r minor activities。
Beneath it； in alphabetical order； was a hyperlinked list of about twenty names； among them Emmett’s； and when I clicked on it； I felt as though I had fallen through a trapdoor。
Yale graduate Paul Emmett was reported by CIA whistleblower Frank Molinari to have joined the Agency as an officer in either 1969 or 1970； where he was assigned to the Foreign Resources Division of the Directorate of Operations。 （Source：Inside the Agency ； Amsterdam； 1977）
“Oh no；” I said quietly。 “No； no。 That can’t be right。”
I must have stared at the screen for a full minute； until a sudden crash of breaking crockery snapped me out of my reverie and I looked round to see that one of the kids playing under the nearby table had tipped the whole thing over。 As a waitress hurried across with a dustpan and brush； and as the nannies （or mothers） scolded the children； I noticed that the two short…haired men at the counter weren’t taking any notice of this little drama： they were staring hard at me。 One had a cell phone to his ear。
Fairly calmly—more calmly； I hoped； than I felt—I turned off the computer and pretended to take a final sip of coffee。 The liquid had gone cold while I’d been working and was freezing and bitter on my lips。 Then I picked up my suitcase and put a twenty…dollar bill on the table。 Already I was thinking that if something happened to me； the harassed waitress would surely remember the solitary Englishman who took the table farthest from the window and absurdly overtipped。 What good this would have done me； I have no idea； but it seemed clever at the time。 I made sure I didn’t look at the short…haired pair as I passed them。
Out on the street； in the cold gray light； with the green…canopied Starbucks a few doors down and the slowly passing traffic （“Baby on Board： Please Drive Carefully”） and the elderly pedestrians in their fur hats and gloves； it was briefly possible to imagine that I’d spent the past hour playing some homemade virtual reality game。 But then the door of the café opened behind me and the two men came out。 I walked briskly up the street toward the Ford； and once I was behind the wheel I locked myself in。 When I checked the mirrors I couldn’t see either of my fellow diners。
I didn’t move for a while。 It felt safer simply sitting there。 I fantasized that perhaps if I stayed put long enough； I could somehow be absorbed by osmosis into the peaceful； prosperous life of Belmont。 I could go and do what all these retired folk were bent on doing—playing a hand of bridge； maybe； or watching an afternoon movie； or wandering along to the local library to read the papers and shake their heads at the way the world was all going to hell now that my callow and cosseted generation was in charge of it。 I watched the newly coiffed ladies emerge from the salon and lightly pat their hair。 The young couple who had been holding hands in the café were inspecting rings in the window of the jeweler。
And I？ I experienced a twinge of self…pity。 I was as separate from all this normality as if I were in a bubble of glass。
I took out the photographs again and flicked through them until I came to the one of Lang and Emmett onstage together。 A future prime minister and an alleged CIA officer； prancing around wearing gloves and hats in a comic revue？ It seemed not so much improbable as grotesque； but here was the evidence in my hand。 I turned the picture over and considered the number scrawled on the back； and the more I considered it； the more obvious it seemed that there was only one course of action open to me。 The fact that I would； once again； be trailing along in the footsteps of McAra could not be helped。
I waited until the young lovers had gone into the jewelry store and then took out my mobile phone。 I scrolled down to where the number was stored and called Richard Rycart。
FOURTEEN
Half the job of ghosting is about finding out about other people。
Ghostwritin g
THIS TIME； HE ANSWEREDwithin a few seconds。
“So you rang back；” he said quietly； in that nasal； singsong voice of his。 “Somehow I had a feeling you would； whoever you are。 Not many people have this number。” He waited for me to reply。 I could hear a man talking in the background—delivering a speech； it sounded like。 “Well； my friend； are you going to stay on the line this time？”
“Yes；” I said。
