The Ghost(英文版)-第53部分

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s。　I　felt　no　pain；　except　when　one　of　the　terrified　secretaries　trod　on　my　hand　with　her　high　heel　in　her　desperation　to　get　out　of　the　plane。　But　I　couldn’t　see；　and　it　was　also　to　be　several　hours　before　I　could　hear　properly。　Even　today　I　get　an　occasional　buzzing　in　my　ears。　It　cuts　me　off　from　the　world；　like　radio　interference。　Eventually；　I　was　lifted　away　and　given　a　wonderful　shot　of　morphine　that　burst　like　warm　fireworks　in　my　brain。　Then　I　was　airlifted　by　helicopter　with　all　the　other　survivors　to　a　hospital　near　Boston—an　institution　very　close；　it　turned　out；　to　the　place　where　Emmett　lived。

　　Did　you　ever　do　something　secretly　as　a　child　that　seemed　really　bad　at　the　time；　and　for　which　you　were　sure　you　were　going　to　be　punished？　I　remember　breaking　a　precious　old　long…playing　gramophone　record　of　my　father’s　and　putting　it　away　in　its　sleeve　again　and　saying　nothing　about　it。　For　days；　I　lived　in　a　sweat　of　terror；　convinced　that　retribution　would　arrive　at　any　moment。　But　nothing　was　ever　said。　The　next　time　I　dared　to　look；　the　record　had　disappeared。　He　must　have　found　it　and　thrown　it　away。

　　I　had　similar　feelings　following　the　assassination　of　Adam　Lang。　Throughout　the　next　day　or　two；　as　I　lay　in　my　hospital　room；　my　face　bandaged；　and　with　a　policeman　on　guard　in　the　corridor　outside；　I　repeatedly　ran　over　in　my　mind　the　events　of　the　previous　week；　and　it　always　seemed　to　me　a　certainty　that　I　would　never　leave　that　place　alive。　If　you　stop　to　think　of　it；　there’s　nowhere　easier　to　dispose　of　someone　than　in　a　hospital；　I　should　imagine　it’s　almost　routine。　And　who　makes　a　better　killer　than　a　doctor？

　　But　it　turned　out　to　be　like　the　incident　of　my　father’s　broken　record。　Nothing　happened。　While　I　was　still　blinded；　I　was　gently　questioned　by　a　Special　Agent　Murphy　from　the　Boston　office　of　the　FBI　about　what　I　could　remember。　The　next　afternoon；　when　the　bandages　were　removed　from　my　eyes；　Murphy　returned。　He　looked　like　a　muscular　young　priest　in　a　fifties　movie；　and　this　time　he　was　accompanied　by　a　saturnine　Englishman　from　the　British　Security　Service；　MI5；　whose　name　I　never　quite　caught—because；　I　assume；　I　eant　to　catch　it。

　　They　showed　me　a　photograph。　My　vision　was　still　bleary；　but　I　was　nevertheless　able　to　identify　the　crazy　man　I　had　met　in　the　bar　of　my　hotel　and　who　had　staged　that　lonely　vigil；　with　the　biblical　slogan；　at　the　end　of　the　track　from　the　Rhinehart　compound。　His　name；　they　said；　was　George　Arthur　Boxer；　a　former　major　in　the　British　army；　whose　son　had　been　killed　in　Iraq　and　whose　wife　had　died　six　months　later　in　a　London　suicide　bombing。　In　his　unhinged　state；　Major　Boxer　had　held　Adam　Lang　personally　responsible；　and　had　stalked　him　to　Martha’s　Vineyard　just　after　McAra’s　death　had　been　reported　in　the　papers。　He　had　plenty　of　expertise　in　munitions　and　intelligence。　He　had　studied　tactics　for　suicide　bombing　on　jihadist　websites。　He　had　rented　a　cottage　in　Oak　Bluffs；　brought　in　supplies　of　peroxide　and　weed　killer；　and　turned　it　into　a　minor　factory　for　the　production　of　homemade　explosives。　And　it　would　have　been　easy　for　him　to　know　when　Lang　was　returning　from　New　York；　because　he　would　have　seen　the　bombproof　car　heading　to　the　airport　to　meet　him。　How　he　had　got　onto　the　airfield　nobody　was　quite　sure；　but　it　was　dark；　there　was　a　four…mile　perimeter　fence；　and　the　experts　had　always　assumed　that　four　Special　Branch　men　and　an　armored　car　were　sufficient　protection。

