The Ghost(英文版)-第43部分

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r　minor　activities。

　　Beneath　it；　in　alphabetical　order；　was　a　hyperlinked　list　of　about　twenty　names；　among　them　Emmett’s；　and　when　I　clicked　on　it；　I　felt　as　though　I　had　fallen　through　a　trapdoor。

　　Yale　graduate　Paul　Emmett　was　reported　by　CIA　whistleblower　Frank　Molinari　to　have　joined　the　Agency　as　an　officer　in　either　1969　or　1970；　where　he　was　assigned　to　the　Foreign　Resources　Division　of　the　Directorate　of　Operations。　（Source：Inside　the　Agency　；　Amsterdam；　1977）

　　“Oh　no；”　I　said　quietly。　“No；　no。　That　can’t　be　right。”

　　I　must　have　stared　at　the　screen　for　a　full　minute；　until　a　sudden　crash　of　breaking　crockery　snapped　me　out　of　my　reverie　and　I　looked　round　to　see　that　one　of　the　kids　playing　under　the　nearby　table　had　tipped　the　whole　thing　over。　As　a　waitress　hurried　across　with　a　dustpan　and　brush；　and　as　the　nannies　（or　mothers）　scolded　the　children；　I　noticed　that　the　two　short…haired　men　at　the　counter　weren’t　taking　any　notice　of　this　little　drama：　they　were　staring　hard　at　me。　One　had　a　cell　phone　to　his　ear。

　　Fairly　calmly—more　calmly；　I　hoped；　than　I　felt—I　turned　off　the　computer　and　pretended　to　take　a　final　sip　of　coffee。　The　liquid　had　gone　cold　while　I’d　been　working　and　was　freezing　and　bitter　on　my　lips。　Then　I　picked　up　my　suitcase　and　put　a　twenty…dollar　bill　on　the　table。　Already　I　was　thinking　that　if　something　happened　to　me；　the　harassed　waitress　would　surely　remember　the　solitary　Englishman　who　took　the　table　farthest　from　the　window　and　absurdly　overtipped。　What　good　this　would　have　done　me；　I　have　no　idea；　but　it　seemed　clever　at　the　time。　I　made　sure　I　didn’t　look　at　the　short…haired　pair　as　I　passed　them。

　　Out　on　the　street；　in　the　cold　gray　light；　with　the　green…canopied　Starbucks　a　few　doors　down　and　the　slowly　passing　traffic　（“Baby　on　Board：　Please　Drive　Carefully”）　and　the　elderly　pedestrians　in　their　fur　hats　and　gloves；　it　was　briefly　possible　to　imagine　that　I’d　spent　the　past　hour　playing　some　homemade　virtual　reality　game。　But　then　the　door　of　the　café　opened　behind　me　and　the　two　men　came　out。　I　walked　briskly　up　the　street　toward　the　Ford；　and　once　I　was　behind　the　wheel　I　locked　myself　in。　When　I　checked　the　mirrors　I　couldn’t　see　either　of　my　fellow　diners。

　　I　didn’t　move　for　a　while。　It　felt　safer　simply　sitting　there。　I　fantasized　that　perhaps　if　I　stayed　put　long　enough；　I　could　somehow　be　absorbed　by　osmosis　into　the　peaceful；　prosperous　life　of　Belmont。　I　could　go　and　do　what　all　these　retired　folk　were　bent　on　doing—playing　a　hand　of　bridge；　maybe；　or　watching　an　afternoon　movie；　or　wandering　along　to　the　local　library　to　read　the　papers　and　shake　their　heads　at　the　way　the　world　was　all　going　to　hell　now　that　my　callow　and　cosseted　generation　was　in　charge　of　it。　I　watched　the　newly　coiffed　ladies　emerge　from　the　salon　and　lightly　pat　their　hair。　The　young　couple　who　had　been　holding　hands　in　the　café　were　inspecting　rings　in　the　window　of　the　jeweler。

