The Ghost(英文版)-第45章

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ble；　my　guilt　too　obvious。　Treachery　needs　privacy。　I　surrendered　myself　to　events。

　　We　flew　over　the　Fifty…ninth　Street　Bridge　like　gods；　Alice　and　Lucy　giggling　with　excitement；　and　when　we　reached　LaGuardia　a　few　minutes　later　we　drove　past　the　terminal　building；　through　an　open　metal　gate；　and　directly　onto　the　tarmac；　where　a　big　private　jet　was　being　fueled。　It　was　a　Hallington　plane；　in　its　dark　blue　livery；　with　the　corporate　logo　painted　on　its　high　tail：　Earth　with　a　circle　girdling　it；　like　the　Colgate　ring　of　confidence。　Lang’s　limousine　swerved　to　a　halt　and　he　was　the　first　to　emerge。　He　dived　through　the　doorway　of　the　mobile　body　scanner　and　up　the　steps　into　the　Gulfstream　without　a　backward　glance。　A　bodyguard　hurried　after　him。

　　As　I　clambered　out　of　the　car　I　felt　almost　arthritic　with　anxiety。　It　took　an　effort　simply　to　walk　over　to　the　steps　where　Amelia　was　standing。　The　night　air　was　shaking　with　the　noise　of　jets　coming　in　to　land。　I　could　see　them　stacked　five　or　six　deep　above　the　water；　steps　of　light　ascending　through　the　darkness。

　　“Now　that’s　the　way　to　travel；”　I　said；　trying　to　sound　relaxed。　“Is　it　always　like　that？”

　　“They　want　to　show　him　they　love　him；”　said　Amelia。　“And　no　doubt　it　helps　to　show　everyone　else　how　they　treat　their　friends。Pour　encourager　les　autres。　”

　　Security　men　with　metal　wands　were　inspecting　all　the　luggage。　I　added　my　suitcase　to　the　pile。

　　“He　says　he　has　to　get　back　to　Ruth；”　she　continued；　gazing　up　at　the　plane。　The　windows　were　bigger　than　on　a　normal　aircraft。　Lang’s　profile　was　plainly　visible　toward　the　rear。　“There’s　something　he　needs　to　talk　over　with　her。”　Her　voice　was　puzzled。　She　was　almost　talking　to　herself；　as　if　I　weren’t　there。　I　wondered　if　they’d　had　a　row　during　the　drive　to　the　airport。

　　One　of　the　security　men　told　me　to　open　my　suitcase。　I　unzipped　it　and　held　it　up　to　him。　He　lifted　out　the　manuscript　to　search　underneath　it。　Amelia　was　so　preoccupied；　she　didn’t　even　notice。

　　“It’s　odd；”　she　said；　“because　Washington　went　so　well。”　She　stared　vacantly　toward　the　lights　of　the　runway。

　　“Your　shoulder　bag；”　said　the　security　man。

　　I　handed　it　to　him。　He　took　out　the　package　of　photographs；　and　for　a　moment　I　thought　he　was　going　to　open　it；　but　he　was　more　interested　in　my　laptop。　I　felt　the　need　to　keep　talking。

　　“Perhaps　he’s　heard　something　from　The　Hague；”　I　suggested。

　　“No。　It’s　nothing　to　do　with　that。　He　would　have　told　me。”

　　“Okay；　you’re　clear　to　board；”　said　the　guard。

　　“Don’t　go　near　him　just　yet；”　she　warned；　as　I　moved　to　pass　through　the　scanner。　“Not　in　his　present　mood。　I’ll　take　you　back　to　him　if　he　wants　to　talk。”

　　I　climbed　the　steps。

　　Lang　was　seated　in　the　very　end　seat；　nearest　to　the　tail；　his　chin　in　his　hand；　gazing　out　of　the　window。　（The　security　people　always　liked　him　to　sit　in　the　last　row；　I　discovered　later；　it　meant　no　one　could　get　behind　him。）　The　cabin　was　configured　to　take　ten　passengers；　two　each　on　a　couple　of　sofas　that　ran　along　the　side　of　the　fuselage；　and　the　rest　in　six　big　armchairs。　The　armchairs　faced　one　another　in　pairs；　with　a　stowaway　table　between　them。　It　looked　like　an　extension　of　the　Waldorf’s　lobby：　gold　fittings；　polished　walnut；　and　padded；　creamy　leather。　Lang　was　in　one　of　the　armchairs。　The　Special　Branch　man　sat　on　a　nearby　sofa。　A　steward　in　a　white　jacket　was　bending　over　the　former　prime　minister。　I　couldn’t　see　what　drink　he　was　being　served；　but　I　could　hear　it。　Your　favorite　sound　might　be　a　pair　of　nightingales　in　a　summer　dusk；　or　a　peal　of　village　church　bells。　Mine　is　the　clink　of　ice　against　cut　glass。　Of　this　I　am　a　connoisseur。　And　it　sounded　distinctly　to　me　as　if　Lang　had　given　up　tea　in　favor　of　a　stiff　whiskey。

