ame。 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 fucking beach thinking about what we discussed last night—” I interrupted。 “I wouldn’t say anything about that on the phone。”
“Don’t worry； I won’t。 I’m not a total fool。 It’s just that the more I go over things； the more
worried I get。”
“Where’s Adam？”
“Still in Washington； as far as I know。 He keeps trying to call and I keep not answering。 When will
you be back？”
“I’m not sure。”
“Tonight？”
“I’ll try。”
“Do； if you can。” She lowered her voice； I imagined the bodyguard standing nearby。 “It’s Dep’s
night off。 I’ll cook。”
“Is that supposed to be an incentive？”
“You rude man；” she said and laughed。 She rang off as abruptly as she had called； without saying
good…bye。
I tapped my phone against my teeth。 The prospect of a confiding fireside talk with Ruth； perhaps to be followed by a second round in her vigorous embrace； was not without its attractions。 I could call Rycart and tell him I’d changed my mind。 Undecided； I took my case out of the car and wheeled it through the puddles toward the waiting bus。 Once I was aboard； I cradled it next to me and studied the airport map。 At that point yet another choice presented itself。 Terminal B—the shuttle to New York and Rycart—or terminal E—international departures and an evening flight back to London？ I hadn’t considered that before。 I had my passport； everything。 I could simply walk away。
B or E？ I seriously weighed them。 I was like an unusually dim lab rat in a maze； endlessly
confronted with alternatives； endlessly picking the wrong one。
The bus doors opened with a heavy sigh。
I got off at B； bought my ticket； sent a text message to Rycart； and caught the US Airways Shuttle
to LaGuardia。
FOR SOME REASON OURplane was delayed on the tarmac。 We taxied out on schedule but then stopped just short of the runway； pulling aside in a gentlemanly fashion to let the queue of jets behind us go ahead。 It began to rain。 I looked out of the porthole at the flattened grass and the welded sheets of sea and sky。 Clear veins of water pulsed across the glass。 Every time a plane took off； the thin skin of the cabin shook and the veins broke and reformed。 The pilot came over the intercom and apologized： there was some problem with our security clearance； he said。 The Department of Homeland Security had just raised its threat assessment from yellow （elevated） to orange （high） and our patience was appreciated。 Among the businesspeople around me； agitation grew。 The man sitting next to me caught my eye above the edge of his pink paper and shook his head。
“It just gets worse；” he said。
He folded hisFinancial Times ； placed it on his lap； and closed his eyes。 The headline was “Lang wins US support；” and there was that grin again。 Ruth had been right。 He shouldn’t have smiled。 It had gone round the world。
My small suitcase was in the luggage compartment above my head； my feet were resting on the shoulder