The Ghost(英文版)-第43部分

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　　obvious。　“Oh；　come　on；　man！”　he　said　urgently。　Again；　the　fingers　clenched　on　my　flesh。　“There　are　four　policemen　traveling　on　this　plane　with　us　right　now！　What　kind　of　people　do　you　think　we　are？”

　　“Well；　that’s　just　it；”　I　said。　“What　kind　of　peopleare　you？”

　　We　were　coming　in　low　over　the　treetops。　The　lights　of　the　Gulfstream　gleamed　across　dark　waves　of　foliage。

　　I　tried　to　pull　my　arm　away。　“Excuse　me；”　I　said。

　　Lang　reluctantly　let　go　of　me　and　I　fastened　my　seat　belt。　He　did　the　same。　He　glanced　out　of　the　window　at　the　terminal；　then　back　at　me；　appalled；　as　we　dipped　gracefully　onto　the　runway。

　　“My　God；　you’ve　already　told　someone；　haven’t　you？”

　　I　could　feel　myself　turning　scarlet。　“No；”　I　said。

　　“You　have。”

　　“I　haven’t。”　On　the　tape　I　sound　as　feeble　as　a　child　caught　red…handed。

　　He　leaned　forward　again。　“Who　have　you　told？”

　　Looking　out　at　the　dark　forest　beyond　the　perimeter　of　the　airport；　where　anything　could　be　lurking；　it　seemed　like　the　only　insurance　policy　I　had。

　　“Richard　Rycart；”　I　said。

　　That　must　have　been　a　devastating　blow　to　him。　He　must　have　known　then　that　it　was　the　end　of　everything。　In　my　mind’s　eye　I　see　him　still；　like　one　those　once　grand　but　now　condemned　apartment　blocks；　moments　after　the　demolition　charges　have　been　exploded：　for　a　few　seconds；　the　fa。ade　remains　bizarrely　intact；　before　slowly　beginning　to　slide。　That　was　Lang。　He　gave　me　a　long　blank　look　and　then　subsided　back　into　his　seat。

　　The　plane　came　to　a　halt　in　front　of　the　terminal　building。　The　engines　died。

　　AT　THIS　POINT；　ATlong　last；　I　did　something　smart。

　　As　Lang　sat　contemplating　his　ruin；　and　as　Amelia　came　hurrying　down　the　aisle　to　discover　what　I’d　said；　I　had　the　presence　of　mind　to　eject　the　disk　from　the　minirecorder　and　slip　it　into　my　pocket。　In　its　place　I　inserted　the　blank。　Lang　was　too　stunned　to　care　and　Amelia　too　fixated　on　him　to　notice。

　　“All　right；”　she　said　firmly；　“that’s　enough　for　tonight。”　She　lifted　the　empty　glass　from　his　unresisting　hand　and　gave　it　to　the　steward。　“We　need　to　get　you　home；　Adam。　Ruth’s　waiting　at　the　gate。”　She　reached　over　and　unfastened　his　seat　belt　and　then　removed　his　suit　jacket　from　the　back　of　his　seat。　She　held　it　out　ready　for　him　to　slip　into；　and　shook　it　slightly；　like　a　matador　with　a　cloak；　but　her　voice　was　very　tender。　“Adam？”

　　He　rose；　trancelike；　to　obey；　gazing　vacantly　toward　the　cockpit　as　she　guided　his　arms　into　the　sleeves。　She　glared　at　me　over　his　shoulder；　and　mouthed；　furiously　and　very　distinctly；　and　with　her　customarily　precise　diction；　“What　the　fuck　are　you　doing？”

　　It　was　a　good　question。　What　the　fuckwas　I　doing？　At　the　front　of　the　plane；　the　door　had　opened　and　three　of　the　Special　Branch　men　were　disembarking。　A　blast　of　cold　air　ran　down　the　cabin。　Lang　began　to　walk　toward　the　exit；　preceded　by　his　fourth　bodyguard；　Amelia　at　his　back。　I　quickly　stuffed　my　recorder　and　the　photographs　into　my　shoulder　bag　and　followed　them。　The　pilot　had　come　out　of　the　cockpit　to　say　good…bye　and　I　saw　Lang　square　his　shoulders　and　advance　to　meet　him；　his　hand　outstretched。

　　“That　was　great；”　said　Lang　vaguely；　“as　usual。　My　favorite　airline。”　He　shook　the　pilot’s　hand；　then　leaned　past　him　to　greet　the　copilot　and　the　waiting　steward。　“Thanks。　Thanks　so　much。”　He　turned　to　us；　still　smiling　his　professional　smile；　but　it　faded　fast；　he　looked　stricken。　The　last　bodyguard　was　already　halfway　down　the　steps。　There　was　just　Amelia；　me；　and　the　two　secretaries　waiting　to　follow　him　off　the　plane。　Standing　in　the　lighted　glass　window　of　the　terminal　I　could　just　make　out　the　figure　of　Ruth。　She　was　too　far　away　for　me　to　judge　her　expression。　“Would　you　mind　just　hanging　back　a　minute？”　he　said　to　Amelia。　“And　you；　too？”　he　added　to　me。　“I　need　to　have　a　private　word　with　my　wife。”

