The Ghost(英文版)-第57部分

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　　“Hello；　Ruth。　Hello；　Sid。”

　　I　nodded　to　him。　He　winked。

　　“I　was　told　you　couldn’t　stand　these　kinds　of　parties；”　she　said；　still　holding　my　hands　and　fixing

　　me　with　her　glittering　dark　eyes；　“or　else　I　would　have　invited　you。　Did　you　get　my　note？”

　　“I　did。　Thanks。”

　　“But　you　didn’t　call　me！”

　　“I　didn’t　know　if　you　were　just　being　polite。”

　　“Being　polite！”　She　briefly　shook　my　hands　in　reproach。　“Since　when　was　I　ever　polite？　You　must

　　come　and　see　me。”

　　And　then　she　did　that　thing　that　important　people　always　do　to　me　at　parties：　she　glanced　over　my　shoulder。　And　I　saw；　almost　immediately　and　quite　unmistakably　in　her　gaze；　a　flash　of　alarm；　which　was　followed　at　once　by　a　barely　perceptible　shake　of　her　head。　I　detached　my　hands　and　turned　around　and

　　saw　Paul　Emmett。　He　was　no　more　than　five　feet　away。

　　“Hello；”　he　said。　“I　believe　we’ve　met。”

　　I　swung　back　to　Ruth。　I　tried　to　speak；　but　no　words　would　come。

　　“Ah；”　I　said。　“Ah—”

　　“Paul　was　my　tutor；”　she　said　calmly；　“when　I　was　a　Fulbright　scholar　at　Harvard。　You　and　I　must

　　talk。”

　　“Ah—”

　　I　backed　away　from　them　all。　I　knocked　into　a　man　who　shielded　his　drink　and　told　me　cheerfully　to　watch　out。　Ruth　was　saying　something　earnestly；　and　so　was　Kroll；　but　there　was　a　buzzing　in　my　ears　and　I　couldn’t　hear　them。　I　saw　Amelia　staring　at　me　and　I　waved　my　hands　feebly；　and　then　I　fled　from　the　hall；　across　the　lobby　and　out　into　the　hollow；　imperial　grandeur　of　Whitehall。

　　IT　WAS　OBVIOUS　THEmoment　I　got　outside　that　another　bomb　had　gone　off。　I　could　hear　the　sirens　in　the　distance；　and　a　pillar　of　smoke　was　already　dwarfing　Nelson’s　Column；　rising　from　somewhere　behind　the　National　Gallery。　I　set　off　at　a　loping　run　toward　Trafalgar　Square　and　barged　in　front　of　an　outraged　couple　to　seize　their　taxi。　Avenues　of　escape　were　being　closed　off　all　over　central　London；　as　if　by　a　spreading　forest　fire。　We　turned　into　a　one…way　street；　only　to　find　the　police　sealing　the　far　end　with　yellow　tape。　The　driver　flung　the　cab　into　reverse；　jerking　me　forward　and　onto　the　edge　of　my　seat；　and　that　was　how　I　stayed　throughout　the　rest　of　the　journey；　clinging　to　the　handle　beside　the　door；　as　we　twisted　and　dodged　through　the　back　routes　north。　When　we　reached　my　flat　I　paid　him　double　the　fare。

　　“The　key　to　everything　is　in　Lang’s　autobiography—it’s　all　there　at　the　beginning。”

　　I　grabbed　my　copy　of　the　finished　book；　took　it　over　to　my　desk；　and　started　flicking　through　the　opening　chapters。　I　ran　my　finger　swiftly　down　the　center　of　the　pages；　sweeping　my　eyes　over　all　the　made…up　feelings　and　half…true　memories。　My　professional　prose；　typeset　and　bound；　had　rendered　the　roughness　of　a　human　life　as　smooth　as　a　plastered　wall。

