The Ghost(英文版)-第22部分

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　　For　a　few　moments；　I　stared　stupidly　at　the　screen；　then　I　opened　the　separate　filing　cabinet　on　the　laptop’s　hard　drive　that　automatically　stores　every　piece　of　email；　incoming　and　outgoing。　And　there；　sure　enough；　to　my　immense　relief；　at　the　top　of　the　“Email　you　have　sent”　queue　was　one　titled　“no　subject；”　to　which　I　had　attached　the　manuscript　of　Adam　Lang’s　memoirs。　But　when　I　opened　the　blank　email　and　clicked　on　the　box　labeled　“download；”　all　I　received　was　a　message　saying；　“That　file　is　not　currently　available。”　I　tried　a　few　more　times；　always　with　the　same　result。

　　I　took　out　my　mobile　and　called　the　internet　company。

　　I　shall　spare　you　a　full　account　of　the　sweaty　half　hour　that　followed—the　endless　selecting　from　lists　of　options；　the　queuing；　the　listening　to　Muzak；　the　increasingly　panicky　conversation　with　the　company’s　representative　in　Uttar　Pradesh　or　wherever　the　hell　he　was　speaking　from。

　　The　bottom　line　was　that　the　manuscript　had　vanished；　and　the　company　had　no　record　of　its　ever　having　existed。

　　I　lay　down　on　the　bed。

　　I　am　not　very　technically　minded；　but　even　I　was　beginning　to　grasp　what　must　have　happened。　Somehow；　Lang’s　manuscript　had　been　wiped　from　the　memory　of　my　internet　service　provider’s　computers；　for　which　there　were　two　possible　explanations。　One　was　that　it　hadn’t　been　uploaded　properly　in　the　first　place；　but　that　couldn’t　be　right；　because　I　had　received　those　two　messages　while　I　was　still　in　the　office：　“Your　file　has　been　transferred”　and　“You　have　email。”　The　other　was　that　the　file　had　since　been　deleted。　But　how　could　that　have　happened？　Deletion　would　imply　that　someone　had　direct　access　to　the　computers　of　one　of　the　world’s　biggest　internet　conglomerates　and　was　able　to　cover　his　tracks　at　will。　It　would　also　imply—had　to　imply—that　my　emails　were　all　being　monitored。

　　Rick’s　voice　floated　into　my　mind—“Wow。　This　must’ve　been　some　operation。　Too　big　for　a　newspaper。　This　must’ve　been　agovernment”—followed　swiftly　by　Amelia’s—“You　do　realize　how　serious　this　is　getting；　don’t　you？”

　　“But　the　book　is　crap！”　I　cried　out　loud；　despairingly；　at　the　portrait　of　the　Victorian　whaling　master　hanging　opposite　the　bed。　“There’s　nothing　in　it　that’s　worth　all　this　trouble！”

　　The　stern　old　Victorian　sea　dog　stared　back　at　me；　unmoved。　I　had　broken　my　promise；　his　expression　seemed　to　say；　and　something　out　there—some　nameless　force—knew　it。

　　EIGHT

　　Authors　are　often　busy　people　and　hard　to　get　hold　of；　sometimes　they　are　temperamental。　The

　　publishers　consequently　rely　on　the　ghosts　to　make　the　process　of　publication　as　smooth　as　possible。

　　Ghostwritin　g

　　THERE　y　doing　any　more　work　that　night。　I　didn’t　even　turn　on　the　television。　Oblivion　was　all　I　craved。　I　switched　off　my　mobile；　went　down　to　the　bar；　and；　when　that　closed；　sat　up　in　my　room　emptying　a　bottle　of　scotch　until　long　past　midnight；　which　no　doubt　explains　why　for　once　I　slept　right　through　the　night。

