The Ghost(英文版)- 第45部分

　　I　declined　to　be　assisted　with　my　bags；　took　the　elevator　to　the　sixth　floor；　and　stuck　the　electronic　key　card　into　the　door。　My　room　was　beige　and　softly　lit　by　table　lamps；　with　a　view　across　Grand　Central　Parkway　to　LaGuardia　and　the　unfathomable　blackness　of　the　East　River。　The　TV　was　playing　“I’ll　Take　Manhattan”　over　a　caption　that　read　“Welcome　to　New　York　Mr。　Nixon。”　I　turned　it　off　and　opened　the　minibar。　I　didn’t　even　bother　to　find　a　glass。　I　unscrewed　the　cap　and　drank　straight　from　the　miniature　bottle。

　　It　must　have　been　about　twenty　minutes　and　a　second　miniature　later　that　my　new　telephone　suddenly　glowed　blue　and　began　to　emit　a　faintly　ominous　electronic　purr。　I　left　my　post　at　the　window　to　answer　it。

　　“It’s　me；”　said　Rycart。　“Have　you　settled　in？”

　　“Yes；”　I　said。

　　“Are　you　alone？”

　　“Yes。”

　　“Open　the　door；　then。”

　　He　was　standing　in　the　corridor；　his　phone　to　his　ear。　Beside　him　was　the　driver　who　had　met　me　at　LaGuardia。

　　“All　right；　Frank；”　said　Rycart　to　his　minder。　“I’ll　take　it　from　here。　You　keep　an　eye　out　in　the　lobby。”

　　Rycart　slipped　his　phone　into　the　pocket　of　his　overcoat　as　Frank　plodded　back　toward　the　elevators。　He　was　what　my　mother　would　have　called　“handsome；　and　knows　it”：　a　striking　profile；　narrowly　set　bright　blue　eyes　accentuated　by　an　orangey　tan；　and　that　swept…back　waterfall　of　hair　the　cartoonists　loved　so　much。　He　looked　a　lot　younger　than　sixty。　He　nodded　at　the　empty　bottle　in　my　hand。　“Tough　day？”

　　“You　could　say　that。”

　　He　came　into　the　room　without　waiting　for　an　invitation　and　went　straight　over　to　the　window　and　drew　the　curtains。　I　closed　the　door。

　　“My　apologies　for　the　location；”　he　said；　“but　I　tend　to　be　recognized　in　Manhattan。　Especially　after　yesterday。　Did　Frank　look　after　you　all　right？”

　　“I’ve　rarely　had　a　warmer　welcome。”

　　“I　know　what　you　mean；　but　he’s　a　useful　guy。　Ex…NYPD。　He　handles　logistics　and　security　for

　　me。　I’m　not　the　most　popular　kid　on　the　block　right　now；　as　you　can　imagine。”

　　“Can　I　get　you　something　to　drink？”

　　“Water　would　be　fine。”

　　He　prowled　around　the　room　while　I　poured　him　a　glass。　He　checked　the　bathroom；　even　the

　　closet。

　　“What　is　it？”　I　said。　“Do　you　think　this　is　a　trap？”

　　“It　crossed　my　mind。”　He　unbuttoned　his　coat　and　laid　it　carefully　on　the　bed。　I　guessed　his

　　Armani　suit　cost　about　twice　the　annual　income　of　a　small　African　village。　“Let’s　face　it；　you　do　work　for　Lang。”

　　“I　met　him　for　the　first　time　on　Monday；”　I　said。　“I　don’t　even　know　him。”

　　Rycart　laughed。　“Who　does？　If　you　met　him　on　Monday　you　probably　know　him　as　well　as　anyone。　I　worked　with　him　for　fifteen　years；　and　I　certainly　don’t　have　a　clue　where　he’s　coming　from。　Mike　McAra　didn’t；　either；　and　he　was　with　him　from　the　beginning。”

　　“His　wife　said　more　or　less　the　same　thing　to　me。”

