The Ghost(英文版)-第44部分

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es。”

　　“I　was　worried　about　you；”　she　said。　“All　day　I’ve　been　walking　up　and　down　this　fucking　beach　thinking　about　what　we　discussed　last　night—”　I　interrupted。　“I　wouldn’t　say　anything　about　that　on　the　phone。”

　　“Don’t　worry；　I　won’t。　I’m　not　a　total　fool。　It’s　just　that　the　more　I　go　over　things；　the　more

　　worried　I　get。”

　　“Where’s　Adam？”

　　“Still　in　Washington；　as　far　as　I　know。　He　keeps　trying　to　call　and　I　keep　not　answering。　When　will

　　you　be　back？”

　　“I’m　not　sure。”

　　“Tonight？”

　　“I’ll　try。”

　　“Do；　if　you　can。”　She　lowered　her　voice；　I　imagined　the　bodyguard　standing　nearby。　“It’s　Dep’s

　　night　off。　I’ll　cook。”

　　“Is　that　supposed　to　be　an　incentive？”

　　“You　rude　man；”　she　said　and　laughed。　She　rang　off　as　abruptly　as　she　had　called；　without　saying

　　good…bye。

　　I　tapped　my　phone　against　my　teeth。　The　prospect　of　a　confiding　fireside　talk　with　Ruth；　perhaps　to　be　followed　by　a　second　round　in　her　vigorous　embrace；　was　not　without　its　attractions。　I　could　call　Rycart　and　tell　him　I’d　changed　my　mind。　Undecided；　I　took　my　case　out　of　the　car　and　wheeled　it　through　the　puddles　toward　the　waiting　bus。　Once　I　was　aboard；　I　cradled　it　next　to　me　and　studied　the　airport　map。　At　that　point　yet　another　choice　presented　itself。　Terminal　B—the　shuttle　to　New　York　and　Rycart—or　terminal　E—international　departures　and　an　evening　flight　back　to　London？　I　hadn’t　considered　that　before。　I　had　my　passport；　everything。　I　could　simply　walk　away。

　　B　or　E？　I　seriously　weighed　them。　I　was　like　an　unusually　dim　lab　rat　in　a　maze；　endlessly

　　confronted　with　alternatives；　endlessly　picking　the　wrong　one。

　　The　bus　doors　opened　with　a　heavy　sigh。

　　I　got　off　at　B；　bought　my　ticket；　sent　a　text　message　to　Rycart；　and　caught　the　US　Airways　Shuttle

　　to　LaGuardia。

　　FOR　SOME　REASON　OURplane　was　delayed　on　the　tarmac。　We　taxied　out　on　schedule　but　then　stopped　just　short　of　the　runway；　pulling　aside　in　a　gentlemanly　fashion　to　let　the　queue　of　jets　behind　us　go　ahead。　It　began　to　rain。　I　looked　out　of　the　porthole　at　the　flattened　grass　and　the　welded　sheets　of　sea　and　sky。　Clear　veins　of　water　pulsed　across　the　glass。　Every　time　a　plane　took　off；　the　thin　skin　of　the　cabin　shook　and　the　veins　broke　and　reformed。　The　pilot　came　over　the　intercom　and　apologized：　there　was　some　problem　with　our　security　clearance；　he　said。　The　Department　of　Homeland　Security　had　just　raised　its　threat　assessment　from　yellow　（elevated）　to　orange　（high）　and　our　patience　was　appreciated。　Among　the　businesspeople　around　me；　agitation　grew。　The　man　sitting　next　to　me　caught　my　eye　above　the　edge　of　his　pink　paper　and　shook　his　head。

　　“It　just　gets　worse；”　he　said。

　　He　folded　hisFinancial　Times　；　placed　it　on　his　lap；　and　closed　his　eyes。　The　headline　was　“Lang　wins　US　support；”　and　there　was　that　grin　again。　Ruth　had　been　right。　He　shouldn’t　have　smiled。　It　had　gone　round　the　world。