　　I　was　woken　by　the　bedside　telephone。　The　harsh　metallic　tone　seemed　to　vibrate　my　eyeballs　in　their　dusty　sockets；　and　when　I　rolled　over　to　answer　it　I　felt　my　stomach　keep　on　rolling；　wobbling　away　from　me　across　the　mattress　and　onto　the　floor　like　a　taut　balloon　full　of　some　noxious；　viscous　liquid。　The　revolving　room　was　very　hot；　the　air…conditioning　turned　up　to　maximum。　I　realized　I’d　gone　to　sleep　fully　dressed　and　had　left　all　the　lights　burning。

　　“You　need　to　check　out　of　your　hotel　immediately；”　said　Amelia。　“Things　have　changed。”　Her　voice　pierced　my　skull　like　a　knitting　needle。　“There’s　a　car　on　its　way。”

　　That　was　all　she　said。　I　didn’t　argue；　I　couldn’t。　She’d　gone。

　　I　once　read　that　the　ancient　Egyptians　used　to　prepare　a　pharaoh　for　mummification　by　drawing　his　brain　out　through　his　nose　with　a　hook。　At　some　point　in　the　night　a　similar　procedure　had　seemingly　been　performed　on　me。　I　shuffled　across　the　carpet　and　pulled　back　the　curtains　to　unveil　a　sky　and　sea　as　gray　as　death。　Nothing　was　stirring。　The　silence　was　absolute；　unbroken　even　by　the　cry　of　a　gull。　A　storm　was　coming　in　all　right；　even　I　could　tell　that。

　　But　then；　just　as　I　was　about　to　turn　away；　I　heard　the　distant　sound　of　an　engine。　I　squinted　down　at　the　street　beneath　my　window　and　saw　a　couple　of　cars　pull　up。　The　doors　of　the　first　opened　and　two　men　got　out—young；　fit　looking；　wearing　ski　jackets；　jeans；　and　boots。　The　driver　stared　up　at　my　window　and　instinctively　I　took　a　step　backward。　By　the　time　I　risked　a　second　look；　he　had　opened　the　rear　of　the　car　and　was　bent　over　it。　When　he　straightened　he　took　out　what　at　first；　in　my　paranoid　state；　I　took　to　be　a　machine　gun。　Actually　it　was　a　television　camera。

　　I　started　to　move　quickly　then；　or　at　least　as　quickly　as　my　condition　would　allow。　I　opened　the　window　wide　to　let　in　a　blast　of　freezing　air。　I　undressed；　showered　in　lukewarm　water；　and　shaved。　I　put　on　clean　clothes　and　packed。　By　the　time　I　got　down　to　reception　it　was　eight　forty…five—an　hour　after　the　first　ferry　from　the　mainland　had　docked　at　Vineyard　Haven—and　the　hotel　looked　as　though　it　was　staging　an　international　media　convention。　Whatever　you　might　say　against　Adam　Lang；　he　was　certainly　doing　wonders　for　the　local　economy：　Edgartown　hadn’t　been　this　busy　since　Chappaquiddick。　There　must　have　been　thirty　people　hanging　around；　drinking　coffee；　swapping　stories　in　half　a　dozen　languages；　talking　on　their　mobiles；　checking　equipment。　I’d　spent　enough　time　around　reporters　to　be　able　to　tell　one　type　from　another。　The　television　correspondents　were　dressed　as　though　they　were　going　to　a　funeral；　the　news　agency　hacks　were　the　ones　who　looked　like　gravediggers。

　　I　bought　a　copy　of　theNew　York　Times　and　went　into　the　restaurant；　where　I　drank　three　glasses　of　orange　juice　straight　off；　before　turning　my　attention　to　the　paper。　Lang　wasn’t　buried　in　the　international　section　any　longer。　He　was　right　up　there　on　the　front　page：