　　Nothing。

　　I　threw　it　away　in　disgust。　What　a　worthless　piece　of　junk　it　was；　what　a　soulless　commercial　exercise。　I　was　glad　Lang　wasn’t　around　to　read　it。　I　actually　preferred　the　original；　for　the　first　time　I　recognized　something　honest　at　least　in　its　plodding　earnestness。　I　opened　a　drawer　and　grabbed　McAra’s　original　manuscript；　tattered　from　use　and　in　places　barely　legible　beneath　my　crossings…out　and　overwritings。“Chapter　One。　Langs　are　Scottish　folk　originally；　and　proud　of　it…”　I　remembered　the　deathless　beginning　I　had　cut　so　ruthlessly　in　Martha’s　Vineyard。　But　then；　come　to　think　of　it；　every　single　one　of　McAra’s　chapter　beginnings　had　been　particularly　dreadful。　I　hadn’t　left　one　unaltered。　I　searched　through　the　loose　pages；　the　bulky　manuscript　fanning　open　and　twisting　in　my　clumsy　hands　like　a　living　thing。

　　“Chapter　Two。　Wife　and　child　in　tow；　I　decided　to　settle　in　a　small　town　where　we　could　live　away　from　the　hurly…burly　of　London　life…Chapter　Three。　Ruth　saw　the　possibility　that　I　might　become　party　leader　long　before　I　did…Chapter　Four。　Studying　the　failures　of　my　predecessors；　I　resolved　to　be　different…Chapter　Five。　In　retrospect；　our　general　election　victory　seems　inevitable；　but　at　the　time…Chapter　Six。　Seventy…six　separate　agencies　oversaw　social　security…Chapter　Seven。　Was　ever　a　land　so　haunted　by　history　as　Northern　Ireland…Chapter　Eight。　Recruited　from　all　walks　of　life；　I　was　proud　of　our　candidates　in　the　European　elections…Chapter　Nine。　As　a　rule；　nations　pursue　self…interest　in　their　foreign　policy…Chapter　Ten。　A　major　problem　facing　the　new　government…Chapter　Eleven。　CIA　assessments　of　the　terrorist　threat…Chapter　Twelve。　Agent　reports　from　Afghanistan…Chapter　Thirteen。　In　deciding　to　launch　an　attack　on　civilian　areas；　I　knew…Chapter　Fourteen。　America　needs　allies　who　are　prepared…Chapter　Fifteen。　By　the　time　of　the　annual　party　conference；　demands　for　my　resignation…Chapter　Sixteen。　Professor　Paul　Emmett　of　Harvard　University　has　written　of　the　importance…”

　　I　took　all　sixteen　chapter　openings　and　laid　them　out　across　the　desk　in　sequence。

　　“The　key　to　everything　is　in　Lang’s　autobiography—it’s　all　there　at　the　beginning。”

　　Thebeginning　or　thebeginnings　？

　　I　was　never　any　good　at　puzzles。　But　when　I　went　through　the　pages　and　circled　the　first　word　of　each　chapter；　even　I　couldn’t　help　but　see　it—the　sentence　that　McAra；　fearful　for　his　safety；　had　embedded　in　the　manuscript；　like　a　message　from　the　grave：　“Langs　Wife　Ruth　Studying　In　Seventy…six　Was　Recruited　As　A　CIA　Agent　In　America　By　Professor　Paul　Emmett　of　Harvard　University。”

　　SEVENTEEN

　　A　ghost　must　expect　no　glory。

　　Ghostwritin　g

　　I　LEFT　MY　FLATthat　night；　never　to　return。　Since　then　a　month　has　passed。　As　far　as　know；　I　haven’t　been　missed。　There　were　times；　especially　in　the　first　week；　sitting　alone　in　my　scruffy　hotel　room—I’ve　stayed　in　four　by　now—when　I　was　sure　I　had　gone　mad。　I　ought　to　ring　Rick；　I　told　myself；　and　get　the　name　of　his　shrink。　I　was　suffering　from　delusions。　But　then；　about　three　weeks　ago；　after　a　hard　day’s　writing；　just　as　I　was　falling　asleep；　I　heard　on　the　midnight　news　that　the　former　foreign　secretary　Richard　Rycart　had　been　killed　in　a　car　accident　in　New　York　City；　along　with　his　driver。　It　was　the　fourth　headline；　I’m　afraid。　There’s　nothing　more　ex　than　an　ex…politician。　Rycart　would　not　have　been　pleased。