　　My　small　suitcase　was　in　the　luggage　compartment　above　my　head；　my　feet　were　resting　on　the　shoulder　bag　beneath　the　seat　in　front　of　me。　All　was　in　order。　But　I　couldn’t　relax。　I　felt　guilty；　even　though　I　had　done　nothing　wrong。　I　half　expected　the　FBI　to　storm　the　plane　and　drag　me　away。　After　about　forty…five　minutes；　the　engines　suddenly　started　to　roar　again　and　the　pilot　broke　radio　silence　to　announce　that　we　had　finally　been　given　permission　to　take　off；　and　thank　you　again　for　your　understanding。

　　We　labored　along　the　runway　and　up　into　the　clouds；　and　such　was　my　exhaustion　that；　despite　my　anxiety—or　perhaps　because　of　it—I　actually　drifted　into　sleep。　I　came　awake　with　a　jerk　when　I　felt　someone　leaning　across　me；　but　it　was　only　the　cabin　attendant；　checking　that　my　seat　belt　was　fastened。　It　seemed　to　me　that　I　had　been　unconscious　no　more　than　a　few　seconds；　but　the　pressure　in　my　ears　told　me　that　already　we　were　coming　in　to　land　at　LaGuardia。　We　touched　down　at　six　minutes　past　six—I　remember　the　time　exactly：　I　checked　my　watch—and　by　twenty　past　I　was　avoiding　the　impatient　crowds　around　the　baggage　carousel　and　heading　out　of　the　gate　into　the　arrivals　hall。

　　It　was　busy；　early　evening；　and　people　were　in　a　hurry　to　get　downtown　or　home　for　dinner。　I　scanned　the　bewildering　array　of　faces；　wondering　if　Rycart　himself　had　turned　out　to　greet　me；　but　there　was　no　one　I　recognized。　The　usual　lugubrious　drivers　were　waiting；　holding　the　names　of　their　passengers　against　their　chests。　They　stared　straight　ahead；　avoiding　eye　contact；　like　suspects　in　a　police　lineup；　while　I；　in　the　manner　of　a　nervous　witness；　walked　along　in　front　of　them；　checking　each　carefully；　not　wanting　to　make　a　mistake。　Rycart　had　implied　I’d　recognize　the　right　person　when　I　saw　him；　and　I　did；　and　my　heart　almost　stopped。　He　was　standing　apart　from　the　others；　in　his　own　patch　of　space—wan　faced；　dark　haired；　tall；　heavyset；　early　fifties；　in　a　badly　fitting　chain…store　suit—and　he　was　holding　a　small　blackboard　on　which　was　chalked　“Mike　McAra。”　Even　his　eyes　were　as　I　had　imagined　McAra’s　to　be：　crafty　and　colorless。

　　He　was　chewing　gum。　He　nodded　to　my　suitcase。　“You　okay　with　that。”　It　was　a　statement；　not　a　question；　but　I　didn’t　care。　I’d　never　been　more　pleased　to　hear　a　New　York　accent　in　my　life。　He　turned　on　his　heel　and　I　followed　him　across　the　hall　and　out　into　the　pandemonium　of　the　night：　shrieks；　whistles；　slamming　doors；　the　fight　to　grab　a　cab；　sirens　in　the　distance。

　　He　brought　round　his　car；　wound　down　his　window；　and　beckoned　to　me　to　get　in　quickly。　As　I　struggled　to　get　my　case　into　the　backseat；　he　stared　straight　ahead；　his　hands　on　the　wheel；　discouraging　conversation。　Not　that　there　was　much　time　to　talk。　Barely　had　we　left　the　perimeter　of　the　airport　than　we　were　pulling　up　in　front　of　a　big；　glass…fronted　hotel　and　conference　center　overlooking　Grand　Central　Parkway。　He　grunted　as　he　shifted　his　heavy　body　round　in　his　seat　to　address　me。　The　car　stank　of　his　sweat　and　I　had　a　moment　of　pure　existential　horror；　staring　beyond　him；　through　the　drizzle；　to　that　bleak　and　anonymous　building：　what；　in　the　name　of　God；　was　I　doing？

