ack wheel spinning。 I didn’t bother to pick it up but ran up the cinder path； past a flagpole； to the veranda of the house。 Once I was out of the rain； I leaned forward and shook my head vigorously to get the water out of my hair； and immediately a dog started barking and scratching at the door behind me。 I’d assumed the house was empty—it certainly looked it—but a hazy white moon of a face appeared at the dusty window blurred by the screen door； and a moment later the door opened and the dog flew out at me。
I dislike dogs almost as much as they dislike me； but I did my best to seem charmed by the hideous； yapping white furball； if only to appease its owner； an old…timer of not far off ninety to judge by the liver spots； the stoop； and the still…handsome skull poking through the papery skin。 He was wearing a well…cut sports jacket over a buttoned…up cardigan and had a plaid scarf round his neck。 I made a stammering apology for disturbing his privacy； but he soon cut me off。
“You’re British？” he said； squinting at me。
“I am。”
“That’s okay。 You can shelter。 Sheltering’s free。”
I didn’t know enough about America to be able to tell from his accent where he was from； or what he might have done。 But I guessed he was a retired professional and fairly well…off—you had to be； living in a place where a shack with an outside lavatory would cost you half a million dollars。
“British； eh？” he repeated。 He studied me through rimless spectacles。 “You anything to do with this feller Lang？”
“In a way；” I said。
“Seems intelligent。 Why’d he want to get himself mixed up with that damn fool in the White House？”
“That’s what everyone would like to know。”
“War crimes！” he said； with a roll of his head； and I caught a glimpse of two flesh…colored hearing aids； one in either ear。 “We could all have been charged with those！ And maybe we ought to have been。 I don’t know。 I guess I’ll just have to put my trust in a higher judgment。” He chuckled sadly。 “I’ll find out soon enough。”
I didn’t know what he was talking about。 I was just glad to be standing where it was dry。 We leaned on the weathered handrail and stared out together at the rain while the dog skittered dementedly on its claws around the veranda。 Through a gap in the trees I could just make out the sea—vast and gray； with the white lines of the incoming waves moving remorselessly down it； like interference on an old black…and…white TV。
“So what brings you to this part of the Vineyard？” asked the old man。
There seemed no point in lying。 “Someone I knew was washed up on the beach down there；” I said。 “I thought I’d take a look at the spot。 To pay my respects；” I added； in case he thought I was a ghoul。
“Nowthat was a funny business；” he said。 “You mean the British guy a few weeks ago？ Noway should that current have carried him this far west。 Not at this time of year。”
“What？” I turned to look at him。 Despite his great age； there was still something youthful about his sharp features and keen manner。 His thin white hair was combed straight back off his forehead。 He looked like an antique Boy Scout。
“I’ve known this sea most of my life。 Hell； a guy tried to throwme off that damn ferry when I was still at the World Bank； and I can tell you this： if he’d succeeded； I wouldn’t have floated ashore in Lambert’s Cove！”
I was conscious of a drumming in my ears； but whether it was my blood or the downpour hitting the shingle roof I couldn’t tell。
“Did you mention this to the police？”
“The police？ Young man； at my age； I have better things to do with what little time I have left than spend it with the police！ Anyway； I told all this to Annabeth。 She was the one who was dealing with the police。” He saw my blank expression。 “Annabeth Wurmbrand；” he said。 “Everybody knows Annabeth—Mars Wurmbrand’s widow。 She has the house nearest the ocean。” At my failure to react； he became slightly testy。 “She’s the one who told the police about the lights。”
“The lights？”
“The lights on the beach on the night the body was washed up。 Nothing happens round here that she doesn’t see。 Kay used to say she was always happy leaving Mohu in the fall； knowing she could be sure Annabeth would keep an eye on things all winter。”
“What kind of lights were these？”
“Flashlights； I guess。”
“Why wasn’t this reported in the media？”
“In the media？” He gave another of his grating chuckles。 “Annabeth’s never spoken to a reporter in her life！ Except maybe an editor from theWorld of Interiors。 It took her a decade even to trust Kay； because of thePost 。”
That started him off talking about Kay’s big old place up on Lambert’s Cove Road that Bill and Hillary used to like so much； and where Princess Diana had stayed； of which only the chimneys now remained； but by then I had stopped listening。 It seemed to me the rain had eased somewhat and I was eager to get away。 I interrupted。
“Do you think you could point me in the direction of Mrs。 Wurmbrand’s house？”
