The Ghost(英文版)-第13部分

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e　was　trying　to　remember　what　he　was　supposed　to　do。　It　was　on　the　edge　of　becoming　embarrassing　when　suddenly　he　caught　sight　of　us　watching　him　through　the　big　glass　window。　He　pointed　and　waved　and　grinned；　exactly　the　way　he　had　in　his　heyday；　and　the　moment—whatever　it　was—had　passed。　He　came　striding　eagerly　across　the　concourse；　transferring　his　briefcase　from　one　hand　to　the　other；　trailed　by　a　third　Special　Branch　man　and　a　young　woman　pulling　a　suitcase　on　wheels。

　　We　left　the　window　just　in　time　to　meet　him　as　he　came　in　through　the　arrivals　gate。

　　“Hi；　darling；”　he　said　and　stooped　to　kiss　his　wife。　His　skin　had　a　slightly　orange　tint。　I　realized　he　was　wearing　makeup。

　　She　stroked　his　arm。　“How　was　New　York？”

　　“Great。　They　gave　me　the　Gulfstream　Four—you　know；　the　transatlantic　one；　with　the　beds　and　the　shower。　Hi；　Amelia。　Hi；　Jeff。”　He　noticed　me。　“Hello；”　he　said。　“Who　are　you？”

　　“I’m　your　ghost；”　I　said。

　　I　regretted　it　the　instant　I　said　it。　I’d　conceived　it　as　a　witty；　self…deprecatory；　break…the…ice　kind　of　a　line。　I’d　even　practiced　my　delivery　in　the　mirror　before　I　left　London。　But　somehow　out　there；　in　that　deserted　airport；　amid　the　grayness　and　the　quietness；　it　hit　precisely　the　wrong　note。　He　flinched。

　　“Right；”　he　said　doubtfully；　and　although　he　shook　my　hand；　he　also　drew　his　head　back　slightly；　as　if　to　inspect　me　from　a　safer　distance。

　　Christ；　I　thought；　he　thinks　I’m　a　lunatic。

　　“Don’t　worry；”　Ruth　told　him。　“He　isn’t　always　such　a　jerk。”

　　FIVE

　　It　is　essential　for　the　ghost　to　make　the　subject　feel　completely　comfortable　in　his　or　her　company。

　　Ghostwritin　g

　　“BRILLIANT　OPENING　LINE；”　SAIDAmelia　as　we　drove　back　to　the　house。　“Did　they　teach　you　that　at　ghost　school？”

　　We　were　sitting　together　in　the　back　of　the　minivan。　The　secretary　who’d　just　flown　in　from　New　York—her　name　was　Lucy—and　the　three　protection　officers　occupied　the　seats　in　front　of　us。　Through　the　windscreen　I　could　see　the　Jaguar　immediately　ahead　carrying　the　Langs。　It　was　starting　to　get　dark。　Pinned　by　two　sets　of　headlights；　the　scrub　oaks　loomed　and　writhed。

　　“It　was　particularly　tactful；”　she　went　on；　“given　that　you’re　replacing　a　dead　man。”

　　“All　right；”　I　groaned。　“Stop。”

　　“But　you　do　have　one　thing　going　for　you；”　she　said；　turning　her　large　blue　eyes　on　me　and　speaking　quietly　so　that　no　one　else　could　hear。　“Almost　uniquely　among　all　members　of　the　human　race；　you　seem　to　be　trusted　by　Ruth　Lang。　Now　why’s　that；　do　you　suppose？”

　　“There’s　no　accounting　for　taste。”

　　“True。　Perhaps　she　thinks　you’ll　do　what　she　tells　you？”

　　“Perhaps　she　does。　Don’t　ask　me。”　The　last　thing　I　needed　was　to　get　stuck　in　the　middle　of　this　catfight。　“Listen；　Amelia—can　I　call　you　Amelia？　As　far　as　I’m　concerned；　I’m　helping　write　a　book。　I　don’t　want　to　get　caught　up　in　any　palace　intrigues。”