　　“If　you　need　to　make　contact；　use　this；”　he　said；　giving　me　a　brand…new　cell　phone；　still　in　its　plastic　wrapper。　“There’s　a　chip　inside　with　twenty　dollars’　worth　of　calls　on　it。　Don’t　use　your　old　phone。　The　safest　thing　is　to　turn　it　off。　You　pay　for　your　room　in　advance；　with　cash。　Have　you　got　enough？　It’ll　be　about　three　hundred　bucks。”

　　I　nodded。

　　“You’re　staying　one　night。　You　have　a　reservation。”　He　wriggled　his　fat　wallet　out　from　his　back　pocket。　“This　is　the　card　you　use　to　guarantee　the　extras。　The　name　on　the　card　is　the　name　you　register　under。　Use　an　address　in　the　United　Kingdom　that　isn’t　your　own。　If　thereare　any　extras；　make　sure　you　pay　for　them　in　cash。　This　is　the　telephone　number　you　use　to　make　contact　in　future。”

　　“You　used　to　be　a　cop；”　I　said。　I　took　the　credit　card　and　a　torn…out　strip　of　paper　with　a　number　written　on　it　in　a　childish　hand。　The　paper　and　plastic　were　warm　from　the　heat　of　his　body。

　　“Don’t　use　the　internet。　Don’t　speak　to　strangers。　And　especially　avoid　any　women　who　might　try　to　come　on　to　you。”

　　“You　sound　like　my　mother。”

　　His　face　didn’t　flicker。　We　sat　there　for　a　few　seconds。　“Well；”　he　said　impatiently。　He　waved　a　meaty　hand　at　me。　“That’s　it。”

　　Once　I　was　through　the　revolving　glass　door　and　inside　the　lobby；　I　checked　the　name　on　the　card。　Clive　Dixon。　A　big　conference　had　just　ended。　Scores　of　delegates　wearing　black　suits　with　bright　yellow　lapel　badges　were　pouring　across　the　wide　expanse　of　white　marble；　chattering　to　one　another　like　a　flight　of　crows。　They　looked　eager；　purposeful；　motivated；　newly　fired　up　to　meet　their　corporate　targets　and　personal　goals。　I　saw　from　their　badges　they　belonged　to　a　church。　Above　our　heads；　great　glass　globes　of　light　hung　from　a　ceiling　a　hundred　feet　high　and　shimmered　on　walls　of　chrome。　I　wasn’t　just　out　of　my　depth　anymore；　I　was　out　of　sight　of　land。

　　“I　have　a　reservation；　I　believe；”　I　said　to　the　clerk　at　the　desk；　“in　the　name　of　Dixon。”

　　It’s　not　an　alias　I’d　have　chosen。　I　don’t　think　of　myself　as　a　Dixon；　whatever　a　Dixon　is。　But　the　receptionist　was　untroubled　by　my　embarrassment。　I　was　on　his　computer；　that　was　all　that　mattered　to　him；　and　my　card　was　good。　The　room　rate　was　two　hundred　and　seventy…five　dollars。　I　filled　out　the　reservation　form　and　gave　as　my　false　address　the　number　of　Kate’s　small　terraced　house　in　Shepherd’s　Bush　and　the　street　of　Rick’s　London　club。　When　I　said　I　wanted　to　pay　in　cash；　he　took　the　notes　between　his　finger　and　thumb　as　if　they　were　the　strangest　things　he　had　ever　seen。Cash？　If　I’d　tied　a　mule　to　his　desk　and　offered　to　pay　him　in　animal　skins　and　sticks　that　I’d　spent　the　winter　carving；　he　couldn’t　have　looked　more　nonplussed。

　　I　declined　to　be　assisted　with　my　bags；　took　the　elevator　to　the　sixth　floor；　and　stuck　the　electronic　key　card　into　the　door。　My　room　was　beige　and　softly　li