The Ghost(英文版)-第51章
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“How did they know that？”
“Who’s to say？ All I can tell you is that immediately after Mike died； they requested we take
special care to ensure the book wasn’t circulated until they’d had a chance to clear it。”
“And did they？”
“I’ve no idea。”
I thought again of my meeting with Rycart。 What was it he claimed McAra had said to him on the
telephone； just before he died？“The key to everything is in Lang’s autobiography—it’s all there at the beginning。”
Did that mean their conversation had been bugged？
I sensed that something important had just changed—that some part of my solar system had tilted in its orbit—but I couldn’t quite grasp what it was。 I needed to get ae and think things through。 But already I was aware that the acoustics of the party had changed。 The roar of talk was dwindling。 People were shushing one another。 A man bellowed pompously； “Be quiet！” and I turned around。 At the side of the room； opposite the big windows； not very far from where we were standing； Ruth Lang was waiting patiently on a platform； holding a microphone。
“Thank you；” she said。 “Thank you very much。 And good evening。” She paused； and a great stillness spread across three hundred people。 She took a breath。 There was a catch in her throat。 “I miss Adam all the time。 But never more than tonight。 Not just because we’re meeting to launch his wonderful book； and he should be here to share the joy of his life story with us； but because he was so brilliant at making speeches； and I’m so terrible。”
I was surprised at how professionally she delivered the last line； how she built the emotional tension and then punctured it。 There was a release of laughter。 She seemed much more confident in public than I remembered her； as if Lang’s absence had given her room to grow。
“Therefore；” she continued； “you’ll be relieved to hear I’m not going to make a speech。 I’d just like to thank a few people。 I’d like to thank Marty Rhinehart and John Maddox for not only being marvelous publishers； but also being great friends。 I’d like to thank Sidney Kroll for his wit and his wise counsel。 And in case this sounds as though the only people involved in the memoirs of a British prime minister are Americans； I’d also like to thank in particular； and especially； Mike McAra； who tragically also can’t be with us。 Mike； you are in our thoughts。”
The great hall rang with a rumble of “hear hear。”
“And now；” said Ruth； “may I propose a toast to the one we really need to thank？” She raised her glass of macrobiotic orange juice； or whatever it was。 “To the memory of a great man and a great patriot； a great father and a wonderful husband—to Adam Lang！”
“To Adam Lang！” we all boomed in unison； and then we clapped； and went on clapping； redoubling the volume； while Ruth nodded graciously to all corners of the hall； including ours； at which point she saw me and blinked； then recovered； smiled； and hoisted her glass to me in salute。
She left the platform quickly。
“The merry widow；” hissed Amelia。 “Death becomes her； don’t you think？ She’s blossoming by the day。”
“I have a feeling she’s coming over；” I said。
“Shit；” said Amelia； draining her glass； “in that case I’m getting out of here。 Would you like me to take you to dinner？”
“Amelia Bly； are you asking me on adate ？”
“I’ll meet you outside in ten minutes。 Freddy！” she called。 “Nice to see you。”
Even as she moved away to talk to someone else； the crowd before me seemed to part； and Ruth emerged； looking very different from the last time I had seen her： glossy haired； smooth skinned； slimmed by grief； and designer clad in something black and silky。 Sid Kroll was just behind her。
“Hello； you；” she said。
She took my hands in hers and mwah…mwahed me； not kissing me but brushing her thick helmet of hair briefly against each of my cheeks。
“Hello； Ruth。 Hello； Sid。”
I nodded to him。 He winked。
“I was told you couldn’t stand these kinds of parties；” she said； still holding my hands and fixing
me with her glittering dark eyes； “or else I would have invited you。 Did you get my note？”
“I did。 Thanks。”
“But you didn’t call me！”
“I didn’t know if you were just being polite。”
“Being polite！” She briefly shook my hands in reproach。 “Since when was I ever polite？ You must
come and see me。”
And then she did that thing that important people always do to me at parties： she glanced over my shoulder。 And I saw； almost immediately and quite unmistakably in her gaze； a flash of alarm； which was followed at once by a barely perceptible shake of her head。 I detached my hands and turned around and
saw Paul Emmett。 He was no more than five feet away。
“Hello；” he said。 “I believe we’ve met。”
I swung back to Ruth。 I tried to speak； but no words would come。
“Ah；” I said。 “Ah—”
“Paul was my tutor；” she said calmly； “when I was a Fulbright scholar at Harvard。 You and I must
talk。”
“Ah—”