　　“Of　course　not。　You　just　want　to　do　your　job　and　get　out　of　here。”

　　“You’re　mocking　me　again。”

　　“You　make　it　so　easy。”

　　After　that　I　shut　up　for　a　while。　I　could　see　why　Ruth　didn’t　like　her。　She　was　a　shade　too　clever　and　several　shades　too　blonde　for　comfort；　especially　from　a　wife’s　point　of　view。　In　fact　it　struck　me　as　I　sat　there；　passively　inhaling　her　Chanel；　that　she　might　be　having　an　affair　with　Lang。　That　would　explain　a　lot。　He’d　been　noticeably　cool　toward　her　at　the　airport；　and　isn’t　that　always　the　surest　sign？　In　which　case；　no　wonder　they　were　so　paranoid　about　confidentiality。　There　could　be　enough　material　here　to　keep　the　tabloids　happy　for　weeks。

　　We　were　halfway　down　the　track　when　Amelia　said；　“You　haven’t　told　me　what　you　thought　of　the　manuscript。”

　　“Honestly？　I　haven’t　had　so　much　fun　since　I　read　the　memoirs　of　Leonid　Brezhnev。”　She　didn’t　smile。　“I　don’t　understand　how　it　happened；”　I　went　on。　“You　people　were　running　the　country　not　that　long　ago。　Surely　one　of　you　had　English　as　a　first　language？”

　　“Mike—”　she　began；　then　stopped。　“But　I　don’t　want　to　speak　ill　of　the　dead。”

　　“Why　make　them　an　exception？”

　　“All　right；　then：　Mike。　The　problem　was；　Adam　passed　it　all　over　to　Mike　to　deal　with　right　at　the　beginning；　and　poor　Mike　was　simply　swamped　by　it。　He　disappeared　to　Cambridge　to　do　the　research　and　we　barely　saw　him　for　a　year。”

　　“Cambridge？”

　　“Cambridge—where　the　Lang　Papers　are　stored。　You’ve　really　done　your　homework；　haven’t　you？　Two　thousand　boxes　of　documents。　Two　hundred　and　fifty　yards　of　shelving。　One　million　separate　papers；　or　thereabouts—nobody’s　ever　bothered　to　count。”

　　“McAra　went　through　all　that？”　I　was　incredulous。　My　idea　of　a　rigorous　research　schedule　was　a　week　with　a　tape　recorder　sitting　opposite　my　client；　fleshed　out　by　whatever　tissue　of　inaccuracies　Google　had　to　offer。

　　“No；”　she　said　irritably。　“He　didn’t　go　through　every　box；　obviously；　but　enough　so　that　when　he　finally　did　emerge；　he　was　completely　overwrought　and　exhausted。　I　think　he　simply　lost　sight　of　what　he　was　supposed　to　be　doing。　That　seems　to　have　triggered　a　clinical　depression；　though　none　of　us　noticed　it　at　the　time。　He　didn’t　even　sit　down　with　Adam　to　go　over　it　all　until　just　before　Christmas。　And　of　course　by　then　it　was　far　too　late。”

　　“I’m　sorry；”　I　said；　twisting　in　my　seat　so　that　I　could　see　her　properly。　“You’re　telling　me　that　a　man　who’s　being　paid　ten　million　dollars　to　write　his　memoirs　within　two　years　turns　the　whole　project　over　to　someone　who　knows　nothing　about　producing　books　and　who　is　then　allowed　to　wander　off　on　his　own　for　twelve　months？”

　　Amelia　put　a　finger　to　her　lips　and　gestured　with　her　eyes　to　the　front　of　the　car。　“You’re　very　loud；　for　a　ghost。”

　　“But　surely；”　I　whispered；　“a　former　prime　minister　must　recognize　how　important　his　memoirs　are　to　him？”