　　And　I？　I　experienced　a　twinge　of　self…pity。　I　was　as　separate　from　all　this　normality　as　if　I　were　in　a　bubble　of　glass。

　　I　took　out　the　photographs　again　and　flicked　through　them　until　I　came　to　the　one　of　Lang　and　Emmett　onstage　together。　A　future　prime　minister　and　an　alleged　CIA　officer；　prancing　around　wearing　gloves　and　hats　in　a　comic　revue？　It　seemed　not　so　much　improbable　as　grotesque；　but　here　was　the　evidence　in　my　hand。　I　turned　the　picture　over　and　considered　the　number　scrawled　on　the　back；　and　the　more　I　considered　it；　the　more　obvious　it　seemed　that　there　was　only　one　course　of　action　open　to　me。　The　fact　that　I　would；　once　again；　be　trailing　along　in　the　footsteps　of　McAra　could　not　be　helped。

　　I　waited　until　the　young　lovers　had　gone　into　the　jewelry　store　and　then　took　out　my　mobile　phone。　I　scrolled　down　to　where　the　number　was　stored　and　called　Richard　Rycart。

　　FOURTEEN

　　Half　the　job　of　ghosting　is　about　finding　out　about　other　people。

　　Ghostwritin　g

　　THIS　TIME；　HE　ANSWEREDwithin　a　few　seconds。

　　“So　you　rang　back；”　he　said　quietly；　in　that　nasal；　singsong　voice　of　his。　“Somehow　I　had　a　feeling　you　would；　whoever　you　are。　Not　many　people　have　this　number。”　He　waited　for　me　to　reply。　I　could　hear　a　man　talking　in　the　background—delivering　a　speech；　it　sounded　like。　“Well；　my　friend；　are　you　going　to　stay　on　the　line　this　time？”

　　“Yes；”　I　said。

　　He　waited　again；　but　I　didn’t　know　how　to　begin。　I　kept　thinking　of　Lang；　of　what　he　would　think　if　he　could　see　me　talking　to　his　would…be　nemesis。　I　was　breaking　every　rule　in　the　ghosting　guidebook。　I

　　was　in　breach　of　the　confidentiality　agreement　I’d　signed　with　Rhinehart。　It　was　professional　suicide。

　　“I　tried　to　call　you　back　a　couple　of　times；”　he　continued。　I　detected　a　hint　of　reproach。

　　Across　the　street；　the　young　lovers　had　come　out　of　the　jewelry　store　and　were　strolling　toward

　　me。

　　“I　know；”　I　said；　finding　my　voice　at　last。　“I’m　sorry。　I　found　your　number　written　down　somewhere。　I　didn’t　know　whose　it　was。　I　called　it　on　the　off　chance。　It　didn’t　seem　right　to　be　talking　to

　　you。”

　　“Why　not？”

　　The　couple　passed　by。　I　followed　their　progress　in　the　mirror。　They　had　their　hands　in　one

　　another’s　back　pockets；　like　pickpockets　on　a　blind　date。

　　I　took　the　plunge。　“I’m　working　for　Adam　Lang。　I—”

　　“Don’t　tell　me　your　name；”　he　said　quickly。　“Don’t　use　any　names。　Keep　everything　nonspecific。

　　Where　exactly　did　you　find　my　number？”

　　His　urgency　unnerved　me。

　　“On　the　back　of　a　photograph。”

　　“What　sort　of　photograph？”

　　“Of　my　client’s　days　at　university。　My　predecessor　had　it。”

　　“Did　he；　by　God？”　Now　it　was　Rycart’s　turn　to　pause。　I　could　hear　people　clapping　at　the　other

　　end　of　the　line。

　　“You　sound　shocked；”　I　said。

　　“Yes；　well；　it　ties　in　with　something　he　said　to　me。”

　　“I’ve　been　to　see　one　of　the　people　in　the　photograph。　I　thought　you　might　be　able　to　help　me。”

　　“Why　don’t　you　talk　to　your　employer？”

