The Ghost(英文版)-第6部分

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ed　and　X…rayed；　carrying　their　shoes　in　one　hand　and　their　pathetic　toiletries　in　a　clear　plastic　bag　in　the　other。　Travel　is　sold　as　freedom；　but　we　were　about　as　free　as　lab　rats。　This　is　how　they’ll　manage　the　next　holocaust；　I　thought；　as　I　shuffled　forward　in　my　stockinged　feet：　they’ll　simply　issue　us　with　air　tickets　and　we’ll　do　whatever　we’re　told。

　　Once　I　was　through　security；　I　headed　across　the　fragrant　halls　of　duty…free　toward　the　American　Airlines　lounge；　intent　only　on　a　courtesy　cup　of　coffee　and　the　Sunday　morning　sports　pages。　A　satellite　news　channel　was　burbling　away　in　the　corner。　No　one　was　watching。　I　fixed　myself　a　double　espresso　and　was　just　turning　to　the　football　reports　in　one　of　the　tabloids　when　I　heard　the　words　“Adam　Lang。”　Three　days　earlier；　like　everyone　else　in　the　lounge；　I　would　have　taken　no　notice；　but　now　it　was　if　my　own　name　was　being　called　out。　I　went　and　stood　in　front　of　the　screen　and　tried　to　make　sense　of　the　story。

　　To　begin　with；　it　didn’t　seem　that　important。　It　sounded　like　old　news。　Four　British　citizens　had　been　picked　up　in　Pakistan　a　few　years　back—“kidnapped　by　the　CIA；”　according　to　their　lawyer—taken　to　a　secret　military　installation　in　eastern　Europe；　and　tortured。　One　had　died　under　interrogation；　the　other　three　had　been　imprisoned　in　Guantánamo。　The　new　twist；　apparently；　was　that　a　Sunday　paper　had　obtained　a　leaked　Ministry　of　Defence　document　that　seemed　to　suggest　that　Lang　had　ordered　a　Special　Air　Services　unit　to　seize　the　men　and　hand　them　over　to　the　CIA。　Various　expressions　of　outrage　followed；　from　a　human　rights　lawyer　and　a　spokesman　for　the　Pakistani　government。　File　footage　showed　Lang　wearing　a　garland　of　flowers　round　his　neck　on　a　visit　to　Pakistan　while　he　was　prime　minister。　A　spokeswoman　for　Lang　was　quoted　as　saying　the　former　prime　minister　knew　nothing　of　the　reports　and　was　refusing　to　comment。　The　British　government　had　consistently　rejected　demands　to　hold　an　inquiry。　The　program　moved　on　to　the　weather；　and　that　was　it。

　　I　glanced　around　the　lounge。　Nobody　else　had　stirred。　Yet　for　some　reason　I　felt　as　if　someone　had　just　run　an　ice　pack　down　my　spine。　I　pulled　out　my　cell　phone　and　called　Rick。　I　couldn’t　remember　whether　he　had　gone　back　to　America　or　not。　It　turned　out　he　was　sitting　about　a　mile　away；　in　the　British　Airways　lounge；　waiting　to　board　his　flight　to　New　York。

　　“Did　you　just　see　the　news？”　I　asked　him。

　　Unlike　me；　I　knew　Rick　was　a　news　addict。

　　“The　Lang　story？　Sure。”

　　“D’you　think　there’s　anything　in　it？”

　　“How　the　hell　do　I　know？　Who　cares　if　there　is？　At　least　it’s　keeping　his　name　on　the　front　pages。”

　　“D’you　think　I　should　ask　him　about　it？”

　　“Who　gives　a　shit？”　Down　the　line　I　heard　a　loudspeaker　announcement　howling　in　the　background。　“They’re　calling　my　flight。　I　got　to　go。”

　　“Just　before　you　do；”　I　said　quickly；　“can　I　run　something　past　you？　When　I　was　mugged　on　Friday；　somehow　it　didn’t　make　much　sense；　the　way　they　left　my　wallet　and　only　ran　off　with　a　manuscript。　But　looking　at　this　news—well；　I　was　just　wondering—you　don’t　think　they　thought　I　was　carrying　Lang’s　memoirs？”

　　“But　how’d　they　know　that？”　said　Rick　in　a　puzzled　voice。　“You’d　only　just　met　Maddox　and　Kroll。　I　was　still　negotiating　the　deal。”

　　“Well；　maybe　someone　was　watching　the　publishers’　offices　and　then　followed　me　when　I　left。　It　was　a　bright　yellow　plastic　bag；　Rick。　I　might　as　well　have　been　carrying　a　flare。”　And　then　another　thought　came　to　me；　so　alarming　I　didn’t　know　where　to　begin。　“While　you’re　on；　what　do　you　know　about　Sidney　Kroll？”

