The Ghost(英文版)-第9部分

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e　Lighthouse　View　Hotel。

　　Again；　I　could　picture　the　scene　in　summer：　buckets　and　spades　and　fishing　nets　piled　up　on　the　veranda；　rope　sandals　left　by　the　door；　a　dusting　of　white　sand　trailed　up　from　the　beach；　that　kind　of　thing。　But　out　of　season　the　big　old　wooden　hotel　creaked　and　banged　in　the　wind　like　a　sailing　boat　stuck　on　a　reef。　I　suppose　the　management　must　have　been　waiting　till　spring　to　strip　the　blistered　paintwork　and　wash　the　crust　of　salt　off　the　windows。　The　sea　was　pounding　away　nearby　in　the　darkness。　I　stood　with　my　suitcase　on　the　wooden　deck　and　watched　the　lights　of　the　taxi　disappear　around　the　corner　with　something　close　to　nostalgia。

　　Inside　the　lobby；　a　girl　dressed　up　as　a　Victorian　maid　with　a　white　lace　mobcap　handed　me　a　message　from　Lang’s　office。　I　would　be　picked　up　at　ten　the　next　morning　and　should　bring　my　passport　to　show　to　security。　I　was　starting　to　feel　like　a　man　on　a　mystery　tour：　as　soon　as　I　reached　one　location；　I　was　given　a　fresh　set　of　instructions　to　proceed　to　the　next。　The　hotel　was　empty；　the　restaurant　dark。　I　was　told　I　could　have　my　choice　of　rooms；　so　I　picked　one　on　the　second　floor　with　a　desk　I　could　work　at　and　photographs　of　Old　Edgartown　on　the　wall：　John　Coffin　House；　circa　1890；　the　whale　ship　Splendid　at　Osborn　wharf；　circa　1870。　After　the　receptionist　had　gone；　I　put　my　laptop；　list　of　questions；　and　the　stories　I　had　torn　out　of　the　Sunday　newspapers　on　the　desk　and　then　stretched　out　on　the　bed。

　　I　fell　asleep　at　once　and　didn’t　wake　until　two　in　the　morning；　when　my　body　clock；　still　on　London　time；　went　off　like　Big　Ben。　I　spent　ten　minutes　searching　for　a　minibar　before　realizing　there　wasn’t　one。　On　impulse；　I　called　Kate’s　home　number　in　London。　What　exactly　I　was　going　to　say　to　her　I　had　no　idea。　In　any　case　there　was　no　answer。　I　meant　to　hang　up　but　instead　found　myself　rambling　to　her　answering　machine。　She　must　have　left　for　work　very　early。　Either　that；　or　she　hadn’t　come　home　the　night　before。　That　was　something　to　think　about；　and　I　duly　thought　about　it。　The　fact　that　I　had　no　one　to　blame　but　myself　didn’t　make　me　feel　any　better。　I　took　a　shower　and　afterward　I　got　back　into　bed；　turned　off　the　lamp；　and　pulled　the　damp　sheets　up　under　my　chin。　Every　few　seconds　the　slow　pulse　of　the　lighthouse　filled　the　room　with　a　faint　red　glow。　I　must　have　lain　there　for　hours；　eyes　wide　open；　fully　awake　and　yet　disembodied；　and　in　this　way　passed　my　first　night　on　Martha’s　Vineyard。

　　THE　LANDSCAPE　THAT　DISSOLVEDout　of　the　dawn　the　next　morning　was　flat　and　alluvial。　Across　the　road　beneath　my　window　was　a　creek；　then　reed　beds；　and　beyond　those　a　beach　and　the　sea。　A　pretty　Victorian　lighthouse　with　a　bell…shaped　roof　and　a　wrought…iron　balcony　looked　across　the　straits　to　a　long；　low　spit　of　land　about　a　mile　away。　That；　I　realized；　must　be　Chappaquiddick。　A　squadron　of　hundreds　of　tiny　white　seabirds；　in　a　formation　as　tight　as　a　school　of　fish；　soared　and　flicked　and　dived　above　the　shallow　waves。

