, and English that shortly the aircraft would face a brief severe storm. Sir Stafford Nye opened his mouth wide, yawned, and sat up straight. He happily dreamed that he was fishing in a river in England.
Stafford Nye was forty-five years old, of medium height, brown-haired, with a smooth face, without a mustache or beard. In terms of dress, he liked to play the eccentric. And as a scion of an exceptional family, he always felt completely comfortable with his sartorial eccentricities. And if these sometimes made his conventionally dressed colleagues grimace, Sir Stafford Nye simply laughed inwardly with satisfaction and enjoyed it.
He had something of an eighteenth-century male. He liked to attract attention. A very particular sartorial peculiarity of his, when traveling, was a kind of bandit’s cape he had once bought in Corsica. A long cape in a blue-purple color, with dark red lining and a wide hood, which fell loosely on his back and which, when he wanted, he would lift to cover his head to protect himself from the wind.