　　“Young　Sid？”　Rick　gave　a　chuckle　of　admiration。　“My；　but　he’s　a　piece　of　work；　isn’t　he？　He’s　going　to　put　honest　crooks　like　me　out　of　business。　He　cuts　his　deals　for　a　flat　fee　rather　than　commission；　and　you　won’t　find　an　ex…president　or　a　cabinet　member　who　doesn’t　want　him　on　their　team。　Why？”

　　“It’s　not　possible；　is　it；”　I　said　hesitantly；　voicing　the　thought　more　or　less　as　it　developed；　“that　he　gave　me　that　manuscript　because　he　thought—if　anyone　was　watching—he　thought　it　would　look　as　though　I　was　leaving　the　building　carrying　Adam　Lang’s　book？”

　　“Why　the　hell　would　he　do　that？”

　　“I　don’t　know。　For　the　fun　of　it？　To　see　what　would　happen？”

　　“To　see　if　you’d　get　mugged？”

　　“Okay；　all　right；　it　sounds　mad；　but　just　think　it　through　for　a　minute。　Why　are　the　publishers　so　paranoid　about　this　manuscript？　Even　Quigley　hasn’t　been　allowed　to　see　it。　Why　won’t　they　let　it　out　of　America？　Maybe　it’s　because　they　think　someone　over　here　is　desperate　to　get　hold　of　it。”

　　“So？”

　　“So　perhaps　Kroll　was　using　me　as　bait—sort　of　a　tethered　goat—to　test　who　was　after　it；　find　out　how　far　they’d　be　willing　to　go。”

　　Even　as　the　words　were　leaving　my　mouth　I　knew　I　was　sounding　ridiculous。

　　“But　Lang’s　book　is　a　boring　crock　of　shit！”　said　Rick。　“The　only　people　they　want　to　keep　it　away　from　at　this　point　are　their　shareholders！That’s　why　it’s　under　wraps。”

　　I　was　starting　to　feel　a　fool。　I　would　have　let　the　subject　go；　but　Rick　was　enjoying　himself　too　much。

　　“‘A　tethered　goat’！”　I　could　have　heard　his　shout　of　laughter　from　the　other　terminal　even　without　the　phone。　“Let　me　get　this　straight。　According　to　your　theory；　someone　must　have　known　Kroll　was　in　town；　known　where　he　was　Friday　morning；　known　what　he’d　come　to　discuss—”

　　“All　right；”　I　said。　“Let’s　leave　it。”

　　“—knownhe　might　just　give　Lang’s　manuscript　to　a　new　ghost；　known　who　you　were　when　you　came　out　of　the　meeting；　known　where　you　lived。　Because　you　said　they　were　waiting　for　you；　didn’t　you？　Wow。　This　must’ve　been　some　operation。　Too　big　for　a　newspaper。　This　must’ve　been　a　government　—”

　　“Forget　it；”　I　said；　finally　managing　to　cut　him　off。　“You’d　better　catch　your　flight。”

　　“Yeah；　you’re　right。　Well；　you　have　a　safe　trip。　Get　some　sleep　on　the　plane。　You’re　sounding　weird。　Let’s　talk　next　week。　And　don’t　worry　about　it。”　He　rang　off。

　　I　stood　there　holding　my　silent　phone。　It　was　true。　I　was　sounding　weird。　I　went　into　the　men’s　room。　The　bruise　where　I’d　been　punched　on　Friday　had　ripened；　turned　black　and　purple；　and　was　fringed　with　yellow；　like　some　exploding　supernova　beamed　back　by　the　Hubble　Telescope。

　　A　short　time　later　they　announced　that　the　Boston　flight　was　boarding；　and　once　we　were　in　the　air　my　nerves　steadied。　I　love　that　moment　when　a　drab　gray　landscape　flickers　out　of　sight　beneath　you；　and　the　plane　tunnels　up　through　the　cloud　to　burst　into　the　sunshine。　Who　can　be　depressed　at　ten　thousand　feet　when　the　sun　is　shining　and　the　other　poor　saps　are　still　stuck　on　the　ground？　I　had　a　drink。　I　watched　a　movie。　I　dozed　for　a　while。　But　I　must　admit　I　also　scoured　that　business…class　cabin　for　every　Sunday　newspaper　I　could　find；　ignored　the　sports　pages　for　once；　and　read　all　that　had　been　written　about　Adam　Lang　and　those　four　suspected　terrorists。