　　I　went　downstairs　and　ordered　a　huge　breakfast。　From　the　little　shop　next　to　reception　I　bought　a　copy　of　theNew　York　Times　。　The　story　I　was　looking　for　was　entombed　deep　in　the　world　news　section　and　then　reinterred　to　ensure　maximum　obscurity　far　down　the　page：

　　LONDON　（AP）—Former　British　prime　minister　Adam　Lang　authorized　the　illegal　use　of　British　special　forces　troops　to　seize　four　suspected　Al　Qaeda　terrorists　in　Pakistan　and　then　hand　them　over　for　interrogation　by　the　CIA；　according　to　newspaper　reports　here　Sunday。

　　The　men—Nasir　Ashraf；　Shakeel　Qazi；　Salim　Khan；　and　Faruk　Ahmed—all　British　citizens；　were　seized　in　the　Pakistani　city　of　Peshawar　five　years　ago。　All　four　were　allegedly　transferred　out　of　the　country　to　a　secret　location　and　tortured。　Mr。　Ashraf　is　reported　to　have　died　under　interrogation。　Mr。　Qazi；　Mr。　Khan；　and　Mr。　Ahmed　were　subsequently　detained　at　Guantánamo　for　three　years。　Only　Mr。　Ahmed　remains　in　U。S。　custody。

　　According　to　documents　obtained　by　the　LondonSunday　Times　；　Mr。　Lang　personally　endorsed　“Operation　Tempest；”　a　secret　mission　to　kidnap　the　four　men　by　the　UK’s　elite　Special　Air　Services。　Such　an　operation　would　have　been　illegal　under　both　UK　and　international　law。

　　The　British　Ministry　of　Defence　last　night　refused　to　comment　on　either　the　authenticity　of　the　documents　or　the　existence　of　“Operation　Tempest。”　A　spokeswoman　for　Mr。　Lang　said　that　he　had　no　plans　to　issue　a　statement。

　　I　read　it　through　three　times。　It　didn’t　seem　to　add　up　to　much。　Or　did　it？　It　was　hard　to　tell　anymore。　One’s　moral　bearings　were　no　longer　as　fixed　as　they　used　to　be。　Methods　my　father’s　generation　would　have　considered　beyond　the　pale；　even　when　fighting　the　Nazis—torture；　for　example—were　now　apparently　acceptable　civilized　behavior。　I　decided　that　the　ten　percent　of　the　population　who　worry　about　these　things　would　be　appalled　by　the　report；　assuming　they　ever　managed　to　locate　it；　the　remaining　ninety　would　probably　just　shrug。　We　had　been　told　that　the　free　world　was　taking　a　walk　on　the　dark　side。　What　did　people　expect？

　　I　had　a　couple　of　hours　to　kill　before　the　car　was　due　to　collect　me；　so　I　took　a　walk　over　the　wooden　bridge　to　the　lighthouse　and　then　strolled　into　Edgartown。　In　daylight　it　seemed　even　emptier　than　it　had　the　previous　night。　Squirrels　chased　undisturbed　along　the　sidewalks　and　scampered　up　into　the　trees。　I　must　have　passed　two　dozen　of　those　picturesque　nineteenth…century　whaling　captains’　houses；　and　it　didn’t　look　as　if　one　was　occupied。　The　widow’s　walks　on　the　fronts　and　sides　were　deserted。　No　black…shawled　women　stared　mournfully　out　to　sea；　waiting　for　their　menfolk　to　come　home—presumably　because　the　menfolk　were　all　on　Wall　Street。　The　restaurants　were　closed；　the　little　boutiques　and　galleries　stripped　bare　of　stock。　I　had　wanted　to　buy　a　windproof　jacket　but　there　was　no　place　open。　The　windows　were　filled　with　dust　and　the　husks　of　insects。　“Thanks　for　a　great　season！！！”　read　the　cards。　“See　you　in　the　spring！”

