。”
He touched my shoulder as I entered and steered me down the passage toward the room where I’d had coffee that morning。 He’d already taken off his jacket and tie and pulled on a thick gray sweater。
“I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to say hello properly at the airport。 What would you like？”
“What are you having？” Dear God； I prayed； let it be something alcoholic。
“Iced tea。”
“Iced tea would be fine。”
“You’re sure？ I’d sooner have something stronger； but Ruth would kill me。” He called to one of the secretaries： “Luce； ask Dep to bring us some tea； would you； sweetheart？ So；” he said； plonking himself down in the center of the sofa and flinging out his arms to rest along its back； “you have to be me for a month； God help you。” He swiftly crossed his legs； his right ankle resting on his left knee。 He drummed his fingers； wiggled his foot and inspected it for a moment； then returned his cloudless gaze to me。
“I hope it will be a fairly painless procedure； for both of us；” I said； and hesitated； unsure how to address him。
“Adam；” he said。 “Call me Adam。”
There always comes a moment； I find； in dealing with a very famous person face…to…face； when you feel as if you’re in a dream； and this was it for me： a genuine out…of…body experience。 I beheld myself as if from the ceiling； conversing in an apparently relaxed manner with a world statesman in the home of a media billionaire。 He was actually going out of his way to be nice to me。 Heneeded me。 What a lark； I thought。
“Thank you；” I said。 “I have to tell you I’ve never met an ex–prime minister before。”
“Well；” he said with a smile； “I’ve never met a ghost； so we’re even。 Sid Kroll says you’re the man for the job。 Ruth agrees。 So how exactly are we supposed to go about this？”
“I’ll interview you。 I’ll turn your answers into prose。 Where necessary； I might have to add linking passages； trying to imitate your voice。 I should say； incidentally； that anything I write you’ll be able to correct afterward。 I don’t want you to think I’ll be putting words in your mouth that you wouldn’t actually want to use。”
“And how long will this take？”
“For a big book； I’d normally do fifty or sixty hours of interviews。 That would give me about four hundred thousand words； which I’d then edit down to a hundred thousand。”
“But we’ve already got a manuscript。”
“Yes；” I said； “but frankly； it’s not really publishable。 It’s research notes； it’s not a book。 It doesn’t have any kind of voice。” Lang pulled a face。 He clearly didn’t see the problem。 “Having said that；” I added quickly； “the work won’t be entirely wasted。 We can ransack it for facts and quotations； and I don’t mind the structure； actually—the sixteen chapters—although I’d like to open differently； find something more intimate。”
The Vietnamese housekeeper brought in our tea。 She was dressed entirely in black—black silk trousers and a collarless black shirt。 I wanted to introduce myself； but when she handed me my glass； she avoided meeting my gaze。
“You heard about Mike？” asked Lang。
“Yes；” I said。 “I’m sorry。”
Lang glanced away； toward the darkened window。 “We should put something nice about him in the book。 His mother would like it。”
“That should be easy enough。”
“He was with me a long time。 Since before I became prime minister。 He came up through the party。 I inherited him from my predecessor。 You think you know someone pretty well and then—” He shrugged and stared into the night。
I didn’t know what to say； so I didn’t say anything。 It’s in the nature of my work to act as something of a confessor figure； and I have learned over the years to behave like a shrink—to sit in silence and give the client time。 I wondered what he was seeing out there。 After about half a minute he appeared to remember I was still in the room。
“Right。 How long do you need from me？”
“Full time？” I sipped my drink and tried not to wince at the sweet taste。 “If we work really hard we should be able to break the back of it in a week。”
“A week？” Lang performed a little facial mime of alarm。
I resisted the temptation to point out that ten mllion dollars for a week’s work wasn’t exactly the national minimum wage。 “I may need to come back to you to plug any holes； but if you can give me till Friday； I’ll have enough to rewrite most of this draft。 The important thing is that we start tomorrow and get the early years out of the way。”