　　I　knew　after　that　there　was　no　going　back。

　　Although　I’ve　done　nothing　but　write　and　think　about　what　happened；　I　still　can’t　tell　you　precisely　how　McAra　uncovered　the　truth。　I　presume　it　must　have　started　back　in　the　archives；　when　he　came　across　Operation　Tempest。　He　was　already　disillusioned　with　Lang’s　years　in　power；　unable　to　understand　why　something　that　had　started　with　such　high　promise　had　ended　in　such　a　bloody　mess。　When；　in　his　dogged　way；　researching　the　Cambridge　years；　he　stumbled　on　those　photographs；　it　must　have　seemed　like　the　key　to　the　mystery。　Certainly；　if　Rycart　had　heard　rumors　of　Emmett’s　CIA　links；　it’s　reasonable　to　assume　that　McAra　must　have　done　so；　too。

　　But　McAra　knew　other　things　as　well。　He　would　have　known　that　Ruth　was　a　Fulbright　scholar　at　Harvard；　and　it　wouldn’t　have　taken　him　more　than　ten　minutes　on　the　internet　to　discover　that　Emmett　was　teaching　her　specialist　subject　on　the　campus　in　the　midseventies。　He　also　knew　better　than　anyone　that　Lang　rarely　made　a　decision　without　consulting　his　wife。　Adam　was　the　brilliant　political　salesman；　Ruth　the　strategist。　If　you　had　to　pick　which　of　them　would　have　had　the　brains；　the　nerve；　and　the　ruthlessness　to　be　an　ideological　recruit；　there　could　only　be　one　choice。　McAra　can’t　have　known　for　sure；　but　I　believe　he’d　put　together　enough　of　the　picture　to　blurt　out　his　suspicions　to　Lang　during　that　heated　argument　on　the　night　before　he　went　off　to　confront　Emmett。

　　I　try　to　imagine　what　Lang　must　have　felt　when　he　heard　the　accusation。　Dismissive；　I’m　sure；　furious　also。　But　a　day　or　two　afterward；　when　a　body　was　washed　up；　and　he　went　to　the　morgue　to　identify　McAra—what　did　he　think　then？

　　Most　days　I　have　listened　to　the　tape　of　my　final　conversation　with　Lang。　The　key　to　everything　is　there；　I’m　sure；　but　always　the　whole　story　remains　just　tantalizingly　out　of　reach。　Our　voices　are　thin　but　recognizable。　In　the　background　is　the　rumble　of　the　jet’s　engines。

　　ME：　Is　it　true　you　had　a　serious　row　with　him？　Just　before　he　died？

　　LANG：　Mike　made　certain　wild　accusations。　I　could　hardly　ignore　them。

　　ME：　May　I　ask　what　kind　of　accusations？

　　LANG：　I’d　prefer　not　to　repeat　them。

　　ME：　Were　they　to　do　with　the　CIA？

　　LANG：　But　surely　you　already　know；　if　you’ve　been　to　see　Paul　Emmett？　＇A　pause；　lasting　seventy…five　seconds＇

　　LANG：　I　want　you　to　understand　that　everything　I　did；　both　as　party　leader　and　as　prime　minister—everything—I　did　out　of　conviction；　because　I　believed　it　was　right。

　　ME：　＇Inaudible＇

　　LANG：　Emmett　claims　you　showed　him　some　photographs。　Is　that　true？　May　I　see？

　　And　then　there　is　nothing　for　a　while　but　engine　sound；　as　he　studies　them；　and　I　spool　forward　to　the　part　where　he　lingers　over　the　girls　at　the　picnic　on　the　riverbank。　He　sounds　inexpre