The Ghost(英文版)-第7部分

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inted　lettering：CURRENT　NATIONWIDE　THREAT　LEVEL　IS　ELEVATED　。　I　could　smell　the　sea　but　it　was　too　dark　to　see　it。

　　The　trouble　is；　once　you　start　thinking　about　a　thing；　you　can’t　always　make　yourself　stop。　Most　of　the　cars　waiting　to　board　the　ferry　had　their　engines　running　so　the　drivers　could　use　their　heaters　in　the　cold；　and　I　found　myself　checking　for　a　tan…colored　Ford　Escape　SUV。　Then；　when　I　actually　got　on　the　boat；　and　climbed　the　clanging　metal　stairwell　to　the　passenger　deck；　I　wondered　whether　this　was　the　way　McAra　had　come。　I　told　myself　to　leave　it；　that　I　was　working　myself　up　for　nothing。　But　I　suppose　that　ghosts　and　ghostwriters　go　naturally　together。　I　sat　in　the　fuggy　passenger　cabin　and　studied　the　plain；　honest　faces　of　my　fellow　travelers；　and　then；　as　the　boat　shuddered　and　cast　off　from　the　terminal；　I　folded　my　paper　and　went　out　onto　the　open　top　deck。

　　It’s　amazing　how　cold　and　darkness　conspire　to　alter　everything。　The　Martha’s　Vineyard　ferry　on　a　summer’s　evening　I　imagine　must　be　delightful。　There’s　a　big　stripy　funnel　straight　out　of　a　storybook；　and　rows　of　blue　plastic　seats　facing　outward；　running　the　length　of　the　deck；　where　families　no　doubt　sit　in　their　shorts　and　T…shirts；　the　teenagers　looking　bored；　the　dads　jumping　about　with　excitement。　But　on　this　January　night　the　deck　was　deserted；　and　the　north　wind　blowing　down　from　Cape　Cod　sliced　through　my　jacket　and　shirt　and　chilled　my　skin　to　gooseflesh。　The　lights　of　Woods　Hole　slipped　away。　We　passed　a　marker　buoy　at　the　entrance　to　the　channel　swinging　frantically　this　way　and　that　as　if　trying　to　free　itself　from　some　underwater　monster。　Its　bell　tolled　in　time　with　the　waves　like　a　funeral　chime　and　the　spray　flew　as　vile　as　witch’s　spit。

　　I　jammed　my　hands　in　my　pockets；　hunched　my　shoulders　up　around　my　neck；　and　crossed　unsteadily　to　the　starboard　side。　The　handrail　was　only　waist…high；　and　for　the　first　time　I　appreciated　how　easily　McAra　might　have　gone　over。　I　actually　had　to　brace　myself　to　keep　from　slipping。　Rick　was　right。　The　line　between　accident　and　suicide　isn’t　always　clearly　defined。　You　could　kill　yourself　without　ever　really　making　up　your　mind。　The　mere　act　of　leaning　out　too　far　and　imagining　what　it　might　be　like　could　tip　you　over。　You’d　hit　that　heaving　icy　black　water　with　a　smack　that　would　take　you　ten　feet　under；　and　by　the　time　you　came　up　the　ship　might　be　a　hundred　yards　away。　I　hoped　McAra　had　absorbed　enough　booze　to　blunt　the　horror；　but　I　doubted　if　there　was　a　drunk　in　the　world　who　wouldn’t　be　sobered　by　total　immersion　in　a　sea　only　half　a　degree　above　freezing。

　　And　nobody　would　have　heard　him　fall！　That　was　the　other　thing。　The　weather　wasn’t　nearly　as　bad　as　it　had　been　three　weeks　earlier；　and　yet；　as　I　glanced　around；　I　could　see　not　a　soul　on　deck。　I　really　started　shivering　then；　my　teeth　were　chattering　like　some　fairground　clockwork　novelty。

　　I　went　down　to　the　bar　for　a　drink。

　　WE　ROUNDED　THE　WESTChop　Lighthouse　and　came　into　the　ferry　terminal　at　Vineyard　Haven　just　before　seven；　docking　with　a　rattle　of　chains　and　a　thump　that　almost　sent　me　flying　down　the　stairs。　I　hadn’t　been　expecting　a　welcoming　committee；　which　was　fine；　because　I　didn’t　get　one；　just　an　elderly　local　taxi　driver　holding　a　torn…out　page　from　a　notebook　on　which　my　name　was　misspelled。　As　he　heaved　my　suitcase　into　the　back；　the　wind　lifted　a　big　sheet　of　clear　plastic　and　sent　it　twisting　and　flapping　over　the　ice　sheets　in　the　car　park。　The　sky　was　packed　white　with　stars。

