The Ghost(英文版)- 第40部分

　　My　small　suitcase　was　in　the　luggage　compartment　above　my　head；　my　feet　were　resting　on　the　shoulder　bag　beneath　the　seat　in　front　of　me。　All　was　in　order。　But　I　couldn’t　relax。　I　felt　guilty；　even　though　I　had　done　nothing　wrong。　I　half　expected　the　FBI　to　storm　the　plane　and　drag　me　away。　After　about　forty…five　minutes；　the　engines　suddenly　started　to　roar　again　and　the　pilot　broke　radio　silence　to　announce　that　we　had　finally　been　given　permission　to　take　off；　and　thank　you　again　for　your　understanding。

　　We　labored　along　the　runway　and　up　into　the　clouds；　and　such　was　my　exhaustion　that；　despite　my　anxiety—or　perhaps　because　of　it—I　actually　drifted　into　sleep。　I　came　awake　with　a　jerk　when　I　felt　someone　leaning　across　me；　but　it　was　only　the　cabin　attendant；　checking　that　my　seat　belt　was　fastened。　It　seemed　to　me　that　I　had　been　unconscious　no　more　than　a　few　seconds；　but　the　pressure　in　my　ears　told　me　that　already　we　were　coming　in　to　land　at　LaGuardia。　We　touched　down　at　six　minutes　past　six—I　remember　the　time　exactly：　I　checked　my　watch—and　by　twenty　past　I　was　avoiding　the　impatient　crowds　around　the　baggage　carousel　and　heading　out　of　the　gate　into　the　arrivals　hall。

　　It　was　busy；　early　evening；　and　people　were　in　a　hurry　to　get　downtown　or　home　for　dinner。　I　scanned　the　bewildering　array　of　faces；　wondering　if　Rycart　himself　had　turned　out　to　greet　me；　but　there　was　no　one　I　recognized。　The　usual　lugubrious　drivers　were　waiting；　holding　the　names　of　their　passengers　against　their　chests。　They　stared　straight　ahead；　avoiding　eye　contact；　like　suspects　in　a　police　lineup；　while　I；　in　the　manner　of　a　nervous　witness；　walked　along　in　front　of　them；　checking　each　carefully；　not　wanting　to　make　a　mistake。　Rycart　had　implied　I’d　recognize　the　right　person　when　I　saw　him；　and　I　did；　and　my　heart　almost　stopped。　He　was　standing　apart　from　the　others；　in　his　own　patch　of　space—wan　faced；　dark　haired；　tall；　heavyset；　early　fifties；　in　a　badly　fitting　chain…store　suit—and　he　was　holding　a　small　blackboard　on　which　was　chalked　“Mike　McAra。”　Even　his　eyes　were　as　I　had　imagined　McAra’s　to　be：　crafty　and　colorless。

　　He　was　chewing　gum。　He　nodded　to　my　suitcase。　“You　okay　with　that。”　It　was　a　statement；　not　a　question；　but　I　didn’t　care。　I’d　never　been　more　pleased　to　hear　a　New　York　accent　in　my　life。　He　turned　on　his　heel　and　I　followed　him　across　the　hall　and　out　into　the　pandemonium　of　the　night：　shrieks；　whistles；　slamming　doors；　the　fight　to　grab　a　cab；　sirens　in　the　distance。

　　He　brought　round　his　car；　wound　down　his　window；　and　beckoned　to　me　to　get　in　quickly。　As　I　struggled　to　get　my　case　into　the　backseat；　he　stared　straight　ahead；　his　hands　on　the　wheel；　discouraging　conversation。　Not　that　there　was　much　time　to　talk。　Barely　had　we　left　the　perimeter　of　the　airport　than　we　were　pulling　up　in　front　of　a　big；　glass…fronted　hotel　and　conference　center　overlooking　Grand　Central　Parkway。　He　grunted　as　he　shifted　his　heavy　body　round　in　his　seat　to　address　me。　The　car　stank　of　his　sweat　and　I　had　a　moment　of　pure　existential　horror；　staring　beyond　him；　through　the　drizzle；　to　that　bleak　and　anonymous　building：　what；　in　the　name　of　God；　was　I　doing？

