The Ghost(英文版)-第1章

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　　《The　Ghost》作者：Robert　Harris（《影子写手》英文版）

　　内容简介

　　The　stunning　new　novel　from　the　No。　1　bestselling　author　of　Fatherland；　Enigma；　Archangel；　Pompeii　and　Imperium。

　　作者简介

　　Robert　Harris　worked　as　a　reporter　on　the　BBC’s　Newsnight　and　Panorama　programmes；　before　becoming　Political　Editor　of　the　Observer　in　1987；　and　then　a　columnist　on　the　Sunday　Times　and　the　Daily　Telegraph。　In　2003　he　was　named　Columnist　of　the　Year　in　the　British　Press　Awards。　Robert　Harris　is　the　author　of　Fatherland；　Enigma；　Archangel；　Pompeii　and　Imperium；　all　worldwide　bestsellers。From　the　Hardcover　edition。

　　CONTENTS

　　AUTHOR’S　NOTE　ONE　TWO　THREE　FOUR　FIVE　SIX　SEVEN　EIGHT　NINE　TEN　ELEVEN　TWELVE　THIRTEEN　FOURTEEN　FIFTEEN　SIXTEEN　SEVENTEEN　ABOUT　THE　AUTHOR

　　ALSO　BY　ROBERT　HARRIS

　　FICTION

　　Imperium

　　Pompeii

　　Archangel

　　Enigma

　　Fatherland

　　NONFICTION

　　Selling　Hitler：　The　Story　of　the　Hitler　Diaries

　　SimonSays

　　To　Gill

　　AUTHOR’S　NOTE

　　I　would　like　to　thank　Andrew　Crofts　for　permission　to　use　the　quotes　from　his　excellent　handbook；　Ghostwriting　（A　&　C　Black；　2004）。　Two　other　successful　ghostwriters；　Adam　Sisman　and　Luke　Jennings；　were　kind　enough　to　share　their　experiences　with　me。　Philippe　Sands；　QC；　generously　provided　advice　about　international　law。　Rose　Styron　spent　several　days　showing　me　round　Martha’s　Vineyard：　I　could　not　have　had　a　more　gracious　and　well…informed　guide。　My　publisher；　David　Rosenthal；　and　my　agent；　Michael　Carlisle；　were　even　more　helpful　and　encouraging　than　usual—although　each　is　as　unlike　his　fictional　counterpart　as　it　is　possible　to　be。

　　Robert　Harris　Cap　Bénat；　July　26；　2007

　　I　am　not　I：　thou　art　not　he　or　she：　they　are　not　they。

　　Evelyn　Waugh；

　　Brideshead　Revisited

　　THEGHOST

　　ONE

　　Of　all　the　advantages　that　ghosting　offers；　one　of　the　greatest　must　be　the　opportunity　that　you　get　to　meet

　　people　of　interest。

　　Andrew

　　Crofts；

　　Ghostwritin　g

　　THE　MOMENT　I　HEARDhow　McAra　died；　I　should　have　walked　away。　I　can　see　that　now。　I　should　have　said；　“Rick；　I’m　sorry；　this　isn’t　for　me；　I　don’t　like　the　sound　of　it；”　finished　my　drink；　and　left。　But　he　was　such　a　good　storyteller；　Rick—I　often　thoughthe　should　have　been　the　writer　and　I　the　literary　agent—that　once　he’d　started　talking　there　was　never　any　question　I　wouldn’t　listen；　and　by　the　time　he　had　finished；　I　was　hooked。

　　The　story；　as　Rick　told　it　to　me　over　lunch　that　day；　went　like　this：

　　McAra　had　caught　the　last　ferry　from　Woods　Hole；　Massachusetts；　to　Martha’s　Vineyard　two　Sundays　earlier。　I　worked　out　afterward　it　must　have　been　January　the　twelfth。　It　was　touch…and…go　whether　the　ferry　would　sail　at　all。　A　gale　had　been　blowing　since　midafternoon　and　the　last　few　crossings　had　been　canceled。　But　toward　nine　o’clock　the　wind　eased　slightly；　and　at　nine　forty…five　the　master　decided　it　was　safe　to　cast　off。　The　boat　was　crowded；　McAra　was　lucky　to　get　a　space　for　his　car。　He　parked　belowdecks　and　then　went　upstairs　to　get　some　air。