　　I’d　bought　a　guidebook　to　the　island；　so　I　had　a　vague　idea　of　what　I　was　in　for。　In　summer　the　population　is　a　hundred　thousand；　but　when　the　vacationers　have　closed　up　their　holiday　homes　and　migrated　west　for　the　winter；　it　drops　to　fifteen　thousand。　These　are　the　hardy；　insular　natives；　the　folks　who　call　the　mainland　“America。”　There　are　a　couple　of　highways；　one　set　of　traffic　lights；　and　dozens　of　long　sandy　tracks　leading　to　places　with　names　like　Squibnocket　Pond　and　Jobs　Neck　Cove。　My　driver　didn’t　utter　a　word　the　whole　journey；　just　scrutinized　me　in　the　mirror。　As　my　eyes　met　his　rheumy　glance　for　the　twentieth　time；　I　wondered　if　there　was　a　reason　why　he　resented　picking　me　up。　Perhaps　I　was　keeping　him　from　something。　It　was　hard　to　imagine　what。　The　streets　around　the　ferry　terminal　were　mostly　deserted；　and　once　we　were　out　of　Vineyard　Haven　and　onto　the　main　highway；　there　was　nothing　to　see　but　darkness。

　　By　then　I’d　been　traveling　for　seventeen　hours。　I　didn’t　know　where　I　was；　or　what　landscape　I　was　passing　through；　or　even　where　I　was　going。　All　attempts　at　conversation　had　failed。　I　could　see　nothing　except　my　reflection　in　the　cold　darkness　of　the　window。　I　felt　as　though　I’d　come　to　the　edge　of　the　earth；　like　some　seventeenth…century　English　explorer　who　was　about　to　have　his　first　encounter　with　the　native　Wampanoags。　I　gave　a　noisy　yaped　the　back　of　my　hand　to　my　mouth。

　　“Sorry；”　I　said　to　the　disembodied　eyes　in　the　rearview　mirror。　“Where　I　come　from　it’s　after　midnight。”

　　He　shook　his　head。　At　first　I　couldn’t　make　out　whether　he　was　sympathetic　or　disapproving；　then　I　realized　he　was　trying　to　tell　me　it　was　no　use　talking　to　him：　he　was　deaf。　I　went　back　to　staring　out　the　window。

　　After　a　while　we　came　to　a　crossroads　and　turned　left　into　what　I　guessed　must　be　Edgartown；　a　settlement　of　white　clapboard　houses　with　white　picket　fences；　small　gardens；　and　verandas；　lit　by　ornate　Victorian　street　lamps。　Nine　out　of　ten　were　dark；　but　in　the　few　windows　that　shone　with　yellow　light　I　glimpsed　oil　paintings　of　sailing　ships　and　whiskered　ancestors。　At　the　bottom　of　the　hill；　past　the　Old　Whaling　Church；　a　big　misty　moon　cast　a　silvery　light　over　shingled　roofs　and　silhouetted　the　masts　in　the　harbor。　Curls　of　wood　smoke　rose　from　a　couple　of　chimneys。　I　felt　as　though　I　was　driving　onto　a　film　set　forMoby…Dick　。　The　headlights　picked　out　a　sign　to　the　Chappaquiddick　ferry；　and　not　long　after　that　we　pulled　up　outside　the　Lighthouse　View　Hotel。

　　Again；　I　could　picture　the　scene　in　summer：　buckets　and　spades　and　fishing　nets　piled　up　on　the　veranda；　rope　sandals　left　by　the　door；　a　dusting　of　white　sand　trailed　up　from　the　beach；　that　kind　of　thing。　But　out　of　season　the　big　old　wooden　hotel　creaked　and　banged　in　the　wind　like　a　sailing　boat　stuck　on　a　reef。　I　suppose　the　management　must　have　been　waiting　till　spring　to　strip　the　blistered　paintwork　and　wash　the　crust　of　salt　off　the　windows。　The　sea　was　pounding　away　nearby　in　the　darkness。　I　stood　with　my　suitcase　on　the　wooden　deck　and　watched　the　lights　of　the　taxi　disappear　around　the　corner　with　something　close　to　nostalgia。

　　Inside　the　lobby；　a　girl　dressed　up　as　a　Victorian　maid　with　a　white　lace　mobcap　handed　me　a　message　from　Lang’s　office。　I　would　be　picked　up　at　ten　the　next　morning　and　should　bring　my　passport　to　show　to　security。　I　was　starting　to　feel　like　a　man　on　a　mystery　tour：　as　soon　as　I　reached　one　location；　I　was　given　a　fresh　set　of　instructions　to　proceed　to　the　next。　The　hotel　was　empty；　the　restaurant　dark。　I　was　told　I　could　have　my　choice　of　rooms；　so　I　picked　one　on　the　second　floor　with　a　desk　I　could　work　at　and　photographs　of　Old　Edgartown　on　the　wall：　John　Coffin　House；　circa　1890；　the　whale　ship　Splendid　at　Osborn　wharf；　circa　1870。　After　the　receptionist　had　gone；　I　put　my　laptop；　list　of　questions；　and　the　stories　I　had　torn　out　of　the　Sunday　newspapers　on　the　desk　and　then　stretched　out　on　the　bed。