　　“Well；　there　you　go。　If　someone　as　sharp　as　Ruth　doesn’t　get　him—and　she’s　married　to　him；　for　God’s　sake—what　hope　do　the　rest　of　us　have？　The　man’s　a　mystery。　Thanks。”　Rycart　took　the　water。

　　He　sipped　it　thoughtfully；　studying　me。　“But　you　sound　as　though　you’re　starting　to　unravel　him。”

　　“I　feel　as　though　I’m　the　one　who’s　unraveling；　quite　frankly。”

　　“Let’s　sit　down；”　said　Rycart；　patting　my　shoulder；　“and　you　can　tell　me　all　about　it。”

　　The　gesture　reminded　me　of　Lang。　A　great　man’s　charm。　They　made　me　feel　like　a　minnow

　　swimming　between　sharks。　I　would　need　to　be　on　my　guard。　I　sat　down　carefully　in　one　of　the　two　small　armchairs—it　was　beige；　like　the　walls。　Rycart　sat　opposite　me。

　　“So；”　he　said。　“How　do　we　begin？　You　know　who　I　am。　Who　are　you？”

　　“I’m　a　professional　ghostwriter；”　I　said。　“I　was　brought　in　to　rewrite　Adam　Lang’s　memoirs　after　Mike　McAra　died。　I　know　nothing　about　politics。　It’s　as　if　I’ve　stepped　through　the　looking　glass。”

　　“Tell　me　what　you’ve　found　out。”

　　Even　I　was　too　canny　for　that。　I　hemmed　and　hawed。

　　“Perhaps　you　could　tell　me　about　McAra　first；”　I　said。

　　“If　you　like。”　Rycart　shrugged。　“What　can　I　say？　Mike　was　the　consummate　professional。　If　you’d　pinned　a　rosette　to　that　suitcase　over　there　and　told　him　it　was　the　party　leader；　he’d　have　followed　it。　Everyone　expected　Lang　would　fire　him　when　he　became　leader　and　bring　in　his　own　man。　But　Mike　was　too　useful。　He　knew　the　party　inside　out。　What　else　do　you　want　to　know？”

　　“What　was　he　like；　as　a　person？”

　　“What　was　he　likeas　a　person？　”　Rycart　gave　me　a　strange　look；　as　if　it　were　the　oddest　question　he’d　ever　heard。　“Well；　he　had　no　life　outside　politics；　if　that’s　what　you　mean；　so　you　could　say　that　Lang　was　everything　to　him—wife；　kids；　friends。　What　else？　He　was　obsessive；　a　detail　man。　Almost　everything　Adam　wasn’t；　Mike　was。　Maybe　that　was　why　he　stayed　on；　right　through　Downing　Street　and　all　the　way　out　again；　long　after　the　others　had　all　cashed　in　and　gone　to　make　some　money。　No　fancy　corporate　jobs　for　our　Mike。　He　was　very　loyal　to　Adam。”

　　“Not　that　loyal；”　I　said。　“Not　if　he　was　in　touch　with　you。”

　　“Ah；　but　that　was　only　right　at　the　very　end。　You　mentioned　a　photograph。　Can　I　see　it？”

　　When　I　fetched　the　envelope；　his　face　had　the　same　greedy　expression　as　Emmett’s；　but　when　he　saw　the　picture；　he　couldn’t　hide　his　disappointment。

　　“Is　this　it？”　he　said。　“Just　a　bunch　of　privileged　white　kids　doing　a　song…and…dance　act？”

　　“It’s　a　bit　more　interesting　than　that；”　I　said。　“For　a　start；　why’s　your　number　on　the　back　of　it？”

　　Rycart　gave　me　a　sly　look。　“Why　exactly　should　I　help　you？”

　　“Why　exactly　shouldI　helpyou　？”

　　We　stared　at　one　another。　Eventually　he　grinned；　showing　large；　polished　white　teeth。

　　“You　should　have　been　a　politician；”　he　said。

　　“I’m　learning　from　the　best。”

