The Ghost(英文版)-第46部分

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　I　took　it　to　The　Hague　in　person。”

　　“You’d　no　idea　who　it　came　from？”

　　“No。　Not　until　my　anonymous　source　called　and　told　me。　And　just　you　wait　till　Lang　hears　who　it　was。　This　is　going　to　be　the　worst　thing　of　all。”　He　leaned　in　close　to　me。　“Mike　McAra！”

　　Looking　back；　I　suppose　I　already　knew　it。　But　suspicion　is　one　thing；　confirmation　another；　and　to　see　Rycart’s　exultation　at　that　moment　was　to　appreciate　the　scale　of　McAra’s　treachery。

　　“Hecalledme　！　Can　you　believe　that？　If　anyone　had　predicted　I’d　ever　be　given　help　by　Mike　McAra；　of　all　people；　I’d　have　laughed　at　him。”

　　“When　did　he　call？”

　　“About　three　weeks　after　I　first　got　the　document。　The　eighth　of　January？　The　ninth？　Something　like　that。　‘Hello；　Richard。　Did　you　get　the　present　I　sent　you？’　I　almost　had　a　heart　attack。　Then　I　had　to　shut　him　up　quickly。　Because　of　course　you　know　that　the　phone　lines　at　the　UN　are　all　bugged？”

　　“Are　they？”　I　was　still　trying　to　absorb　everything。

　　“Oh；　completely。　The　National　Security　Agency　monitors　every　word　that’s　transmitted　in　the　western　hemisphere。　Every　syllable　you　ever　utter　on　a　phone；　every　email　you　ever　send；　every　credit　card　transaction　you　ever　make—it’s　all　recorded　and　stored。　The　only　problem　is　sorting　through　it。　At　the　UN；　we’re　briefed　that　the　easiest　way　to　get　round　the　eavesdropping　is　to　use　disposable　mobile　phones；　try　to　avoid　mentioning　specifics；　and　change　our　numbers　as　often　as　possible—that　way　we　can　at　least　keep　a　bit　ahead　of　them。　So　I　told　Mike　to　stop　right　there。　Then　I　gave　him　a　brand…new　number　I’d　never　used　before　and　asked　him　to　call　me　straight　back。”

　　“Ah；”　I　said。　“I　see。”　And　I　could。　I　could　visualize　it　perfectly。　McAra　with　his　phone　wedged　between　shoulder　and　ear；　grabbing　his　cheap　blue　Bic。　“He　must　have　scribbled　the　number　on　the　back　of　the　photograph　he　was　holding　at　the　time。”

　　“And　then　he　called　me；”　said　Rycart。　He　had　stopped　pacing　and　was　looking　at　himself　in　the　mirror　above　the　chest　of　drawers。　He　put　both　hands　to　his　forehead　and　smoothed　his　hair　back　over　his　ears。　“Christ；　I’m　shattered；”　he　said。　“Look　at　me。　I　was　never　like　this　when　I　was　in　government；　even　when　I　was　working　eighteen　hours　a　day。　You　know；　people　get　it　all　wrong。　It　isn’t　having　power　that’s　exhausting—it’snot　having　it　that　wears　you　out。”

　　“What　did　he　say　when　he　called？　McAra？”

　　“The　first　thing　that　struck　me　was　that　he　didn’t　sound　his　usual　self　at　all。　You　were　asking　me　what　he　was　like。　Well；　he　was　a　pretty　tough　operator；　which　of　course　is　what　Adam　liked　about　him：　he　knew　he　could　always　rely　on　Mike　to　do　the　dirty　work。　He　was　sharp；　businesslike。　You　could　almost　say　he　was　brutal；　especially　on　the　phone。　My　private　office　used　to　call　him　McHorror：　‘The　McHorror　just　rang　for　you；　Foreign　Secretary…’　But　that　day；　I　remember；　his　voice　was　completely　flat。　He　sounded　broken；　actually。　He　said　he’d　just　spent　the　past　year　in　the　archives　in　Cambridge；　working　on　Adam’s　memoirs；　going　over　our　whole　time　in　government；　and　just　getting　more　and　more　disillusioned　with　it　all。　He　said　that　that　was　where　he’d　found　the　memorandum　about　Operation　Tempest。　But　the　real　reason　he　was　calling；　he　said；　was　that　that　was　just　the　tip　of　the　iceberg。　He　said　he’d　just　discovered　something　much　more　important；　something　that　made　sense　of　everything　that　had　gone　wrong　while　we　were　in　power。”