　　“If　you　want　the　honest　truth；　I　don’t　think　Adam　ever　had　the　slightest　intention　of　producing　this　book　within　two　years。　And　he　thought　that　that　would　be　fine。　So　he　let　Mike　take　it　over　as　a　kind　of　reward　for　sticking　by　him　all　the　way　through。　But　then；　when　Marty　Rhinehart　made　it　clear　he　was　going　to　hold　him　to　the　original　contract；　and　when　the　publishers　actually　read　what　Mike　had　produced…”　Her　voice　trailed　off。

　　“Couldn’t　he　just　have　paid　the　money　back　and　started　all　over　again？”

　　“I　think　you　know　the　answer　to　that　question　better　than　I　do。”

　　“He　wouldn’t　have　got　nearly　such　a　large　advance。”

　　“Two　years　after　leaving　office？　He　wouldn’t　have　got　even　half。”

　　“And　nobody　saw　this　coming？”

　　“I　raised　it　with　Adam　every　so　often。　But　history　doesn’t　really　interest　him—it　never　has；　not　even　his　own。　He　was　much　more　concerned　with　getting　his　foundation　established。”

　　I　sat　back　in　my　seat。　I　could　see　how　easily　it　all　must　have　happened：　McAra；　the　party　hack　turned　Stakhanovite　of　the　archive；　blindly　riveting　together　his　vast　and　useless　sheets　of　facts；　Lang；　always　a　man　for　the　bigger　picture—“the　future　not　the　past”：　wasn’t　that　one　of　his　slogans—being　feted　around　the　American　lecture　circuit；　preferring　to　live；　not　relive；　his　life；　and　then　the　horrible　realization　that　the　great　memoir　project　was　in　trouble；　followed；　I　assumed；　by　recriminations；　the　sundering　of　old　friendships；　and　suicidal　anxiety。

　　“It　must　have　been　rough　on　all　of　you。”

　　“It　was。　Especially　after　they　discovered　Mike’s　body。　I　offered　to　go　and　do　the　identification；　but　Adam　felt　it　was　his　responsibility。　It　was　an　awful　thing　to　go　through。　Suicide　leaves　everyone　feeling　guilty。　So　please；　if　you　don’t　mind；　no　more　jokes　about　ghosts。”

　　I　was　on　the　point　of　asking　her　about　the　rendition　stories　in　the　weekend　papers　when　the　brake　lights　of　the　Jaguar　glowed；　and　we　came　to　a　stop。

　　“Well；　here　we　are　again；”　she　said；　and　for　the　first　time　I　detected　a　hint　of　weariness　in　her　voice。　“Home。”

　　It　was　fairly　dark　by　this　time—half　past　five　or　thereabouts—and　the　temperature　had　dropped　with　the　sun。　I　stood　beside　the　minivan　and　watched　as　Lang　ducked　out　of　his　car　and　was　swept　through　the　door　by　the　usual　swirl　of　bodyguards　and　staff。　They　had　him　inside　so　quickly　one　might　have　thought　an　assassin　with　a　telescopic　sight　had　been　spotted　in　the　woods。　Immediately；　all　along　the　fa。ade　of　the　big　house；　the　windows　started　lighting　up；　and　it　was　possible；　briefly；　to　imagine　that　this　was　a　focus　of　real　power　and　not　merely　some　lingering　parody　of　it。　I　felt　very　much　an　outsider；　unsure　of　what　I　was　supposed　to　do　and　still　twisting　with　embarrassment　over　my　gaffe　at　the　airport。　So　I　lingered　outside　in　the　cold　for　a　while。　To　my　surprise；　the　person　who　realized　I　was　missing　and　who　came　out　to　fetch　me　was　Lang。

　　“Hi；　man！”　he　called　from　the　doorway。　“What　on　earth　are　you　doing　out　here？　Isn’t　anybody　looking　after　you？　Come　and　have　a　drink。”

　　He　touched　my　shoulder　as　I　entered　and　steered　me　down　the　passage　toward　the　room　where