The Ghost(英文版)-第39章

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ame。　But　then　the　door　of　the　café　opened　behind　me　and　the　two　men　came　out。　I　walked　briskly　up　the　street　toward　the　Ford；　and　once　I　was　behind　the　wheel　I　locked　myself　in。　When　I　checked　the　mirrors　I　couldn’t　see　either　of　my　fellow　diners。

　　I　didn’t　move　for　a　while。　It　felt　safer　simply　sitting　there。　I　fantasized　that　perhaps　if　I　stayed　put　long　enough；　I　could　somehow　be　absorbed　by　osmosis　into　the　peaceful；　prosperous　life　of　Belmont。　I　could　go　and　do　what　all　these　retired　folk　were　bent　on　doing—playing　a　hand　of　bridge；　maybe；　or　watching　an　afternoon　movie；　or　wandering　along　to　the　local　library　to　read　the　papers　and　shake　their　heads　at　the　way　the　world　was　all　going　to　hell　now　that　my　callow　and　cosseted　generation　was　in　charge　of　it。　I　watched　the　newly　coiffed　ladies　emerge　from　the　salon　and　lightly　pat　their　hair。　The　young　couple　who　had　been　holding　hands　in　the　café　were　inspecting　rings　in　the　window　of　the　jeweler。

　　And　I？　I　experienced　a　twinge　of　self…pity。　I　was　as　separate　from　all　this　normality　as　if　I　were　in　a　bubble　of　glass。

　　I　took　out　the　photographs　again　and　flicked　through　them　until　I　came　to　the　one　of　Lang　and　Emmett　onstage　together。　A　future　prime　minister　and　an　alleged　CIA　officer；　prancing　around　wearing　gloves　and　hats　in　a　comic　revue？　It　seemed　not　so　much　improbable　as　grotesque；　but　here　was　the　evidence　in　my　hand。　I　turned　the　picture　over　and　considered　the　number　scrawled　on　the　back；　and　the　more　I　considered　it；　the　more　obvious　it　seemed　that　there　was　only　one　course　of　action　open　to　me。　The　fact　that　I　would；　once　again；　be　trailing　along　in　the　footsteps　of　McAra　could　not　be　helped。

　　I　waited　until　the　young　lovers　had　gone　into　the　jewelry　store　and　then　took　out　my　mobile　phone。　I　scrolled　down　to　where　the　number　was　stored　and　called　Richard　Rycart。

　　FOURTEEN

　　Half　the　job　of　ghosting　is　about　finding　out　about　other　people。

　　Ghostwritin　g

　　THIS　TIME；　HE　ANSWEREDwithin　a　few　seconds。

　　“So　you　rang　back；”　he　said　quietly；　in　that　nasal；　singsong　voice　of　his。　“Somehow　I　had　a　feeling　you　would；　whoever　you　are。　Not　many　people　have　this　number。”　He　waited　for　me　to　reply。　I　could　hear　a　man　talking　in　the　background—delivering　a　speech；　it　sounded　like。　“Well；　my　friend；　are　you　going　to　stay　on　the　line　this　time？”

　　“Yes；”　I　said。

　　He　waited　again；　but　I　didn’t　know　how　to　begin。　I　kept　thinking　of　Lang；　of　what　he　would　think　if　he　could　see　me　talking　to　his　would…be　nemesis。　I　was　breaking　every　rule　in　the　ghosting　guidebook。　I

　　was　in　breach　of　the　confidentiality　agreement　I’d　signed　with　Rhinehart。　It　was　professional　suicide。

　　“I　tried　to　call　you　back　a　couple　of　times；”　he　continued。　I　detected　a　hint　of　reproach。

　　Across　the　street；　the　young　lovers　had　come　out　of　the　jewelry　store　and　were　strolling　toward

　　me。

　　“I　know；”　I　said；　finding　my　voice　at　last。　“I’m　sorry。　I　found　your　number　written　down　somewhere。　I　didn’t　know　whose　it　was。　I　called　it　on　the　off　chance。　It　didn’t　seem　right　to　be　talking　to

　　you。”

　　“Why　not？”

　　The　couple　passed　by。　I　followed　their　progress　in　the　mirror。　They　had　their　hands　in　one

　　another’s　back　pockets；　like　pickpockets　on　a　blind　date。

　　I　took　the　plunge。　“I’m　working　for　Adam　Lang。　I—”