　　He　bowed　modestly；　thinking　I　meant　him；　but　actually　it　was　Lang　I　had　in　mind。　Vanity；　that　was　his　weakness；　I　realized。　I　could　imagine　how　deftly　Lang　would　have　flattered　him；　and　what　a　blow　his　sacking　must　have　been　to　his　ego。　And　now；　with　his　lean　face　and　his　prow　of　a　nose　and　those　piercing　eyes；　he　was　as　hell…bent　on　revenge　as　any　discarded　lover。　He　got　to　his　feet　and　went　over　to　the　door。　He　checked　the　corridor　up　and　down。　When　he　returned　he　loomed　over　me；　pointing　a　tanned　finger　directly　at　my　face。

　　“If　you　double…cross　me；”　he　said；　“you’ll　pay　for　it。　And　if　you　doubt　my　willingness　to　hold　a　grudge　and　eventually　settle　the　score；　ask　Adam　Lang。”

　　“Fine；”　I　said。

　　He　was　too　agitated　now　to　sit　still；　and　that　was　something　else　I　only　realized　at　that　moment：　the　pressure　he　was　under。　You　had　to　hand　it　to　Rycart。　It　did　take　a　certain　nerve　to　drag　your　former　party　leader　and　prime　minister　in　front　of　a　war　crimes　tribunal。

　　“This　ICC　business；”　he　said；　patrolling　up　and　down　in　front　of　the　bed；　“it’s　only　hit　the　headlines　in　the　past　week；　but　let　me　tell　you　I’ve　been　pursuing　this　thing　behind　the　scenes　foryears　。　Iraq；　rendition；　torture；　Guantánamo—what’s　been　done　in　this　so…called　war　on　terror　is　illegal　under　international　law；　just　as　much　as　anything　that　happened　in　Kosovo　or　Liberia。　The　only　difference　is　we’re　the　ones　doing　it。　The　hypocrisy　is　nauseating。”

　　He　seemed　to　realize　he　was　starting　on　a　speech　he’d　already　made　too　many　times　before　and　checked　himself。　He　took　a　sip　of　water。　“Anyway；　rhetoric　is　one　thing　and　evidence　is　another　thing　entirely。　I　could　sense　the　political　climate　changing；　that　was　helpful。　Every　time　a　bomb　went　off；　every　time　another　soldier　was　killed；　every　time　it　became　a　little　bit　clearer　we’d　started　another　Hundred　Years’　War　without　a　clue　how　to　end　it；　things　shifted　farther　my　way。　It　was　no　longer　inconceivable　that　a　Western　leader　could　wind　up　in　the　dock。　The　worse　the　mess　he’d　left　behind　him　got；　the　more　people　were　willing　to　see　it；　wanted　to　see　it。　What　I　needed　was　just　one　piece　of　evidence　that　would　meet　the　legal　standard　of　proof—a　single　document　with　his　name　on　it　would　have　been　enough—and　I　didn’t　have　it。

　　“And　then　suddenly；　just　before　Christmas；　there　it　was。　I　had　it　in　my　hands。　It　just　came　through　the　post。　Not　even　a　covering　letter。　‘Top　Secret：　Memorandum　from　the　Prime　Minister　to　the　Secretary　of　State　for　Defence。’　It　was　five　years　old；　written　back　in　the　days　when　I　was　still　foreign　secretary；　but　I’d　no　idea　it　even　existed。　A　smoking　gun　if　ever　there　was　one—Christ；　the　barrel　was　still　hot！　A　directive　from　the　British　prime　minister　that　these　four　poor　bastards　should　be　snatched　off　the　streets　in　Pakistan　by　the　SAS　and　handed　over　to　the　CIA。”

　　“A　war　crime；”　I　said。

　　“A　war　crime；”　he　agreed。　“A　minor　one；　okay。　But　so　what？　In　the　end；　they　could　only　get　Al　Capone　for　tax　evasion。　It　didn’t　mean　Capone　wasn’t　a　gangster。　I　carried　out　a　few　discreet　checks　to　make　sure　the　memo　was　authentic；　then　I　took　it　to　The　Hague　in　person。”