　　I　could　hardly　breathe。　“What　was　it？”

　　Rycart　laughed。　“Well；　oddly　enough；　I　did　ask　him　that；　but　he　wouldn’t　tell　me　over　the　phone。　He　said　he　wanted　to　meet　me　to　discuss　it　face…to…face：　it　was　that　big。　The　only　thing　he　would　say　was　that　the　key　to　it　could　be　found　in　Lang’s　autobiography；　if　anyone　bothered　to　check；　that　it　was　all　there　in　the　beginning。”

　　“Those　were　his　exact　words？”

　　“Pretty　much。　I　made　a　note　as　he　was　talking。　And　that　was　it。　He　said　he’d　call　me　in　a　day　or　two　to　fix　a　meeting。　But　I　heard　nothing；　and　then　about　a　week　later　it　was　in　the　press　that　he　was　dead。　And　nobody　else　ever　called　me　on　that　phone；　because　nobody　else　had　that　number。　So　you　can　imagine　why　I　was　so　excited　when　it　suddenly　started　ringing　again。　And　so　here　we　are；”　he　said；　gesturing　to　the　room；　“the　perfect　place　to　spend　a　Thursday　night。　And　now　I　think　you　should　tell　me　exactly　what　the　hell　is　going　on。”

　　“I　will。　Just　one　more　thing；　though。　Why　didn’t　you　tell　the　police？”

　　“You　are　joking；　are　you？　Discussions　at　The　Hague　were　at　a　very　delicate　stage。　If　I’d　told　the　police　that　McAra　had　been　in　contact　with　me；　naturally　they’d　have　wanted　to　know　why。　Then　it　would　have　been　bound　to　get　back　to　Lang；　and　he　would　have　been　able　to　make　some　kind　of　preemptive　move　against　the　war　crimes　court。　He’s　still　a　hell　of　an　operator；　you　know。　That　statement　he　put　out　against　me　the　day　before　yesterday—‘The　international　struggle　against　terror　is　too　important　to　be　used　for　the　purposes　of　domestic　political　revenge。’　Wow。”　He　shuddered　admiringly。　“Vicious。”

　　I　squirmed　slightly　in　my　chair；　but　Rycart　didn’t　notice。　He’d　gone　back　to　inspecting　himself　in　the　mirror。　“Besides；”　he　said；　sticking　out　his　chin；　“I　thought　it　was　accepted　that　Mike　had　killed　himself；　either　because　he　was　depressed；　or　drunk；　or　both。　I’d　only　have　confirmed　what　they　already　knew。　He　was　certainly　in　a　poor　state　when　he　rang　me。”

　　“And　I　can　tell　you　why；”　I　said。　“What　he’d　just　found　out　was　that　one　of　the　men　in　that　picture　with　Lang　at　Cambridge—the　picture　McAra　had　in　his　hand　when　he　spoke　to　you—was　an　officer　in　the　CIA。”

　　Rycart　had　been　checking　his　profile。　He　stopped。　His　brow　corrugated。　And　then；　with　great　slowness；　he　turned　his　face　toward　me。

　　“He　waswhat　？”