　　I　fell　asleep　at　once　and　didn’t　wake　until　two　in　the　morning；　when　my　body　clock；　still　on　London　time；　went　off　like　Big　Ben。　I　spent　ten　minutes　searching　for　a　minibar　before　realizing　there　wasn’t　one。　On　impulse；　I　called　Kate’s　home　number　in　London。　What　exactly　I　was　going　to　say　to　her　I　had　no　idea。　In　any　case　there　was　no　answer。　I　meant　to　hang　up　but　instead　found　myself　rambling　to　her　answering　machine。　She　must　have　left　for　work　very　early。　Either　that；　or　she　hadn’t　come　home　the　night　before。　That　was　something　to　think　about；　and　I　duly　thought　about　it。　The　fact　that　I　had　no　one　to　blame　but　myself　didn’t　make　me　feel　any　better。　I　took　a　shower　and　afterward　I　got　back　into　bed；　turned　off　the　lamp；　and　pulled　the　damp　sheets　up　under　my　chin。　Every　few　seconds　the　slow　pulse　of　the　lighthouse　filled　the　room　with　a　faint　red　glow。　I　must　have　lain　there　for　hours；　eyes　wide　open；　fully　awake　and　yet　disembodied；　and　in　this　way　passed　my　first　night　on　Martha’s　Vineyard。

　　THE　LANDSCAPE　THAT　DISSOLVEDout　of　the　dawn　the　next　morning　was　flat　and　alluvial。　Across　the　road　beneath　my　window　was　a　creek；　then　reed　beds；　and　beyond　those　a　beach　and　the　sea。　A　pretty　Victorian　lighthouse　with　a　bell…shaped　roof　and　a　wrought…iron　balcony　looked　across　the　straits　to　a　long；　low　spit　of　land　about　a　mile　away。　That；　I　realized；　must　be　Chappaquiddick。　A　squadron　of　hundreds　of　tiny　white　seabirds；　in　a　formation　as　tight　as　a　school　of　fish；　soared　and　flicked　and　dived　above　the　shallow　waves。

　　I　went　downstairs　and　ordered　a　huge　breakfast。　From　the　little　shop　next　to　reception　I　bought　a　copy　of　theNew　York　Times　。　The　story　I　was　looking　for　was　entombed　deep　in　the　world　news　section　and　then　reinterred　to　ensure　maximum　obscurity　far　down　the　page：

　　LONDON　（AP）—Former　British　prime　minister　Adam　Lang　authorized　the　illegal　use　of　British　special　forces　troops　to　seize　four　suspected　Al　Qaeda　terrorists　in　Pakistan　and　then　hand　them　over　for　interrogation　by　the　CIA；　according　to　newspaper　reports　here　Sunday。

　　The　men—Nasir　Ashraf；　Shakeel　Qazi；　Salim　Khan；　and　Faruk　Ahmed—all　British　citizens；　were　seized　in　the　Pakistani　city　of　Peshawar　five　years　ago。　All　four　were　allegedly　transferred　out　of　the　country　to　a　secret　location　and　tortured。　Mr。　Ashraf　is　reported　to　have　died　under　interrogation。　Mr。　Qazi；　Mr。　Khan；　and　Mr。　Ahmed　were　subsequently　detained　at　Guantánamo　for　three　years。　Only　Mr。　Ahmed　remains　in　U。S。　custody。

　　According　to　documents　obtained　by　the　LondonSunday　Times　；　Mr。　Lang　personally　endorsed　“Operation　Tempest；”　a　secret　mission　to　kidnap　the　four　men　by　the　UK’s　elite　Special　Air　Services。　Such　an　operation　would　have　been　illegal　under　both　UK　and　international　law。

　　The　British　Ministry　of　Defence　last　night　refused　to　comment　on　either　the　authenticity　of　the　documents　or　the　existence　of　“Operation　Tempest。”　A　spokeswoman　for　Mr。　Lang　said　that　he　had　no　plans　to　issue　a　statement。

　　I　read　it　through　three　times。　It　didn’t　seem　to　add　up　to　much。　Or　did　it？　It　was　hard　to　tell　anymore。　One’s　moral　bearings　were　no　longer　as　fixed　as　they　used　to　be。　Methods　my　father’s　generation　would　have　considered　beyond　the　pale；　even　when　fighting　the　Nazis—torture；　for　example—were　now　apparently　acceptable　civilized　behavior。　I　decided　that　the　ten　percent　of　the　population　who　worry　about　these　things　would　be　appalled　by　the　report；　assuming　they　ever　managed　to　locate　it；　the　remaining　ninety　would　probably　just　shrug。　We　had　been　told　that　the　free　world　was　taking　a　walk　on　the　dark　side。　What　did　people　expect？

　　I　h