　　But　one　had　to　be　realistic；　said　the　man　from　MI5。　There　was　a　limit　to　what　security　could　do；　especially　against　a　determined　suicide　bomber。　He　quoted　Seneca；　in　the　original　Latin；　and　then　helpfully　translated：　“Who　scorns　his　own　life　is　lord　of　yours。”　I　got　the　impression　everyone　was　slightly　relieved　by　the　way　things　had　worked　out：　the　British；　because　Lang　had　been　killed　on　American　soil；　the　Americans；　because　he’d　been　blown　up　by　a　Brit；　and　both　because　there　would　now　be　no　war　crimes　trial；　no　unseemly　revelations；　and　no　guest　who　has　overstayed　his　welcome；　drifting　around　the　dinner　tables　of　Georgetown　for　the　next　twenty　years。　You　could　almost　say　it　was　the　special　relationship　in　action。

　　Agent　Murphy　asked　me　about　the　flight　from　New　York　and　whether　Lang　had　expressed　any　worries　about　his　personal　security。　I　said　truthfully　that　he　hadn’t。

　　“Mrs。　Bly；”　said　the　MI5　man；　“tells　us　you　recorded　an　interview　with　him　during　the　final　part　of　the　flight。”

　　“No；　she’s　wrong　about　that；”　I　said。　“I　had　the　machine　in　front　of　me；　but　I　never　actually　switched　it　on。　It　wasn’t　really　an　interview；　in　any　case。　It　was　more　of　a　chat。”

　　“Do　you　mind　if　I　take　a　look？”

　　“Go　ahead。”

　　My　shoulder　bag　was　on　the　nightstand　next　to　my　bed。　The　MI5　man　took　out　the　minirecorder　and　ejected　the　disk。　I　watched　him；　dry…mouthed。

　　“Can　I　borrow　this？”

　　“You　can　keep　it；”　I　said。　He　started　poking　through　the　rest　of　my　belongings。　“How　is　Amelia；　by　the　way？”

　　“She’s　fine。”　He　put　the　disk　into　his　briefcase。　“Thanks。”

　　“Can　I　see　her？”

　　“She　flew　back　to　London　last　night。”　I　guess　my　disappointment　must　have　been　evident；　because　the　MI5　man　added；　with　chilly　pleasure；　“It’s　not　surprising。　She　hasn’t　seen　her　husband　since　before　Christmas。”

　　“And　what　about　Ruth？”　I　asked。

　　“She’s　accompanying　Mr。　Lang’s　body　home　right　now；”　said　Murphy。　“Your　government　sent　a　plane　to　fetch　them。”

　　“He’ll　get　full　military　honors；”　added　the　MI5　man。　“A　statue　in　the　Palace　of　Westminster；　and　a　funeral　in　the　Abbey　if　she　wants　it。　He’s　never　been　more　popular　than　since　he　died。”

　　“He　should　have　done　it　years　ago；”　I　said。　They　didn’t　smile。　“And　is　it　really　true　that　nobody

　　else　was　killed？”

　　“Nobody；”　said　Murphy；　“which　was　a　miracle；　believe　me。”

　　“In　fact；”　said　the　man　from　MI5；　“Mrs。　Bly　wonders　if　Mr。　Lang　didn’t　actually　recognize　his

　　assassin　and　deliberately　head　toward　him；　knowing　that　something　like　this　might　happen。　Can　you　shed　any　light　on　that？”

　　“It　sounds　far…fetched；”　I　said。　“I　thought　a　fuel　truck　had　exploded。”