　　No　one　saw　him　alive　again。

　　The　crossing　to　the　island　usually　takes　forty…five　minutes；　but　on　this　particular　night　the　weather　slowed　the　voyage　considerably：　docking　a　two…hundred…foot　vessel　in　a　fifty…knot　wind；　said　Rick；　is　nobody’s　idea　of　fun。　It　was　nearly　eleven　when　the　ferry　made　land　at　Vineyard　Haven　and　the　cars　started　up—all　except　one：　a　brand…new　tan…colored　Ford　Escape　SUV。　The　purser　made　a　loudspeaker　appeal　for　the　owner　to　return　to　his　vehicle；　as　he　was　blocking　the　drivers　behind　him。　When　he　still　didn’t　show；　the　crew　tried　the　doors；　which　turned　out　to　be　unlocked；　and　freewheeled　the　big　Ford　down　to　the　quayside。　Afterward　they　searched　the　ship　with　care：　stairwells；　bar；　toilets；　even　the　lifeboats—nothing。　They　called　the　terminal　at　Woods　Hole　to　check　if　anyone　had　disembarked　before　the　boat　sailed　or　had　perhaps　been　accidentally　left　behind—again：　nothing。　That　was　when　an　official　of　the　Massachusetts　Steamship　Authority　finally　contacted　the　Coast　Guard　station　in　Falmouth　to　report　a　possible　man　overboard。

　　A　police　check　on　the　Ford’s　license　plate　revealed　it　to　be　registered　to　one　Martin　S。　Rhinehart　of　New　York　City；　although　Mr。　Rhinehart　was　eventually　tracked　down　to　his　ranch　in　California。　By　now　it　was　about　midnight　on　the　East　Coast；　nine　p。m。　on　the　West。

　　“This　isthe　Marty　Rhinehart？”　I　interrupted。

　　“This　is　he。”

　　Rhinehart　immediately　confirmed　over　the　telephone　to　the　police　that　the　Ford　belonged　to　him。　He　kept　it　at　his　house　on　Martha’s　Vineyard　for　the　use　of　himself　and　his　guests　in　the　summer。　He　also　confirmed　that；　despite　the　time　of　year；　a　group　of　people　were　staying　there　at　the　moment。　He　said　he　would　get　his　assistant　to　call　the　house　and　find　out　if　anyone　had　borrowed　the　car。　Half　an　hour　later　she　rang　back　to　say　that　someone　was　indeed　missing；　a　person　by　the　name　of　McAra。

　　Nothing　more　could　be　done　until　first　light。　Not　that　it　mattered。　Everyone　knew　that　if　a　passenger　had　gone　overboard　it　would　be　a　search　for　a　corpse。　Rick　is　one　of　those　irritatingly　fit　Americans　in　their　early　forties　who　look　about　nineteen　and　do　terrible　things　to　their　body　with　bicycles　and　canoes。　He　knows　that　sea：　he　once　spent　two　days　paddling　a　kayak　the　entire　sixty　miles　round　the　island。　The　ferry　from　Woods　Hole　plies　the　strait　where　Vineyard　Sound　meets　Nantucket　Sound；　and　that　is　dangerous　water。　At　high　tide　you　can　see　the　force　of　the　currents　sucking　the　huge　channel　buoys　over　onto　their　sides。　Rick　shook　his　head。　In　January；　in　a　gale；　insnow　？　No　one　could　survive　more　than　five　minutes。

　　A　local　woman　found　the　body　early　the　next　morning；　thrown　up　on　the　beach　about　four　miles　down　the　island’s　coast　at　Lambert’s　Cove。　The　driver’s　license　in　the　wallet　confirmed　him　to　be　Michael　James　McAra；　age　fifty；　from　Balham　in　south　London。　I　remember　feeling　a　sudden　shot　of　sympathy　at　the　mention　of　that　dreary；　unexotic　suburb：　he　certainly　was　a　long　way　from　home；　poor　devil。　His　passport　named　his　mother　as　his　next　of　kin。　The　police　took　his　corpse　to　the　little　morgue　in　Vineyard　Haven　and　then　drove　over　to　the　Rhinehart　residence　to　break　the　news　and　to　fetch　one　of　the　other　guests　to　identify　him。

　　It　must　have　been　quite　a　scene；　said　Rick；　when　the　volunteer　guest　finally　showed　up　to　view　the　body：　“I　bet　the　morgue　attendant　is　still　talking　about　it。”　There　was　one　patrol　car　from　Edgartown　with　a　flashing　blue　light；　a　second　car　with　four　armed　guards　to　secure　the　building；　and　a　third　vehicle；　bombproof；　carrying　the　instantly　recognizable　man　who；　until　eighteen　months　earlier；　had　been　the　prime　minister　of　Great　Britain　and　Northern　Ireland。

