The Ghost(英文版)-第26部分
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you’re after that authentic； firsthand experience。 For example； it’s curious how helicopter news shots impart to even the most innocent activity the dangerous whiff of criminality。 When Jeff the chauffeur brought the armored Jaguar round to the front of the house and left the engine running； it looked for all the world as if he were organizing a Mafia getaway just before the cops arrived。 In the cold New England air； the big car seemed to float on a sea of exhaust fumes。
I had the same disorientating feeling that I’d experienced the previous day； when Lang’s statement started pinging back at me from the ether。 On the television I could see one of the Special Branch men opening the rear passenger door； and standing there； holding it open； while down in the corridor I could hear Lang and the others preparing to leave。 “All right； people？” Kroll’s voice floated up the staircase。 “Is everybody ready？ Okay。 Remember： happy； happy faces。 Here we go。” The front door opened； and moments later on the screen I glimpsed the top of the ex–prime minister’s head as he took the few hurried steps to the car。 He ducked out of sight； just as his attorney scuttled after him； round to the Jaguar’s other side。 At the bottom of the picture it said； “ADAM LANG LEAVES MARTHA’S VINEYARD HOUSE。” They know everything； I thought； these satellite boys； but they’ve never heard of tautology。
Behind them； the entourage debouched in rapid single file from the house and headed for the minivan。 Amelia was in the lead； her hand clutched to her immaculate blonde hair to protect it against the rotors’ downdraft； then came the secretaries； followed by the paralegals； and finally a couple of bodyguards。
The long； dark shapes of the cars； their headlights gleaming； pulled out of the compound and set off through the ashy expanse of scrub oak toward the West Tisbury highway。 The helicopter tracked them； whirling away the few winter leaves and flattening the sparse grass。 Gradually； for the first time that morning； as the noise of its rotors faded； something like peace returned to the house。 It was as if the eye of a great electrical storm had finally moved on。 I wondered where Ruth was； and whether she was also watching the coverage。 I stood at the top of the stairs and listened for a e I returned to the television； the coverage had shifted from aerial to ground level； and Lang’s limousine was pulling out of the woods。
A lot more police had arrived at the end of the track； courtesy of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts； and a line of them was keeping the demonstrators safely corralled on the opposite side of the highway。 For a moment the Jaguar appeared to be accelerating toward the airport； but then its brake lights glowed and it stopped。 The minivan swerved to a halt behind it。 And suddenly； there was Lang； coatless； seemingly as oblivious to the cold as he was to the chanting crowd； striding over to the cameras； trailed by three Special Branch men。 I hunted around for the remote in the chair where Amelia had been sitting—her scent still lingered on the leather—pointed it at the screen； and pumped up the volume。
“I apologize for keeping you waiting so long in the cold；” Lang began。 “I just wanted to say a few words in response to the news from The Hague。” He paused and glanced at the ground。 He often did that。 Was it genuine； or merely contrived； to give an impression of spontaneity？ With him； one never knew。 The chant of “Lang！ Lang！ Lang！ Liar！ Liar！ Liar！” was clearly audible in the background。
“These are strange times；” he said and hesitated again； “strange times”—and now at last he looked up—“when those who have always stood for freedom； peace； and justice are accused of being criminals； while those who openly incite hatred； glorify slaughter； and seek the destruction of democracy are treated by the law as ifthey are victims。”
“Liar！ Liar！ Liar！”
“As I said in my statement yesterday； I have always been a strong supporter of the International Criminal Court。 I believe in its work。 I believe in the integrity of its judges。 And that is why I do not fear this investigation。 Because I know in my heart I have done nothing wrong。”
He glanced across at the demonstrators。 For the first time he appeared to notice the waving placards： his face； the prison bars； the orange jumpsuit； the bloodied hands。 The line of his mouth set firm。