　　“Don’t　tell　me　your　name；”　he　said　quickly。　“Don’t　use　any　names。　Keep　everything　nonspecific。

　　Where　exactly　did　you　find　my　number？”

　　His　urgency　unnerved　me。

　　“On　the　back　of　a　photograph。”

　　“What　sort　of　photograph？”

　　“Of　my　client’s　days　at　university。　My　predecessor　had　it。”

　　“Did　he；　by　God？”　Now　it　was　Rycart’s　turn　to　pause。　I　could　hear　people　clapping　at　the　other

　　end　of　the　line。

　　“You　sound　shocked；”　I　said。

　　“Yes；　well；　it　ties　in　with　something　he　said　to　me。”

　　“I’ve　been　to　see　one　of　the　people　in　the　photograph。　I　thought　you　might　be　able　to　help　me。”

　　“Why　don’t　you　talk　to　your　employer？”

　　“He’s　away。”

　　“Of　course　he　is。”　He　had　a　satisfied　smile　in　his　voice。　“And　where　are　you？　Without　being　too　specific？”

　　“In　New　England。”

　　“Can　you　get　to　the　city　where　I　am；　right　away？　You　know　where　I　am；　I　take　it？　Where　I　work？”

　　“I　suppose　so；”　I　said　doubtfully。　“I　have　a　car。　I　could　drive。”

　　“No；　don’t　drive。　Flying’s　safer　than　the　roads。”

　　“That’s　what　the　airlines　say。”

　　“Listen；　my　friend；”　whispered　Rycart　fiercely；　“if　I　was　in　your　position；　I　wouldn’t　joke。　Go　to　the　nearest　airport。　Catch　the　first　available　plane。　Text　me　the　flight　number；　nothing　else。　I’ll　arrange　for　someone　to　collect　you　when　you　land。”

　　“But　how　will　they　know　what　I　look　like？”

　　“They　won’t。　You’ll　have　to　look　out　for　them。”

　　There　was　a　renewed　burst　of　applause　in　the　background。　I　started　to　raise　a　fresh　objection；　but

　　it　was　too　late。　He　had　hung　up。

　　I　DROVE　OUT　OFBelmont　without　any　clear　idea　of　the　route　I　was　supposed　to　take。　I　checked　the　rearview　mirror　neurotically　every　few　seconds；　but　if　I　was　being　followed；　I　couldn’t　tell。　Different　cars　appeared　behind　me；　and　none　seemed　to　stay　for　longer　than　a　couple　of　minutes。　I　kept　my　eyes　open　for　signs　to　Boston　and　eventually　crossed　a　big　river　and　joined　the　interstate；　heading　east。

　　It　was　not　yet　three　in　the　afternoon；　but　already　the　day　was　starting　to　darken。　Away　to　my　right；　the　downtown　office　blocks　gleamed　gold　against　a　swollen　Atlantic　sky；　while　up　ahead　the　lights　of　the　big　jets　fell　toward　Logan　like　shooting　stars。　I　maintained　my　usual　cautious　pace　over　the　next　couple　of　miles。　Logan　Airport；　for　those　who　have　never　had　the　pleasure；　sits　in　the　middle　of　Boston　Harbor；　approached　from　the　south　by　a　long　tunnel。　As　the　road　descended　underground；　I　asked　myself　whether　I　was　really　going　to　go　through　with　this；　and　it　was　a　good　measure　of　my　uncertainty　that　when—a　mile　later—I　rose　again　into　the　deeper　gloom　of　the　afternoon；　I　still　hadn’t　decided。

　　I　followed　the　signs　to　the　long…term　car　park　and　was　just　reversing　into　a　bay　when　my　telephone　rang。　The　incoming　number　was　unfamiliar。　I　almost　didn’t　answer。　When　I　did；　a　peremptory　voice　said；　“What　on　earth　are　you　doing？”

　　It　was　Ruth　Lang。　She　had　that　presumption　of　beginning　a　conversation　without　first　announcing　who　was　calling；　a　lapse　in　manners　I　was　sure　her　husband　would　never　have　been　guilty　of；　even　when　he　was　prime　minister。

　　“Working；”　I　said。

　　“Really？　You’re　not　at　your　hotel。”

　　“Aren’t　I？”

　　“Well；　are　you？　They　told　me　you　hadn’t　even　checked　in。”