　　THE　LUNCH　HAD　BEENRick’s　idea。　I　hadn’t　even　known　he　was　in　town　until　he　rang　me　the　night　before。　He　insisted　we　meet　at　his　club。　It　was　nothis　club；　exactly—he　was　actually　a　member　of　a　similar　mausoleum　in　Manhattan；　whose　members　had　reciprocal　dining　rights　in　London—but　he　loved　it　all　the　same。　At　lunchtime　only　men　were　admitted。　Each　wore　a　dark　blue　suit　and　was　over　sixty；　I　hadn’t　felt　so　young　since　I　left　university。　Outside；　the　winter　sky　pressed　down　on　London　like　a　great　gray　tombstone。　Inside；　yellow　electric　light　from　three　immense　candelabra　glinted　on　dark　polished　tables；　plated　silverware；　and　rubied　decanters　of　claret。　A　small　card　placed　between　us　announced　that　the　club’s　annual　backgammon　tournament　would　be　taking　place　that　evening。　It　was　like　the　changing　of　the　guard　or　the　houses　of　parliament—a　foreigner’s　image　of　England。

　　“I’m　amazed　this　hasn’t　been　in　the　papers；”　I　said。

　　“Oh；　but　it　has。　Nobody’s　made　a　secret　of　it。　There’ve　been　obituaries。”

　　And；　now　I　came　to　think　of　it；　Idid　vaguely　remember　seeing　something。　But　I　had　been　working　fifteen　hours　a　day　for　a　month　to　finish　my　new　book；　the　autobiography　of　a　footballer；　and　the　world　beyond　my　study　had　become　a　blur。

　　“What　on　earth　was　an　ex–prime　minister　doing　identifying　the　body　of　a　man　from　Balham　who　fell　off　the　Martha’s　Vineyard　ferry？”

　　“Michael　McAra；”　announced　Rick；　with　the　emphatic　delivery　of　a　man　who　has　flown　three　thousand　miles　to　deliver　this　punch　line；　“was　helping　him　write　his　memoirs。”

　　And　this　is　where；　in　that　parallel　life；　I　express　polite　sympathy　for　the　elderly　Mrs。　McAra　（“such　a　shock　to　lose　a　child　at　that　age”）；　fold　my　heavy　linen　napkin；　finish　my　drink；　say　good…bye；　and　step　out　into　the　chilly　London　street　with　the　whole　of　my　undistinguished　career　stretching　safely　ahead　of　me。　Instead　I　excused　myself；　went　to　the　club’s　lavatory；　and　studied　an　unfunnyPunch　cartoon　while　urinating　thoughtfully。

　　“You　realize　I　don’t　know　anything　about　politics？”　I　said　when　I　got　back。

　　“You　voted　for　him；　didn’t　you？”

　　“Adam　Lang？　Of　course　I　did。　Everybody　voted　for　him。　He　wasn’t　a　politician；　he　was　a　craze。”

　　“Well；　that’s　the　point。　Who’s　interested　in　politics？　In　any　case；　it’s　a　professional　ghostwriter　he　needs；　my　friend；　not　another　goddamned　politico。”　He　glanced　around。　It　was　an　iron　rule　of　the　club　that　no　business　could　be　discussed　on　the　premises—a　problem　for　Rick；　seeing　as　he　never　discussed　anything　else。　“Marty　Rhinehart　paid　ten　million　dollars　for　these　memoirs　on　two　conditions。　First；　it’d　be　in　the　stores　within　two　years。　Second；　Lang　wouldn’t　pull　any　punches　about　the　war　on　terror。　From　what　I　hear；　he’s　nowhere　near　meeting　either　requirement。　Things　got　so　bad　around　Christmas；　Rhinehart　gave　him　the　use　of　his　vacation　house　on　the　Vineyard　so　that　Lang　and　McAra　could　work　without　any　distractions。　I　guess　the　pressure　must　have　gotten　to　McAra。　The　state　medical　examiner　found　enough　booze　in　his　blood　to　put　him　four　times　over　the　driving　limit。”

　　“So　it　was　an　accident？”

　　“Accident？　Suicide？”　He　casually　flicked　his　hand。　“Who’ll　ever　know？　What　does　it　matter？　It　was　the　book　that　kille