　　WAR　CRIMES　COURT

　　TO　RULE　ON　BRITISH

　　EX…PM

　　~　ANNOUNCEMENT

　　DUE　TODAY

　　~

　　Former　Foreign　Sec。

　　Alleges　Lang　OK’d

　　Use　of　Torture　by　CIA

　　Lang　had　issued　a　“robust”　statement；　it　said　（I　felt　a　thrill　of　pride）。　He　was　“embattled；”　“coping　with　one　blow　after　another”—beginning　with　“the　accidental　drowning　of　a　close　aide　earlier　in　the　year。”　The　affair　was　“an　embarrassment”　for　the　British　and　American　governments。　“A　senior　administration　official”　insisted；　however；　that　the　White　House　remained　loyal　to　a　man　who　was　formerly　its　closest　ally。　“He　was　there　for　us　and　we’ll　be　there　for　him；”　the　official　added；　speaking　only　after　a　guarantee　of　anonymity。

　　But　it　was　the　final　paragraph　that　really　made　me　choke　into　my　coffee：

　　The　publication　of　Mr。　Lang’s　memoirs；　which　had　been　scheduled　for　June；　has　been　brought　forward　to　the　end　of　April。　John　Maddox；　chief　executive　of　Rhinehart　Publishing　Inc。；　which　is　reported　to　have　paid　10　million　for　the　book；　said　that　the　finishing　touches　were　now　being　put　to　the　manuscript。　“This　is　going　to　be　a　world　publishing　event；”　Mr。　Maddox　toldThe　New　York　Times　in　a　telephone　interview　yesterday。　“Adam　Lang　will　be　giving　the　first　full　inside　scoop　by　a　leader　on　the　West’s　war　on　terror。”

　　I　rose；　folded　the　newspaper；　and　walked　with　dignity　through　the　lobby；　carefully　stepping　around　the　camera　bags；　the　two…foot　zoom　lenses；　and　the　handheld　mikes　in　their　woolly　gray　windproof　prophylactics。　Between　the　members　of　the　fourth　estate；　a　cheerful；　almost　a　party　atmosphere　prevailed；　as　might　have　existed　among　eighteenth…century　gentlefolk　off　for　a　good　day　out　at　a　hanging。

　　“The　newsroom　says　the　press　conference　in　The　Hague　is　now　at　ten　o’clock　Eastern；”　someone　shouted。

　　I　passed　unnoticed　and　went　out　onto　the　veranda；　where　I　put　a　call　through　to　my　agent。　His　assistant　answered—Brad；　or　Brett；　or　Brat：　I　forget　his　name；　Rick　changed　his　staff　almost　as　quickly　as　he　changed　his　wives。

　　I　asked　to　speak　to　Mr。　Ricardelli。

　　“He’s　away　from　the　office　right　now。”

　　“Where　is　he？”

　　“On　a　fishing　trip。”

　　“Fishing？”

　　“He’ll　be　calling　in　occasionally　to　check　his　messages。”

　　“That’s　nice。　Where　is　he？”

　　“The　Bouma　National　Heritage　Rainforest　Park。”

　　“Christ。　Where’s　that？”

　　“It　was　a　spur…of…the…moment　thing—”

　　“Where　is　it？”

　　Brad；　or　Brett；　or　Brat；　hesitated。　“Fiji。”

　　THE　MINIVAN　TOOK　MEup　the　hill　out　of　Edgartown；　past　the　bookshop　and　the　little　cinema　and　the　whaling　church。　When　we　reached　the　edge　of　town；　we　followed　the　signs　left　to　West　Tisbury　rather　than　right　to　Vineyard　Haven；　which　at　least　implied　that　I　was　being　taken　back　to　the　house；　rather　than　straight　to　the　ferry　to　be　deported　for　breaching　the　Official　Secrets　Act。　I　sat　behind　the　police　driver；　my　suitcase　on　the　seat　beside　me。　He　was　one　of　the　younger　ones；　dressed　in　their　standard　non…uniform　uniform　of　gray　zippered　jacket　and　black　tie。　H