I backed away from them all。 I knocked into a man who shielded his drink and told me cheerfully to watch out。 Ruth was saying something earnestly； and so was Kroll； but there was a buzzing in my ears and I couldn’t hear them。 I saw Amelia staring at me and I waved my hands feebly； and then I fled from the hall； across the lobby and out into the hollow； imperial grandeur of Whitehall。
IT WAS OBVIOUS THEmoment I got outside that another bomb had gone off。 I could hear the sirens in the distance； and a pillar of smoke was already dwarfing Nelson’s Column； rising from somewhere behind the National Gallery。 I set off at a loping run toward Trafalgar Square and barged in front of an outraged couple to seize their taxi。 Avenues of escape were being closed off all over central London； as if by a spreading forest fire。 We turned into a one…way street； only to find the police sealing the far end with yellow tape。 The driver flung the cab into reverse； jerking me forward and onto the edge of my seat； and that was how I stayed throughout the rest of the journey； clinging to the handle beside the door； as we twisted and dodged through the back routes north。 When we reached my flat I paid him double the fare。
“The key to everything is in Lang’s autobiography—it’s all there at the beginning。”
I grabbed my copy of the finished book； took it over to my desk； and started flicking through the opening chapters。 I ran my finger swiftly down the center of the pages； sweeping my eyes over all the made…up feelings and half…true memories。 My professional prose； typeset and bound； had rendered the roughness of a human life as smooth as a plastered wall。
Nothing。
I threw it away in disgust。 What a worthless piece of junk it was； what a soulless commercial exercise。 I was glad Lang wasn’t around to read it。 I actually preferred the original； for the first time I recognized something honest at least in its plodding earnestness。 I opened a drawer and grabbed McAra’s original manuscript； tattered from use and in places barely legible beneath my crossings…out and overwritings。“Chapter One。 Langs are Scottish folk originally； and proud of it…” I remembered the deathless beginning I had cut so ruthlessly in Martha’s Vineyard。 But then； come to think of it； every single one of McAra’s chapter beginnings had been particularly dreadful。 I hadn’t left one unaltered。 I searched through the loose pages； the bulky manuscript fanning open and twisting in my clumsy hands like a living thing。
“Chapter Two。 Wife and child in tow； I decided to settle in a small town where we could live away from the hurly…burly of London life…Chapter Three。 Ruth saw the possibility that I might become party leader long before I did…Chapter Four。 Studying the failures of my predecessors； I resolved to be different…Chapter Five。 In retrospect； our general election victory seems inevitable； but at the time…Chapter Six。 Seventy…six separate agencies oversaw social security…Chapter Seven。 Was ever a land so haunted by history as Northern Ireland…Chapter Eight。 Recruited from all walks of life； I was proud of our candidates in the European elections…Chapter Nine。 As a rule； nations pursue self…interest in their foreign policy…Chapter Ten。 A major problem facing the new government…Chapter Eleven。 CIA assessments of the terrorist threat…Chapter Twelve。 Agent reports from Afghanistan…Chapter Thirteen。 In deciding to launch an attack on civilian areas； I knew…Chapter Fourteen。 America needs allies who are prepared…Chapter Fifteen。 By the time of the annual party conference； demands for my resignation…Chapter Sixteen。 Professor Paul Emmett of Harvard University has written of the importance…”
I took all sixteen chapter openings and laid them out across the desk in sequence。
“The key to everything is in Lang’s autobiography—it’s all there at the beginning。”
Thebeginning or thebeginnings ？
I was never any good at puzzles。 But when I went through the pages and circled the first word of each chapter； even I couldn’t help but see it—the sentence that McAra； fearful for his safety； had embedded in the manuscript； like a message from the grave： “Langs Wife Ruth Studying In Seventy…six Was Recruited As A CIA Agent In America By Professor Paul Emmett of Harvard University。”
SEVENTEEN
A ghost must expect no glory。
Ghostwritin g
I LEFT MY FLATthat night； never to return。 Since then a month has passed。 As far as know； I haven’t been missed。 There were times； especially in the first week； sitting alone in my scruffy hotel room—I’ve stayed in four by now—when I was sure I had gone mad。 I ought to ring Rick； I told myself； and get the name of his shrink。 I was suffering from delusions。 But then； about three weeks ago； after a hard day’s writing； just as I was falling asleep； I heard on the midnight news that the former foreign secretary Richard Rycart had been killed in a car accident in New York City； along with his driver。 It was the fourth headline； I�
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