　　I　flailed　around　for　an　adequate　lie　and　hit　on　a　partial　truth。　“I　decided　to　go　to　New　York。”

　　“Why？”

　　“I　wanted　to　see　John　Maddox；　to　talk　about　the　structure　of　the　book；　in　view　of　the”—a　tactful　euphemism　was　needed；　I　decided—“the　changed　circumstances。”

　　“I　was　worried　about　you；”　she　said。　“All　day　I’ve　been　walking　up　and　down　this　fucking　beach　thinking　about　what　we　discussed　last　night—”　I　interrupted。　“I　wouldn’t　say　anything　about　that　on　the　phone。”

　　“Don’t　worry；　I　won’t。　I’m　not　a　total　fool。　It’s　just　that　the　more　I　go　over　things；　the　more

　　worried　I　get。”

　　“Where’s　Adam？”

　　“Still　in　Washington；　as　far　as　I　know。　He　keeps　trying　to　call　and　I　keep　not　answering。　When　will

　　you　be　back？”

　　“I’m　not　sure。”

　　“Tonight？”

　　“I’ll　try。”

　　“Do；　if　you　can。”　She　lowered　her　voice；　I　imagined　the　bodyguard　standing　nearby。　“It’s　Dep’s

　　night　off。　I’ll　cook。”

　　“Is　that　supposed　to　be　an　incentive？”

　　“You　rude　man；”　she　said　and　laughed。　She　rang　off　as　abruptly　as　she　had　called；　without　saying

　　good…bye。

　　I　tapped　my　phone　against　my　teeth。　The　prospect　of　a　confiding　fireside　talk　with　Ruth；　perhaps　to　be　followed　by　a　second　round　in　her　vigorous　embrace；　was　not　without　its　attractions。　I　could　call　Rycart　and　tell　him　I’d　changed　my　mind。　Undecided；　I　took　my　case　out　of　the　car　and　wheeled　it　through　the　puddles　toward　the　waiting　bus。　Once　I　was　aboard；　I　cradled　it　next　to　me　and　studied　the　airport　map。　At　that　point　yet　another　choice　presented　itself。　Terminal　B—the　shuttle　to　New　York　and　Rycart—or　terminal　E—international　departures　and　an　evening　flight　back　to　London？　I　hadn’t　considered　that　before。　I　had　my　passport；　everything。　I　could　simply　walk　away。

　　B　or　E？　I　seriously　weighed　them。　I　was　like　an　unusually　dim　lab　rat　in　a　maze；　endlessly

　　confronted　with　alternatives；　endlessly　picking　the　wrong　one。

　　The　bus　doors　opened　with　a　heavy　sigh。

　　I　got　off　at　B；　bought　my　ticket；　sent　a　text　message　to　Rycart；　and　caught　the　US　Airways　Shuttle

　　to　LaGuardia。

　　FOR　SOME　REASON　OURplane　was　delayed　on　the　tarmac。　We　taxied　out　on　schedule　but　then　stopped　just　short　of　the　runway；　pulling　aside　in　a　gentlemanly　fashion　to　let　the　queue　of　jets　behind　us　go　ahead。　It　began　to　rain。　I　looked　out　of　the　porthole　at　the　flattened　grass　and　the　welded　sheets　of　sea　and　sky。　Clear　veins　of　water　pulsed　across　the　glass。　Every　time　a　plane　took　off；　the　thin　skin　of　the　cabin　shook　and　the　veins　broke　and　reformed。　The　pilot　came　over　the　intercom　and　apologized：　there　was　some　problem　with　our　security　clearance；　he　said。　The　Department　of　Homeland　Security　had　just　raised　its　threat　assessment　from　yellow　（elevated）　to　orange　（high）　and　our　patience　was　appreciated。　Among　the　businesspeople　around　me；　agitation　grew。　The　man　sitting　next　to　me　caught　my　eye　above　the　edge　of　his　pink　paper　and　shook　his　head。

　　“It　just　gets　worse；”　he　said。

　　He　folded　hisFinancial　Times　；　placed　it　on　his　lap；　and　closed　his　eyes。　The　headline　was　“Lang　wins　US　support；”　and　there　was　that　grin　again。　Ruth　had　been　right。　He　shouldn’t　have　smiled。　It　had　gone　round　the　world。

　　My　small　suitcase　was　in　the　luggage　compartment　above　my　head；　my　feet　were　resting　on　the　shoulder