　　“It　urphy；　clicking　his　pen　and　slipping　it　into　his　inside　pocket。　“We　eventually　found　the　killer’s　head　on　the　terminal　roof。”

　　I　WATCHED　LANG’S　FUNERALon　CNN　two　days　later。　My　eyesight　was　more　or　less　restored。　I　could　see　it　was　tastefully　done：　the　queen；　the　prime　minister；　the　U。S。　vice　president　and　half　the　leaders　of　Europe；　the　coffin　draped　in　the　Union　Jack；　the　guard　of　honor；　the　solitary　piper　playing　a　lament。　Ruth　looked　very　good　in　black；　I　thought；　it　was　definitely　her　color。　I　kept　a　lookout　for　Amelia；　but　I　didn’t　see　her。　During　a　lull　in　proceedings；　there　was　even　an　interview　with　Richard　Rycart。　Naturally；　he　hadn’t　been　invited　to　the　service；　but　he’d　gone　to　the　trouble　of　putting　on　a　black　tie　and　paid　a　very　moving　tribute　from　his　office　in　the　United　Nations：　a　great　colleague…a　true　patriot…we　had　our　disagreements…remained　friends…my　heart　goes　out　to　Ruth　and　the　family…as　far　as　I’m　concerned　the　whole　chapter　is　closed。

　　I　found　the　mobile　phone　he　had　given　me　and　threw　it　out　the　window。

　　The　next　day；　when　I　was　due　to　be　discharged　from　hospital；　Rick　came　up　from　New　York　to　say　good…bye　and　take　me　to　the　airport。

　　“Do　you　want　the　good　news　or　the　good　news？”　he　said。

　　“I’m　not　sure　your　idea　of　good　news　is　the　same　as　mine。”

　　“Sid　Kroll　just　called。　Ruth　Lang　still　wants　you　to　finish　the　memoirs；　and　Maddox　will　give　you　an　extra　month　to　work　on　the　manuscript。”

　　“And　the　good　news　is？”

　　“Very　cute。　Listen；　don’t　be　so　goddamned　snooty　about　it。　This　is　a　really　hot　book　now。　This　is　Adam　Lang’s　voice　from　the　grave。　You　don’t　have　to　work　on　it　here　anymore；　you　can　finish　it　in　London。　You　look　terrible；　by　the　way。”

　　“His　‘voice　from　the　grave’？”　I　repeated　incredulously。　“So　now　I’m　to　be　the　ghost　of　a　ghost？”

　　“Come　on；　the　whole　situation　is　rich　with　possibilities。　Think　about　it。　You　can　write　what　you　like；　within　reason。　Nobody’s　going　to　stop　you。　And　you　liked　him；　didn’t　you？”

　　I　thought　about　that。　In　fact；　I　had　been　thinking　about　it　ever　since　I　came　round　from　the　sedative。　Worse　than　the　pain　in　my　eyes　and　the　buzzing　in　my　ears；　worse　even　than　my　fear　that　I　would　never　emerge　from　the　hospital；　was　my　sense　of　guilt。　That　may　seem　odd；　given　what　I’d　learned；　but　I　couldn’t　work　up　any　sense　of　self…justification　or　resentment　against　Lang。　I　was　the　one　at　fault。　It　wasn’t　just　that　I’d　betrayed　my　client；　personally　and　professionally；　it　y　actions　had　set　in　motion。　If　I　hadn’t　gone　to　see　Emmett；　Emmett　wouldn’t　have　contacted　Lang　to　warn　him　about　the　photograph。　Then　maybe　Lang　wouldn’t　have　insisted　on　flying　back　to　Martha’s　Vineyard　that　night　to　see　Ruth。　Then　I　wouldn’t　have　had　to　tell　him　about　Rycart。　And　then；　and　then…？　It　nagged　away　at　me　as　I　lay　in　the　darkness。　I　just　couldn’t　erase　the　memory　of　how　bleak　he　had　looked