　　“If　you　need　to　make　contact；　use　this；”　he　said；　giving　me　a　brand…new　cell　phone；　still　in　its　plastic　wrapper。　“There’s　a　chip　inside　with　twenty　dollars’　worth　of　calls　on　it。　Don’t　use　your　old　phone。　The　safest　thing　is　to　turn　it　off。　You　pay　for　your　room　in　advance；　with　cash。　Have　you　got　enough？　It’ll　be　about　three　hundred　bucks。”

　　I　nodded。

　　“You’re　staying　one　night。　You　have　a　reservation。”　He　wriggled　his　fat　wallet　out　from　his　back　pocket。　“This　is　the　card　you　use　to　guarantee　the　extras。　The　name　on　the　card　is　the　name　you　register　under。　Use　an　address　in　the　United　Kingdom　that　isn’t　your　own。　If　thereare　any　extras；　make　sure　you　pay　for　them　in　cash。　This　is　the　telephone　number　you　use　to　make　contact　in　future。”

　　“You　used　to　be　a　cop；”　I　said。　I　took　the　credit　card　and　a　torn…out　strip　of　paper　with　a　number　written　on　it　in　a　childish　hand。　The　paper　and　plastic　were　warm　from　the　heat　of　his　body。

　　“Don’t　use　the　internet。　Don’t　speak　to　strangers。　And　especially　avoid　any　women　who　might　try　to　come　on　to　you。”

　　“You　sound　like　my　mother。”

　　His　face　didn’t　flicker。　We　sat　there　for　a　few　seconds。　“Well；”　he　said　impatiently。　He　waved　a　meaty　hand　at　me。　“That’s　it。”

　　Once　I　was　through　the　revolving　glass　door　and　inside　the　lobby；　I　checked　the　name　on　the　card。　Clive　Dixon。　A　big　conference　had　just　ended。　Scores　of　delegates　wearing　black　suits　with　bright　yellow　lapel　badges　were　pouring　across　the　wide　expanse　of　white　marble；　chattering　to　one　another　like　a　flight　of　crows。　They　looked　eager；　purposeful；　motivated；　newly　fired　up　to　meet　their　corporate　targets　and　personal　goals。　I　saw　from　their　badges　they　belonged　to　a　church。　Above　our　heads；　great　glass　globes　of　light　hung　from　a　ceiling　a　hundred　feet　high　and　shimmered　on　walls　of　chrome。　I　wasn’t　just　out　of　my　depth　anymore；　I　was　out　of　sight　of　land。

　　“I　have　a　reservation；　I　believe；”　I　said　to　the　clerk　at　the　desk；　“in　the　name　of　Dixon。”

　　It’s　not　an　alias　I’d　have　chosen。　I　don’t　think　of　myself　as　a　Dixon；　whatever　a　Dixon　is。　But　the　receptionist　was　untroubled　by　my　embarrassment。　I　was　on　his　computer；　that　was　all　that　mattered　to　him；　and　my　card　was　good。　The　room　rate　was　two　hundred　and　seventy…five　dollars。　I　filled　out　the　reservation　form　and　gave　as　my　false　address　the　number　of　Kate’s　small　terraced　house　in　Shepherd’s　Bush　and　the　street　of　Rick’s　London　club。　When　I　said　I　wanted　to　pay　in　cash；　he　took　the　notes　between　his　finger　and　thumb　as　if　they　were　the　strangest　things　he　had　ever　seen。Cash？　If　I’d　tied　a　mule　to　his　desk　and　offered　to　pay　him　in　animal　skins　and　sticks　that　I’d　spent　the　winter　carving；　he　couldn’t　have　looked　more　nonplussed。

　　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　li