　　“Is　everything　all　right；　Adam？”　asked　Amelia。　She　had　been　with　him　too　long；　and　I　suppose　she　loved　him　too　much；　not　to　know　that　something　was　terribly　wrong。

　　“It’ll　be　fine；”　said　Lang。　He　touched　her　elbow　lightly；　then　gave　us　all；　including　me　and　the　plane　crew；　a　slight　bow。　“Thank　you；　ladies　and　gentlemen；　and　good　night。”

　　He　ducked　through　the　door　and　paused　at　the　top　of　the　steps；　glancing　around；　smoothing　down　his　hair。　Amelia　and　I　watched　him　from　the　interior　of　the　plane。　He　was　just　as　he　was　when　I　first　saw　him—still；　out　of　habit；　searching　for　an　audience　with　whom　he　could　connect；　even　though　the　windy；　floodlit　concourse　was　deserted；　apart　from　the　waiting　bodyguards；　and　a　ground　technician　in　overalls；　working　late；　no　doubt　eager　to　get　home。

　　Lang　must　also　have　seen　Ruth　waiting　at　the　window；　because　he　suddenly　raised　his　hand　in　acknowledgment；　then　set　off　down　the　steps；　gracefully；　like　a　dancer。　He　reached　the　tarmac　and　had　gone　about　ten　yards　toward　the　terminal　when　the　technician　shouted　out；　“Adam！”　and　waved。　The　voice　was　English；　and　Lang　must　have　recognized　the　accent　of　a　fellow　countryman　because　he　suddenly　broke　away　from　his　bodyguards　and　strode　toward　the　man；　his　hand　held　out。　And　that　is　my　final　image　of　Lang：　a　man　always　with　his　hand　held　out。　It　is　burned　into　my　retinas—his　yearning　shadow　against　the　expanding　ball　of　bright　white　fire　that　suddenly　engulfed　him；　and　then　there　was　only　the　flying　debris；　the　stinging　grit；　the　glass；　the　furnace　heat；　and　the　underwater　silence　of　the　explosion。

　　SIXTEEN

　　If　you　are　going　to　be　the　least　bit　upset　not　to　see　your　name　credited　or　not　to　be　invited　to　the　launch　party　then　you　are　going　to　have　a　miserable　time　ghosting　altogether。

　　Ghostwritin　g

　　I　SAW　NOTHING　MOREafter　that　initial　flash　of　brilliant　light；　there　was　too　much　glass　and　blood　in　my　eyes。　The　force　of　the　blast　flung　us　all　backward。　Amelia；　I　learned　later；　hit　her　head　on　the　side　of　a　seat　and　was　knocked　unconscious；　while　I　lay　across　the　aisle　in　darkness　and　silence　for　what　could　have　been　minutes　or　hours。　I　felt　no　pain；　except　when　one　of　the　terrified　secretaries　trod　on　my　hand　with　her　high　heel　in　her　desperation　to　get　out　of　the　plane。　But　I　couldn’t　see；　and　it　was　also　to　be　several　hours　before　I　could　hear　properly。　Even　today　I　get　an　occasional　buzzing　in　my　ears。　It　cuts　me　off　from　the　world；　like　radio　interference。　Eventually；　I　was　lifted　away　and　given　a　wonderful　shot　of　morphine　that　burst　like　warm　fireworks　in　my　brain。　Then　I　was　airlifted　by　helicopter　with　all　the　other　survivors　to　a　hospital　near　Boston—an　institution　very　close；　it　turned　out；　to　the　place　where　Emmett　lived。

　　Did　you　ever　do　something　secretly　as　a　child　that　seemed　really　bad　at　the　time；　and　for　which　you　were　sure　you　were　going　to　be　punished？　I　remember　breaking　a　precious　old　long…playing　gramophone　record　of　my　father’s　and　putting　it　away　in　its　sleeve　again　and　saying　nothing　about　it。　For　days；　I　lived　in　a　sweat　of　terror；　convinced　that　retribution　would　arrive　at　any　moment。　But　nothing　was　ever　said。　The　next　time　I　dared　to　look；　the　record　had　disappeared。　He　must　have　found　it　and　thrown　it　away。