　　“He’s　away。”

　　“Of　course　he　is。”　He　had　a　satisfied　smile　in　his　voice。　“And　where　are　you？　Without　being　too　specific？”

　　“In　New　England。”

　　“Can　you　get　to　the　city　where　I　am；　right　away？　You　know　where　I　am；　I　take　it？　Where　I　work？”

　　“I　suppose　so；”　I　said　doubtfully。　“I　have　a　car。　I　could　drive。”

　　“No；　don’t　drive。　Flying’s　safer　than　the　roads。”

　　“That’s　what　the　airlines　say。”

　　“Listen；　my　friend；”　whispered　Rycart　fiercely；　“if　I　was　in　your　position；　I　wouldn’t　joke。　Go　to　the　nearest　airport。　Catch　the　first　available　plane。　Text　me　the　flight　number；　nothing　else。　I’ll　arrange　for　someone　to　collect　you　when　you　land。”

　　“But　how　will　they　know　what　I　look　like？”

　　“They　won’t。　You’ll　have　to　look　out　for　them。”

　　There　was　a　renewed　burst　of　applause　in　the　background。　I　started　to　raise　a　fresh　objection；　but

　　it　was　too　late。　He　had　hung　up。

　　I　DROVE　OUT　OFBelmont　without　any　clear　idea　of　the　route　I　was　supposed　to　take。　I　checked　the　rearview　mirror　neurotically　every　few　seconds；　but　if　I　was　being　followed；　I　couldn’t　tell。　Different　cars　appeared　behind　me；　and　none　seemed　to　stay　for　longer　than　a　couple　of　minutes。　I　kept　my　eyes　open　for　signs　to　Boston　and　eventually　crossed　a　big　river　and　joined　the　interstate；　heading　east。

　　It　was　not　yet　three　in　the　afternoon；　but　already　the　day　was　starting　to　darken。　Away　to　my　right；　the　downtown　office　blocks　gleamed　gold　against　a　swollen　Atlantic　sky；　while　up　ahead　the　lights　of　the　big　jets　fell　toward　Logan　like　shooting　stars。　I　maintained　my　usual　cautious　pace　over　the　next　couple　of　miles。　Logan　Airport；　for　those　who　have　never　had　the　pleasure；　sits　in　the　middle　of　Boston　Harbor；　approached　from　the　south　by　a　long　tunnel。　As　the　road　descended　underground；　I　asked　myself　whether　I　was　really　going　to　go　through　with　this；　and　it　was　a　good　measure　of　my　uncertainty　that　when—a　mile　later—I　rose　again　into　the　deeper　gloom　of　the　afternoon；　I　still　hadn’t　decided。

　　I　followed　the　signs　to　the　long…term　car　park　and　was　just　reversing　into　a　bay　when　my　telephone　rang。　The　incoming　number　was　unfamiliar。　I　almost　didn’t　answer。　When　I　did；　a　peremptory　voice　said；　“What　on　earth　are　you　doing？”

　　It　was　Ruth　Lang。　She　had　that　presumption　of　beginning　a　conversation　without　first　announcing　who　was　calling；　a　lapse　in　manners　I　was　sure　her　husband　would　never　have　been　guilty　of；　even　when　he　was　prime　minister。

　　“Working；”　I　said。

　　“Really？　You’re　not　at　your　hotel。”

　　“Aren’t　I？”

　　“Well；　are　you？　They　told　me　you　hadn’t　even　checked　in。”

　　I　flailed　around　for　an　adequate　lie　and　hit　on　a　partial　truth。　“I　decided　to　go　to　New　York。”

　　“Why？”

　　“I　wanted　to　see　John　Maddox；　to　talk　about　the　structure　of　the　book；　in　view　of　the”—a　tactful　euphemism　was　needed；　I　decided—“the　changed　circumstances。”

　　“I　was　worried　about　you；”　she　said。　“All　day　I’ve　been　walking　up　and　down　this　fu