“Sure； but there’s not much point in going there。”
“Why not？”
“She fell downstairs two weeks ago。 Been in a coma ever since。 Poor Annabeth。 Ted says she’s never going to regain consciousness。 So that’s another one gone。 Hey！” he shouted； but by then I was halfway down the steps from the veranda。
“Thanks for the shelter；” I called over my shoulder； “and the talk。 I’ve got to get going。”
He looked so forlorn； standing there alone under his dripping roof； with the Stars and Stripes hanging like a dishrag from its slick pole； that I almost turned back。
“Well； tell your Mr。 Lang to keep his spirits up！” He gave me a trembling military salute and turned it into a wave。 “You take care now。”
I righted my bike and set off down the track。 I wasn’t even noticing the rain anymore。 About a quarter of a mile down the slope； in a clearing close to the dunes and the pond； was a big； low house surrounded by a wire fence and discreet signs announcing it was private property。 There were no lamps lit； despite the darkness of the storm。 That； I surmised； must be the residence of the comatose widow。 Could it be true？ She had seenlights ？ Well； it was certainly the case that from the upstairs windows one would have a good view of the beach。 I leaned the bike against a bush and scrambled up the little path； through sickly； yellowish vegetation and lacy green ferns； and as I came to the crest of the dune the wind seemed to push me away； as if this too were a private domain and I had no business trespassing。
I’d already glimpsed what lay beyond the dunes from the old guy’s house； and as I’d cycled down the track； I’d heard the boom of the surf getting progressively louder。 But it was still a shock to clamber up and suddenly be confronted by that vista—that seamless gray hemisphere of scudding clouds and heaving ocean； the waves hurtling in and smashing against the beach in a continuous； furious detonation。
The low； sandy coast ran away in a curve to my right for about a mile and ended in the jutting outcrop of Makonikey Head； misty through the spray。 I wiped the rain out of my eyes to try to see better； and I thought of McAra alone on this immense shore—facedown； glutted with salt water； his cheap winter clothes stiff with brine and cold。 I imagined him emerging out of the bleak dawn； carried in on the tide from Vineyard Sound； scraping the sand with his big feet； being washed out again； and then returning； slowly creeping higher up the beach until at last he grounded。 And then I imagined him dumped over the side of a dinghy and dragged ashore by men with flashlights； who’d come back a few days later and thrown a garrulous old witness down her architect…designed stairs。
A few hundred yards along the beach a pair of figures emerged from the dunes and started walking toward me； dark and tiny and frail amid all that raging nature。 I glanced in the other direction。 The wind was whipping spouts of water from the surface of the waves and flinging them ashore； like the outlines of some amphibious invasion force： they made it halfway up the beach and then dissolved。
What I ought to do； I thought； staggering slightly in the wind； is give all this to a journalist； some tenacious reporter from theWashington Post ； some noble heir to the tradition of Woodward and Bernstein。 I could see the headline。 I could write the story in my mind。
WASHINGTON—The death of Michael McAra； aide to former British prime minister Adam Lang； was a covert operation that went tragically wrong； according to sources within the intelligence community。
Was that so implausible？ I took another look at the figures on the beach。 It seemed to me they had quickened their pace and were heading toward me。 The wind slashed rain in my face and I had to wipe it away。 I ought to get going； I thought。 By the time I looked again they were closer still； stumbling determinedly up the expanse of sand。 One was short； the other tall。 The tall one was a man； the short one a woman。
The short one was Ruth Lang。
I WAS AMAZED THATshe should have turned up。 I waited until I was sure it was her； then I went halfway down the beach to meet her。 The noise of the wind and the sea wiped out our first exchanges。 She had to take my arm and pull me down slightly； so that she could shout in my ear。“I said；” she repeated； and her breath was almost shockingly hot against my freezing skin；“Dep told me you were here！” The wind whipped her blue nylon hood away from her face and she tried to fumble for it at the nape of her neck； then gave up。 She shouted something； but just at that moment a wave exploded against the shore behind her。 She smiled helplessly； waited until the noise had subsided； then cupped her hands and shouted； “What are you doing？”
“Oh； just taking the air。”
“No—really。”
“I wanted to see where Mike McAra was found。”
“Why？”
I shrugged。 “Curiosity。”
“But you didn’t even know him。”
“I’m starting to feel as if I did。”
“Wher