　　It　was　the　same　in　the　harbor。　The　primary　colors　of　the　port　were　gray　and　white—gray　sea；　white　sky；　gray　shingle　roofs；　white　clapboard　walls；　bare　white　flagpoles；　jetties　weathered　blue…gray　and　green…gray；　on　which　perched　matching　gray…and…white　gulls。　It　was　as　if　Martha　Stewart　had　color　coordinated　the　whole　place；　Man　and　Nature。　Even　the　sun；　now　hovering　discreetly　over　Chappaquiddick；　had　the　good　taste　to　shine　pale　white。

　　I　put　my　hand　up　to　shield　my　eyes　and　squinted　at　the　distant　strand　of　beach　with　its　isolated　holiday　houses。　That　was　where　Senator　Edward　Kennedy’s　career　had　taken　its　disastrous　wrong　turn。　According　to　my　book；　the　whole　of　Martha’s　Vineyard　had　been　a　summer　playground　for　the　Kennedys；　who　liked　to　sail　over　for　the　day　from　Hyannisport。　There　was　a　story　of　how　Jack；　when　he　was　president；　had　wanted　to　moor　his　boat　at　the　private　jetty　of　the　Edgartown　Yacht　Club　but　had　decided　to　sail　away　when　he　saw　the　massed　ranks　of　the　members；　Republicans　to　a　man；　lined　up　with　their　arms　folded；　watching　him；　daring　him　to　land。　It　was　the　summer　before　he　was　shot。

　　The　few　yachts　moored　now　were　shrouded　for　winter。　The　only　movement　was　a　solitary　fishing　boat　with　an　outboard　motor　heading　for　the　lobster　traps。　I　sat　for　a　while　on　a　bench　and　waited　to　see　if　anything　would　happen。　Gulls　swooped　and　cried。　On　a　nearby　yacht　the　wind　rattled　the　cables　against　a　metal　mast。　There　was　hammering　in　the　distance　as　property　was　renovated　for　the　summer。　An　old　guy　walked　a　dog。　Apart　from　that；　nothing　occurred　in　almost　an　hour　that　could　possibly　have　distracted　an　author　from　his　work。　It　was　a　nonwriter’s　idea　of　a　writer’s　paradise。　I　could　see　why　McAra　might　have　gone　insane。

　　FOUR

　　The　ghost　will　also　be　under　pressure　from　the　publishers　to　dig　up　something　controversial　that　they　can　use　to　sell　serial　rights　and　to　generate　publicity　at　the　time　of　publication。

　　Ghostwritin　g

　　IT　WAS　MY　OLDfriend　the　deaf　taxi　driver　who　picked　me　up　from　the　hotel　later　that　morning。　Because　I’d　been　booked　into　a　hotel　in　Edgartown；　I’d　naturally　assumed　that　Rhinehart’s　property　must　be　somewhere　in　the　port　itself。　There　were　some　big　houses　overlooking　the　harbor；　with　gardens　sloping　down　to　private　moorings；　that　looked　to　me　to　be　ideal　billionaire　real　estate—which　shows　how　ignorant　I　was　about　what　serious　wealth　can　buy。　Instead；　we　drove　out　of　town　for　about　ten　minutes；　following　signs　to　West　Tisbury；　into　flat；　thickly　wooded　country；　and　then；　before　I’d　even　noticed　a　gap　in　the　trees；　swung　left　down　an　unmade；　sandy　track。

　　Until　that　moment　I　was　unfamiliar　with　scrub　oak。　Maybe　it　looks　good　in　full　leaf。　But　in　winter　I　doubt　if　nature　has　a　more　depressing　vista　to　offer　in　its　entire　flora　department　than　mile　after　mile　of　those　twisted；　dwarfish；　ash…colored　trees。　A　few　curled　brown　leaves　were　the　only　evidence　they　might　once　have　been　alive。　We　rocked　and　bounced　down　a　narrow　forest　road　for　almost　three　miles　and　the　only　creature　we　saw　was　a　run…over　skunk；　unti