He waited again； but I didn’t know how to begin。 I kept thinking of Lang； of what he would think if he could see me talking to his would…be nemesis。 I was breaking every rule in the ghosting guidebook。 I
was in breach of the confidentiality agreement I’d signed with Rhinehart。 It was professional suicide。
“I tried to call you back a couple of times；” he continued。 I detected a hint of reproach。
Across the street； the young lovers had come out of the jewelry store and were strolling toward
me。
“I know；” I said； finding my voice at last。 “I’m sorry。 I found your number written down somewhere。 I didn’t know whose it was。 I called it on the off chance。 It didn’t seem right to be talking to
you。”
“Why not？”
The couple passed by。 I followed their progress in the mirror。 They had their hands in one
another’s back pockets； like pickpockets on a blind date。
I took the plunge。 “I’m working for Adam Lang。 I—”
“Don’t tell me your name；” he said quickly。 “Don’t use any names。 Keep everything nonspecific。
Where exactly did you find my number？”
His urgency unnerved me。
“On the back of a photograph。”
“What sort of photograph？”
“Of my client’s days at university。 My predecessor had it。”
“Did he； by God？” Now it was Rycart’s turn to pause。 I could hear people clapping at the other
end of the line。
“You sound shocked；” I said。
“Yes； well； it ties in with something he said to me。”
“I’ve been to see one of the people in the photograph。 I thought you might be able to help me。”
“Why don’t you talk to your employer？”
“He’s away。”
“Of course he is。” He had a satisfied smile in his voice。 “And where are you？ Without being too specific？”
“In New England。”
“Can you get to the city where I am； right away？ You know where I am； I take it？ Where I work？”
“I suppose so；” I said doubtfully。 “I have a car。 I could drive。”
“No； don’t drive。 Flying’s safer than the roads。”
“That’s what the airlines say。”
“Listen； my friend；” whispered Rycart fiercely； “if I was in your position； I wouldn’t joke。 Go to the nearest airport。 Catch the first available plane。 Text me the flight number； nothing else。 I’ll arrange for someone to collect you when you land。”
“But how will they know what I look like？”
“They won’t。 You’ll have to look out for them。”
There was a renewed burst of applause in the background。 I started to raise a fresh objection； but
it was too late。 He had hung up。
I DROVE OUT OFBelmont without any clear idea of the route I was supposed to take。 I checked the rearview mirror neurotically every few seconds； but if I was being followed； I couldn’t tell。 Different cars appeared behind me； and none seemed to stay for longer than a couple of minutes。 I kept my eyes open for signs to Boston and eventually crossed a big river and joined the interstate； heading east。
It was not yet three in the afternoon； but already the day was starting to darken。 Away to my right； the downtown office blocks gleamed gold against a swollen Atlantic sky； while up ahead the lights of the big jets fell toward Logan like shooting stars。 I maintained my usual cautious pace over the next couple of miles。 Logan Airport； for those who have never had the pleasure； sits in the middle of Boston Harbor； approached from the south by a long tunnel。 As the road descended underground； I asked myself whether I was really going to go through with this； and it was a good measure of my uncertainty that when—a mile later—I rose again into the deeper gloom of the afternoon； I still hadn’t decided。
I followed the signs to the long…term car park and was just reversing into a bay when my telephone rang。 The incoming number was unfamiliar。 I almost didn’t answer。 When I did； a peremptory voice said； “What on earth are you doing？”
It was Ruth Lang。 She had that presumption of beginning a conversation without first announcing who was calling； a lapse in manners I was sure her husband would never have been guilty of； even when he was prime minister。
“Working；” I said。
“Really？ You’re not at your hotel。”
“Aren’t I？”
“Well； are you？ They told me you hadn’t even checked in。”
I flailed around for an adequate lie and hit on a partial truth。 “I decided to go to New York。”
“Why？”
“I wanted to see John Maddox； to talk about the structure of the book； in view of the”—a tactful euphemism was needed； I decided—“the changed circumstances。”
“I was worried about you；” she said。 “All day I’ve been walking up and down this fu