ack 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 as their fish； I thought； and such was my mood that the notion pleased me。 A big television above the bar was showing an ice hockey game。 I ordered a beer and a bowl of clam chowder and sat where I could see the screen。 I know nothing about ice hockey； but sport is a great place to lose yourself for a while； and I’ll watch anything available。
“You’re English？” said a man at a table in the corner。 He must have heard me ordering。 He was the only other customer in the bar。
“And so are you；” I said。
“Indeed I am。 Are you here on holiday？”
He had a clipped； hello…old…chap…fancy…a…round…of…golf sort of a voice。 That； and the striped shirt with the frayed collar； the double…breasted blazer； the tarnished brass buttons； and the blue silk handkerchief in the top pocket； all flashed bore； bore； bore as clearly as the Edgartown Lighthouse。
“No。 Working。” I resumed watching the game。
“So what’s your line？” He had a glass of something clear with ice and a slice of lemon in it。 Vodka and tonic？ Gin and tonic？ I was desperate not to be trapped into conversation with him。
“Just this and that。 Excuse me。”
I got up and went to the lavatory and washed my hands。 The face in the mirror was that of a man who’d slept six hours out of the past forty。 When I returned to the table； my chowder had arrived。 I ordered another drink but pointedly didn’t offer to buy one for my compatriot。 I could feel him watching me。
“I hear Adam Lang’s on the island；” he said。
I looked at him properly then。 He was in his middle fifties； slim but broad shouldered。 Strong。 His iron…gray hair was slicked straight back off his forehead。 There was something vaguely military about him but also unkempt and faded； as if he relied on food parcels from a veterans’ charity。 I answered in a neutral tone； “Is he？”
“So I hear。 You don’t happen to know his whereabouts； do you？”
“No。 I’m afraid not。 Excuse me again。”
I started to eat my chowder。 I heard him sigh noisily and then the clink of ice as his glass was set down。
“Cunt；” he said as he passed my table。
SIX
I have often been told by subjects that by the end of the research process； they feel as if they have been in therapy。
Ghostwritin g
THERE WAS NO SIGNof him when I came down to breakfast the next morning。 The receptionist told me there was no other guest apart from me in residence。 She that she hadn’t seen a British man in a blazer。 I’d already been awake since four—an improvement on two； but not much—and was groggy enough and hungover enough to wonder if I hadn’t hallucinated the whole encounter。 I felt better after some coffee。 I crossed the road and walked around the lighthouse a couple of times to clear my head； and by the time I returned to the hotel the minivan had arrived to take me to work。
I’d anticipated that my biggest problem on the first day would be physically getting Adam Lang into a room and keeping him there for long enough to start interviewing him。 But the strange thing was that when we reached the house；he was already waiting forme 。 Amelia had decided we should use Rhinehart’s office； and we found the former prime minister； wearing a dark green tracksuit； sprawled in the big chair opposite the desk； one leg draped over the arm。 He was flicking through a history of World War Two that he’d obviously just taken down from the shelf。 A mug of tea stood on the floor beside him。 His trainers had sand on their soles： I guessed he must have gone for a run on the beach。
“Hi； man；” he said； looking up at me。 “Ready to start？”
“Good morning；” I said。 “I just need to sort out a few things first。”
“Sure。 Go ahead。 Ignore me。”
He went back to his book while I opened my shoulder bag and carefully unpacked the tools of the ghosting trade： a Sony Walkman digital tape recorder with a stack of MD…R 74 minidisks and a mains lead （I’ve learned the hard way not to rely solely on my batteries）； a metallic silver Pana