“Fine。 The sooner we get it done the better。” Suddenly Lang was leaning forward； a study in frank intimacy； his elbows on his knees； his glass between his hands。 “Ruth’s going stir…crazy out here。 I keep telling her to go back to London while I finish the book； see the kids； but she won’t leave me。 I love your work； I have to say。”
I almost choked on my tea。 “You’ve read some of it？” I tried to imagine what footballer； or rock star； or magician； or reality game show contestant might have come to the attention of a prime minister。
“Sure；” he said； without a flicker of doubt。 “There was some fellow we were on holiday with—”
“Christy Costello？”
“Christy Costello！ Brilliant。 If you can make sense out of his life； you might even be able to make sense out of mine。” He jumped up and shook my hand。 “It’s good to meet you； man。 We’ll make a start first thing tomorrow。 I’ll get Amelia to fix you a car to take you back to your hotel。” And then he suddenly started singing：
“Once in a lifetime
You get to have it all
But you never knew you had it
Till you go and lose it all。”
He pointed at me。 “Christy Costello； ‘Once in a Lifetime；’ nineteen seventy”—he wobbled his hand speculatively； his head cocked； his eyes half closed in concentration—“seven？”
“Eight。”
“Nineteen seventy…eight！ Those were the days！ I can feel it all coming back。”
“Save it for tomorrow；” I said。
“HOelia as she showed me to the door。
“Pretty well； I think。 It was all very friendly。 He kept calling me ‘man。’”
“Yes。 He always does that when he can’t remember someone’s name。”
“Tomorrow；” I said； “I’ll need a private room where I can do the interviewing。 I’ll need a secretary to transcribe his answers as we go along—every time we break I’ll bring the fresh tapes out to her。 I’ll need my own copy of the existing manuscript on disk—yes； I know；” I said； holding up my hand to cut off her objections； “I won’t take it out of the house。 But I’m going to have to cut and paste it into the new material； and also try to rewrite it so that it sounds vaguely like it was produced by a human being。”
She was writing all this down in her black and red book。 “Anything else？”
“How about dinner？”
“Good night；” she said firmly and closed the door。
One of the policemen gave me a ride back to Edgartown。 He was as morose as his colleague on
the gate。 “I hope you get this book done soon；” he said。 “Me and the lads are getting pretty brassed off stuck out here。”
He dropped me at the hotel and said he’d pick me up again in the morning。 I had just opened the door to my room when my cell phone rang。 It was Kate。
“Are you okay？” she said。 “I got your message。 You sounded a bit…odd。”
“Did I？ Sorry。 I’m fine now。” I fought back the impulse to ask her where she’d been when I called。
“So？ Have you met him？”
“I have。 I’ve just come from him。”
“And？” Before I could answer； she said； “Don’t tell me： charming。”
I briefly held the phone away from my ear and gave it the finger。
“You certainly pick your moments；” she went on。 “Did you see yesterday’s papers？ You must be the first recorded instance of a rat actually boarding a sinking ship。”
“Yes； of course I saw them；” I said defensively； “and I’m going to ask him about it。”
“When？”
“When the moment arises。”
She made an explosive noise that somehow managed to combine hilarity； fury； contempt； and disbelief。 “Well； yes；do ask him。 Ask him why he illegally kidnaps British citizens in another country and hands them over to be tortured。 Ask him if he knows about the techniques the CIA uses to simulate drowning。 Ask him what he plans to say to the widow and children of the man who died of a heart attack—”
“Hold on；” I interrupted。 “You lost me after drowning。”
“I’m seeing someone else；” she said。
“Good；” I said and hung up。
After that there didn’t seem much else to do except go down to the bar and get drunk。
It was decorated to look like the kind of place Captain Ahab might fancy dropping into after a hard day at the harpoon。 The seats and tables were made out of old barrels。 There were antique seine nets and lobster traps hanging on the roughly planked walls； along with schooners in bottles and sepia photographs of deep…sea anglers standing proudly beside the suspended corpses of their prey： the fishermen would now all be as dead a