“I refuse to be intimidated；” he said； with an upward tilt of his chin。 “I refuse to be made a scapegoat。 I refuse to be distracted from my work combating AIDS； poverty； and global warming。 For that reason； I propose to travel now to Washington to carry on my schedule as planned。 To everyone watching in the United Kingdom and throughout the world； let me make one thing perfectly clear： as long as I have breath in my body； I shall fight terrorism wherever it has to be fought； whether it be on the battlefield or—if necessary—in the courts。 Thank you。”
Ignoring the shouted questions—“When are you going back to Britain； Mr。 Lang？” “Do you support torture； Mr。 Lang？”—he turned and strode away； the muscles of his broad shoulders flexing beneath his handmade suit； his trio of bodyguards fanned out behind him。 A week ago I would have been impressed； as I had been by his speech in New York after the London suicide bomb； but now I was surprised at how unmoved I felt。 It was like watching some great actor in the last phase of his career； emotionally overspent； with nothing left to draw on but technique。
I waited until he was safely back in his gas…and bombproof cocoon； and then I switched off the television。
WITH LANG AND THEothers gone； the house seemed not merely empty but desolate； bereft of purpose。 I came down the stairs and passed the lighted showcases of tribal erotica。 The chair by the front door where one of the bodyguards always sat was vacant。 I reversed my steps and followed the corridor round to the secretaries’ office。 The small room； normally clinically neat； looked as if it had been abandoned in a panic； like the cipher room of a foreign embassy in a surrendering city。 A profusion of papers； computer disks； and old editions ofHansard and theCongressional Record were strewn across the desk。 It occurred to me then that I had no copy of Lang’s manuscript to work on； but when I tried to open the filing cabinet； it was locked。 Beside it； a basket full of waste from the paper shredder overflowed。
I looked into the kitchen。 An array of butcher’s knives was laid out on a chopping block； there was fresh blood on some of the blades。 I called a hesitant “Hello？” and stuck my head round the door of the pantry； but the housekeeper wasn’t there。
I had no idea which was my room； and I therefore had no option but to work my way along the corridor； trying one door after another。 The first was locked。 The second was open； the room beyond it exuding a rich； sweet odor of heavy aftershave； a tracksuit was thrown across the bed： it was obviously the bedroom used by Special Branch during the night shift。 The third door was locked； and I was about to try the fourth when I heard the sound of a woman weeping。 I could tell it was Ruth： even her sobs had a combative quality。“There are only six bedrooms in the main house；” Amelia had said。“Adam and Ruth have one each。” What a setup this was； I thought as I crept away： the ex–prime minister and his wife sleeping in separate rooms； with his mistress just along the corridor。 It was almost French。
Gingerly； I tried the handle of the next room。 This one wasn’t locked； and the aroma of worn clothes and lavender soap； even more than the sight of my old suitcase； established it immediately as McAra’s former berth。 I went in and closed the door very softly。 The big mirrored closet took up the whole of the wall dividing my room from Ruth’s and when I slid back the glass door a fraction； I could just make out her muffled wailing。 The door scraped on its runner； and I guess she must have heard； for all at once the crying stopped； and I imagined her startled； raising her head from her damp pillow and staring at the wall。 I drew away。 On the bed I noticed that someone had put a box； stuffed so full the top didn’t fit。 A yellow Post…it note said； “Good luck！ Amelia。” I sat on the counterpane and lifted the lid。 “MEMOIRS；” proclaimed the title page；“by Adam Lang。” So she hadn’t forgotten me after all； despite the exquisitely embarrassing circumstances of her departure。 You could say what you liked about Mrs。 Bly； but the woman was a pro。
I recognized I was now at a decisive point。 Either I continued to hang around at the fringes of this floundering project； pathetically hoping that at some point someone would help me。 Or—and I felt my spine straightening as I contemplated the alternative—I could seize control of it myself； try to knock these six hundred and twenty…one ineffable pages into some kind of publishable shape； take my two hundred and fifty grand； and head off to lie on a beach somewhere for a month until I had forgotten all about the Langs。
Put in those terms； it wasn’t a choice。 I steeled myself to ignore both McAra’s lingering traces i