　　The　steward　saw　me　staring　and　came　down　the　gangway　toward　me。　“Can　I　get　you　something；　sir？”

　　“Thanks。　Yes。　I’ll　have　whatever　Mr。　Lang　is　having。”

　　I　was　wrong：　it　was　brandy。

　　By　the　time　the　door　was　closed；　there　were　twelve　of　us　on　board：　three　crew　（the　pilot；　copilot；　and　steward）；　and　nine　passengers—two　secretaries；　four　bodyguards；　Amelia；　Adam　Lang；　and　me。　I　sat　with　my　back　to　the　cockpit　so　that　I　could　keep　an　eye　on　my　client。　Amelia　was　directly　opposite　him；　and　as　the　engines　started　to　whine　it　was　all　I　could　do　not　to　hurl　myself　at　the　door　and　wrench　it　open。　That　flight　felt　doomed　to　me　from　the　start。　The　Gulfstream　shuddered　slightly；　and　slowly　the　terminal　building　seemed　to　drift　away。　I　could　see　Amelia’s　hand　making　emphatic　gestures；　as　if　she　were　explaining　something；　but　Lang　just　continued　to　stare　out　at　the　airfield。

　　Someone　touched　my　arm。　“Do　you　know　how　much　one　of　these　things　costs？”

　　It　was　the　policeman　who’d　been　in　my　car　on　the　drive　from　the　Waldorf。　He　was　in　the　seat　across　the　aisle。

　　“I　don’t；　no。”

　　“Have　a　guess。”

　　“I　genuinely　have　no　idea。”

　　“Go　on。　Try。”

　　I　shrugged。　“Ten　million　dollars？”

　　“Fortymillion　dollars。”　He　was　triumphant；　as　if　knowing　the　price　somehow　implied　he　was　involved　in　the　ownership。　“Hollington　hasfive　。”

　　“Makes　you　wonder　what　they　can　possibly　use　them　all　for。”

　　“They　lease　them　out　when　they　don’t　need　them。”

　　“Oh；　yes；　that’s　right；”　I　said。　“I’d　heard　that。”

　　The　noise　of　the　engines　increased　and　we　began　our　charge　down　the　runway。　I　imagined　the　terrorist　suspects；　handcuffed　and　hooded；　strapped　into　their　luxurious　leather　armchairs　as　they　lifted　off　from　some　red…dusted　military　airstrip　near　the　Afghan　border；　bound　for　the　pine　forests　of　eastern　Poland。　The　plane　seemed　to　spring　into　the　air；　and　I　watched　over　the　edge　of　my　glass　as　the　lights　of　Manhattan　spread　to　fill　the　window；　then　slid　and　tilted；　and　finally　flickered　into　darkness　as　we　rose　into　the　low　cloud。　It　felt　as　though　we　were　climbing　blindly　for　a　long　time　in　our　vulnerable　metal　tube；　but　then　the　gauze　fell　away　and　we　came　up　into　a　bright　night。　The　clouds　were　as　massive　and　solid　as　alps；　and　the　moon　appeared　occasionally　from　behind　the　peaks；　lighting　valleys　and　glaciers　and　ravines。

　　Some　time　after　the　plane　leveled　off；　Amelia　rose　and　came　down　the　aisle　toward　me。　Her　hips　swayed；　involuntarily　seductive；　with　the　motion　of　the　cabin。

　　“All　right；”　she　said；　“he’s　ready　to　have　a　word。　But　go　easy　on　him；　okay？　He’s　had　a　hell　of　a　couple　of　days。”

　　He　and　I　both；　I　thought。

　　“Will　do；”　I　said。

　　I　fished　out　my　shoulder　bag　from　beside　my　seat　and　began　to　squeeze　past　her。　She　caught　my　arm。

　　“You　haven’t　got　long；”　she　warned。　“This　flight’s　only　a　hop。　We’ll　be　starting　to　descend　any　minute。”