　　“His　name　is　Paul　Emmett。”　Suddenly　I　couldn’t　get　the　words　out　fast　enough。　I　was　desperate　to　unburden　myself—to　share　it—to　let　someone　else　try　to　make　sense　of　it。　“He　later　became　a　professor　at　Harvard。　Then　he　went　on　to　run　something　called　the　Arcadia　Institution。　Have　you　heard　of　it？”

　　“I’ve　heard　of　it—of　course　I’ve　heard　of　it；　and　I’ve　always　steered　well　clear　of　it；　precisely　because　I’ve　always　thought　it　had　CIA　written　all　over　it。”　Rycart　sat　down。　He　seemed　stunned。

　　“But　is　that　really　plausible？”　I　asked。　“I　don’t　know　how　these　things　work。　Would　someone　join　the　CIA　and　then　immediately　be　sent　off　to　do　postgraduate　research　in　another　country？”

　　“I’d　say　that’s　highly　plausible。　What　better　cover　could　you　want？　And　where　better　than　a　university　to　spot　the　future　best　and　the　brightest？”　He　held　out　his　hand。　“Show　me　the　photograph　again。　Which　one　is　Emmett？”

　　“It　may　all　be　balls；”　I　warned；　pointing　Emmett　out。　“I’ve　no　proof。　I　just　found　his　name　on　one　of　those　paranoid　websites。　They　said　he　joined　the　CIA　after　he　left　Yale；　which　must　have　been　about　three　years　before　this　was　taken。”

　　“Oh；　I　can　believe　it；”　said　Rycart；　studying　him　intently。　“In　fact；　now　you　mention　it；　I　think　I　did　hear　some　gossip　once。　But　then　that　whole　international　conference　circuit　world　is　crawling　with　them。　I　call　them　the　military…industrial…academic　complex。”　He　smiled　at　his　own　wit；　then　looked　serious　again。　“What’s　really　suspicious　is　that　he　should　have　known　Lang。”

　　“No；”　I　said；　“what’sreally　suspicious　is　that　a　matter　of　hours　after　McAra　tracked　down　Emmett　to　his　house　near　Boston；　he　was　found　washed　up　dead　on　a　beach　in　Martha’s　Vineyard。”

　　AFTER　THAT　I　TOLDhim　everything　I’d　discovered。　I　told　him　the　story　about　the　tides　and　the　flashlights　on　the　beach　at　Lambert’s　Cove；　and　the　curious　way　the　police　investigation　had　been　handled。　I　told　him　about　Ruth’s　description　of　McAra’s　argument　with　Lang　on　the　eve　of　his　death；　and　about　Lang’s　reluctance　to　discuss　his　Cambridge　years；　and　the　way　he’d　tried　to　conceal　the　fact　that　he’d　become　politically　active　immediately　after　leaving　university　rather　than　two　years　later。　I　described　how　McAra；　with　his　typical　dogged　thoroughness；　had　discovered　all　this；　turning　up　detail　after　detail　that　gradually　destroyed　Lang’s　account　of　his　early　years。　That　was　presumably　what　he　meant　when　he　said　that　the　key　to　everything　was　in　the　beginning　of　Lang’s　autobiography。　I　told　him　about　the　satellite　navigation　system　in　the　Ford　and　how　it　had　taken　me　to　Emmett’s　doorstep；　and　how　strangely　Emmett　had　behaved。

　　And；　of　course；　the　more　I　talked；　the　more　excited　Rycart　became。　I　guess　it　must　have　been　like　Christmas　for　him。

　　“Just　suppose；”　he　said；　pacing　up　and　down　again；　“that　it　was　Emmett　who　originally　suggested　to　Lang　that　he　should　think　about　a　career　in　politics。　Let’s　face　it；　someone　must　have　put　the　idea　into　his　pretty　little　head。　I’d　been　a　junior　member　of　the　party　since　I　was　fourteen。　What　year　did　Lang　join？”

　　“Nineteen　seventy…five。”

　　“Seventy…five！　You　see；　that　would　make　perfect　sense。　Do　you　remember　w