　　I　had　similar　feelings　following　the　assassination　of　Adam　Lang。　Throughout　the　next　day　or　two；　as　I　lay　in　my　hospital　room；　my　face　bandaged；　and　with　a　policeman　on　guard　in　the　corridor　outside；　I　repeatedly　ran　over　in　my　mind　the　events　of　the　previous　week；　and　it　always　seemed　to　me　a　certainty　that　I　would　never　leave　that　place　alive。　If　you　stop　to　think　of　it；　there’s　nowhere　easier　to　dispose　of　someone　than　in　a　hospital；　I　should　imagine　it’s　almost　routine。　And　who　makes　a　better　killer　than　a　doctor？

　　But　it　turned　out　to　be　like　the　incident　of　my　father’s　broken　record。　Nothing　happened。　While　I　was　still　blinded；　I　was　gently　questioned　by　a　Special　Agent　Murphy　from　the　Boston　office　of　the　FBI　about　what　I　could　remember。　The　next　afternoon；　when　the　bandages　were　removed　from　my　eyes；　Murphy　returned。　He　looked　like　a　muscular　young　priest　in　a　fifties　movie；　and　this　time　he　was　accompanied　by　a　saturnine　Englishman　from　the　British　Security　Service；　MI5；　whose　name　I　never　quite　caught—because；　I　assume；　I　eant　to　catch　it。

　　They　showed　me　a　photograph。　My　vision　was　still　bleary；　but　I　was　nevertheless　able　to　identify　the　crazy　man　I　had　met　in　the　bar　of　my　hotel　and　who　had　staged　that　lonely　vigil；　with　the　biblical　slogan；　at　the　end　of　the　track　from　the　Rhinehart　compound。　His　name；　they　said；　was　George　Arthur　Boxer；　a　former　major　in　the　British　army；　whose　son　had　been　killed　in　Iraq　and　whose　wife　had　died　six　months　later　in　a　London　suicide　bombing。　In　his　unhinged　state；　Major　Boxer　had　held　Adam　Lang　personally　responsible；　and　had　stalked　him　to　Martha’s　Vineyard　just　after　McAra’s　death　had　been　reported　in　the　papers。　He　had　plenty　of　expertise　in　munitions　and　intelligence。　He　had　studied　tactics　for　suicide　bombing　on　jihadist　websites。　He　had　rented　a　cottage　in　Oak　Bluffs；　brought　in　supplies　of　peroxide　and　weed　killer；　and　turned　it　into　a　minor　factory　for　the　production　of　homemade　explosives。　And　it　would　have　been　easy　for　him　to　know　when　Lang　was　returning　from　New　York；　because　he　would　have　seen　the　bombproof　car　heading　to　the　airport　to　meet　him。　How　he　had　got　onto　the　airfield　nobody　was　quite　sure；　but　it　was　dark；　there　was　a　four…mile　perimeter　fence；　and　the　experts　had　always　assumed　that　four　Special　Branch　men　and　an　armored　car　were　sufficient　protection。

　　But　one　had　to　be　realistic；　said　the　man　from　MI5。　There　was　a　limit　to　what　security　could　do；　especially　against　a　determined　suicide　bomber。　He　quoted　Seneca；　in　the　original　Latin；　and　then　helpfully　translated：　“Who　scorns　his　own　life　is　lord　of　yours。”　I　got　the　impression　everyone　was　slightly　relieved　by　the　way　things　had　worked　out：　the　British；　because　Lang　had　been　killed　on　American　soil；　the　Americans；　because　he’d　been　blown　up　by　a　Brit；　and　both　because　there　would　now　be　no　war　crimes　trial；　no　unseemly　revelations；　and　no　guest　who　has　overstayed　his　welcome；　drifting　around　the　dinner　tables　of　Georgetown　for　the　next　twenty　years。　You　could　almost　say　it　was　the　special　relationship　in　action。

　　Agent　Murphy　asked　me　about　the　flight　from　New　York　and　whether　Lang　had　expressed　any　worries　about　his　personal　security。　I　said　truthfully　that　he　hadn’t。

　　“Mrs。　Bly；”　said　the　MI5　man；　“tells　us　you　recorded　an　interview　with　him　during　the　final　part　of　the　flight。”

　　“No；　she’s　wrong　about　that；”　I　said。　“I　had　the　machine　in　front　of　me；　but　I　never　actually　switched　it　on。　It　wasn’t　really　an　interview；　in　any　case。　It　was　more　of　a　chat。”

　　“Do　you　mind　if　I　take　a　look？”

　　“Go　ahead。”

　　My　shoulder　bag　was　on　the　nightstand　next　to　my　bed。　The　MI5　man　took　out　the　minirecorder　and　ejected　the　disk。　I　watched　him；　dry…mouthed。

　　“Can　I　borrow　this？”

　　“You　can　keep　it；”　I　said。　He　started　poking　through　the　rest　of　my　belongings。　“How　is　Amelia；　by　the　way？”

　　“She’s　fine。”　He　put　the　disk　into　his　bri