　　WE　MADE　OUR　FINALapproach　to　Logan　Airport　at　one　in　the　afternoon；　local　time。

　　As　we　came　in　low　over　Boston　Harbor；　the　sun　we　had　been　chasing　all　day　seemed　to　travel　over　the　water　alongside　us；　striking　the　downtown　skyscrapers　one　after　the　other：　erupting　columns　of　white　and　blue；　gold　and　silver；　a　fireworks　display　in　glass　and　steel。　O　my　America；　I　thought；　my　new…found…land—my　land　where　the　book　market　is　five　times　the　size　of　the　United　Kingdom’s—shine　thy　light　on　me！　As　I　queued　for　immigration　I　was　practically　humming　“The　Star…Spangled　Banner。”　Even　the　guy　from　the　Department　of　Homeland　Security—embodying　the　rule　that　the　folksier　an　institution’s　name；　the　more　Stalinist　its　function—couldn’t　dent　my　optimism。　He　sat　frowning　behind　his　glass　screen　at　the　very　notion　of　anyone　flying　three　thousand　miles　to　spend　a　month　on　Martha’s　Vineyard　in　midwinter。　When　he　discovered　I　was　a　writer　he　couldn’t　have　treated　me　with　greater　suspicion　if　I　had　been　wearing　an　orange　jumpsuit。

　　“What　kind　of　books　you　write？”

　　“Autobiographies。”

　　This　obviously　baffled　him。　He　suspected　mockery　but　wasn’t　quite　sure。　“Autobiographies；　huh？　Don’t　you　have　to　be　famous　to　do　that？”

　　“Not　anymore。”

　　He　stared　hard　at　me；　then　slowly　shook　his　head；　like　a　weary　St。　Peter　at　the　pearly　gates；　confronted　by　yet　another　sinner　trying　to　wheedle　his　way　into　paradise。　“Not　anymore；”　he　repeated；　with　an　expression　of　infinite　distaste。　He　picked　up　his　metal　stamp　and　punched　it　twice。　He　let　me　in　for　thirty　days。

　　When　I　was　through　immigration；　I　turned　on　my　phone。　It　showed　a　welcoming　message　from　Lang’s　personal　assistant；　someone　named　Amelia　Bly；　apologizing　for　not　providing　a　driver　to　collect　me　from　the　airport。　Instead　she　suggested　I　take　a　bus　to　the　ferry　terminal　at　Woods　Hole　and　promised　a　car　would　meet　me　when　I　landed　at　Martha’s　Vineyard。　I　bought　theNew　York　Times　and　theBoston　Globe　and　checked　them　while　I　waited　for　the　bus　to　leave　to　see　if　they　had　the　Lang　story；　but　either　it　had　broken　too　late　for　them　or　they　weren’t　interested。

　　The　bus　was　almost　empty；　and　I　sat　up　front　near　the　driver　as　we　pushed　south　through　the　tangle　of　freeways；　out　of　the　city；　and　into　open　country。　It　was　a　few　degrees　below　freezing　and　the　sky　was　clear；　but　there　had　been　snow　not　long　before。　It　was　piled　in　banks　next　to　the　road　and　clung　to　the　higher　branches　in　the　forests　that　stretched　away　on　either　side　in　great　rolling　waves　of　white　and　green。　New　England　is　basically　Old　England　on　steroids—wider　roads；　bigger　woods；　larger　spaces；　even　the　sky　seemed　huge　and　glossy。　I　had　a　pleasing　sense　of　gaining　time；　imagining　a　gloomy；　wet　Sunday　night　in　London；　in　contrast　to　this　sparkling　afternoon　winterland。　But　gradually　it　began　to　darken　here　as　well。　I　guess　it　must　have　been　almost　six　when　we　reached　Woods　Hole　and　pulled　up　at　the　ferry　terminal；　and　by　then　there　were　a　moon　and　stars。

　　Oddly　enough；　it　wasn’t　until　I　saw　the　sign　for　the　ferry　that　I　remembered　to　spare　a　thought　for　McAra。　Not　surprisingly；　the　dead…man’s…shoes　aspect　of　the　assignment　wasn’t　one　I　cared　to　dwell　on；　especially　after　my　mugging。　But　as　I　wheeled　my　suitcase　into　the　ticket　office　to　pay　my　fare；　and　then　stepped　back　out　again　into　the　bitter　wind；　it　was　only　too　easy　to　imagine　my　predecessor　going　through　similar　motions　a　mere　three　weeks　earlier。　He　had　been　drunk；　of　course；　which　I　wasn’t。　I　looked　around。　There　were　several　bars　just　across　the　car　park。　Perhaps　he　had　gone　into　one　of　those？　I　wouldn’t　have　minded　a　drink　myself。　But　then　I　might　sit　on　exactly　the　same　bar　stool　as　he　had；　and　that　would　be　ghoulish；　I　thought；　like　taking　one　of　those　tours　of　murder　scenes　in　Hollywood。　Instead　I　joined　the　passenger　queue　and　tried　to　read　theTimes　Sunday　magazine；　turning　to　the　wall　for　protection　from　the　wind。　There　was　a　wooden　board　with　painted　lettering：CURRENT　NATIONWIDE　THREAT　LEVEL　IS　ELEVATED　。　I　could　smell　the　sea　but　it　was　too　d