　　IT　CERTAINLY　WAS　Ahop。　I　checked　afterward。　Only　two　hundred　and　sixty　miles　separate　New　York　City　and　Martha’s　Vineyard；　and　the　cruising　speed　of　a　Gulfstream　G450　is　five　hundred　and　twenty…eight　miles　per　hour。　The　conjunction　of　these　two　facts　explains　why　the　tape　of　my　conversation　with　Lang　lasts　a　mere　eleven　minutes。　We　were　probably　already　losing　altitude　even　as　I　approached　him。

　　His　eyes　were　closed；　his　glass　still　held　in　his　outstretched　hand。　He　had　removed　his　jacket　and　tie　and　eased　off　his　shoes；　and　was　sprawled　back　in　his　seat　like　a　starfish；　as　if　someone　had　pushed　him　into　it。　At　first　I　thought　he’d　fallen　asleep；　but　then　I　realized　his　eyes　were　narrowed　to　slits　and　he　was　watching　me　closely。　He　gestured　vaguely　with　his　drink　toward　the　seat　opposite　him。

　　“Hi；　man；”　he　said。　“Join　me。”　He　opened　his　eyes　fully；　yawned；　and　put　the　back　of　his　hand　to　his　mouth。　“Sorry。”

　　“Hello；　Adam。”

　　I　sat　down。　I　had　my　bag　in　my　lap。　I　fumbled　to　pull　out　my　notebook；　the　minirecorder；　and　a　spare　disk。　Wasn’t　this　what　Rycart　wanted？　Tapes？　Nervousness　made　me　clumsy；　and　if　Lang　had　so　much　as　raised　an　eyebrow；　I　would　have　put　the　recorder　away　again。　But　he　didn’t　appear　to　notice。　He　must　have　gone　through　this　ritual　so　many　times　at　the　end　of　some　official　visit　the　journalist　conducted　into　his　presence　for　a　few　minutes’　exclusive　access；　the　tape　machine　nervously　examined　to　make　sure　it　works；　the　illusion　of　informality　over　the　relaxing　prime　ministerial　drink。　In　the　recording　you　can　hear　the　exhaustion　in　his　voice。

　　“So；”　he　said；　“how’s　it　going？”

　　“It’s　going；”　I　said。　“It’s　certainly　going。”

　　When　I　listen　to　the　disk；　my　register’s　so　high　from　the　anxiety；　it　sounds　as　I’ve　been　sucking　helium。

　　“Found　out　anything　interesting？”

　　There　was　a　gleam　of　something　in　his　eyes。　Contempt？　Amusement？　I　sensed　he　was　playing　with　me。

　　“This　and　that。　How　was　Washington？”

　　“Washington　was　great；　actually。”　There’s　a　rustling　noise　as　he　straightens　slightly　in　his　chair；　drawing　himself　up　to　give　one　last　performance　before　the　theater　closes　for　the　night。　“I　got　the　most　terrific　support　everywhere—on　the　Hill；　of　course；　as　you　probably　saw；　but　also　the　vice　president　and　the　secretary　of　state。　They’re　going　to　help　me　in　every　way　they　can。”

　　“And　is　the　bottom　line　that　you’ll　be　able　to　settle　in　America？”

　　“Oh；　yes。　If　worst　comes　to　worst；　they’ll　offer　me　asylum；　certainly。　Maybe　even　a　job　of　some　kind；　as　long　as　it　doesn’t　involve　overseas　travel。　But　it　won’t　get　that　far。　They’re　going　to　supply　something　much　more　valuable。”

　　“Really？”

　　Lang　nodded。　“Evidence。”

　　“Right。”　I　hadn’t　a　clue　what　he　was　talking　about。

　　“Is　that　thing　working？”　he　asked。

　　There　is　a　deafening　clunk　as　I　pick　up　the　recorder。

　　“Yes；　I　think　so。　Is　that　okay？”

　　With　a　thump；　I　replace　it。

　　“Sure；”　said　Lang。　“I　just　want　to　make　sure　you　get　this　down；　because　I　definitely　think　we　can　use　this。　This　is　important。　We　should　keep　it　as　an　exclusive　for　the　memoirs。　It　will　do　wonders　for　the　serialization　deal。”　He　leaned　forward　to　emphasize　his　words。　“Washington　is　prepared　to　provide　sworn　testimony　that　no　United　Kingdom　personnel　were