； and this time he was accompanied by a saturnine Englishman from the British Security Service； MI5； whose name I never quite caught—because； I assume； I eant to catch it。
They showed me a photograph。 My vision was still bleary； but I was nevertheless able to identify the crazy man I had met in the bar of my hotel and who had staged that lonely vigil； with the biblical slogan； at the end of the track from the Rhinehart compound。 His name； they said； was George Arthur Boxer； a former major in the British army； whose son had been killed in Iraq and whose wife had died six months later in a London suicide bombing。 In his unhinged state； Major Boxer had held Adam Lang personally responsible； and had stalked him to Martha’s Vineyard just after McAra’s death had been reported in the papers。 He had plenty of expertise in munitions and intelligence。 He had studied tactics for suicide bombing on jihadist websites。 He had rented a cottage in Oak Bluffs； brought in supplies of peroxide and weed killer； and turned it into a minor factory for the production of homemade explosives。 And it would have been easy for him to know when Lang was returning from New York； because he would have seen the bombproof car heading to the airport to meet him。 How he had got onto the airfield nobody was quite sure； but it was dark； there was a four…mile perimeter fence； and the experts had always assumed that four Special Branch men and an armored car were sufficient protection。
But one had to be realistic； said the man from MI5。 There was a limit to what security could do； especially against a determined suicide bomber。 He quoted Seneca； in the original Latin； and then helpfully translated： “Who scorns his own life is lord of yours。” I got the impression everyone was slightly relieved by the way things had worked out： the British； because Lang had been killed on American soil； the Americans； because he’d been blown up by a Brit； and both because there would now be no war crimes trial； no unseemly revelations； and no guest who has overstayed his welcome； drifting around the dinner tables of Georgetown for the next twenty years。 You could almost say it was the special relationship in action。
Agent Murphy asked me about the flight from New York and whether Lang had expressed any worries about his personal security。 I said truthfully that he hadn’t。
“Mrs。 Bly；” said the MI5 man； “tells us you recorded an interview with him during the final part of the flight。”
“No； she’s wrong about that；” I said。 “I had the machine in front of me； but I never actually switched it on。 It wasn’t really an interview； in any case。 It was more of a chat。”
“Do you mind if I take a look？”
“Go ahead。”
My shoulder bag was on the nightstand next to my bed。 The MI5 man took out the minirecorder and ejected the disk。 I watched him； dry…mouthed。
“Can I borrow this？”
“You can keep it；” I said。 He started poking through the rest of my belongings。 “How is Amelia； by the way？”
“She’s fine。” He put the disk into his briefcase。 “Thanks。”
“Can I see her？”
“She flew back to London last night。” I guess my disappointment must have been evident； because the MI5 man added； with chilly pleasure； “It’s not surprising。 She hasn’t seen her husband since before Christmas。”
“And what about Ruth？” I asked。
“She’s accompanying Mr。 Lang’s body home right now；” said Murphy。 “Your government sent a plane to fetch them。”
“He’ll get full military honors；” added the MI5 man。 “A statue in the Palace of Westminster； and a funeral in the Abbey if she wants it。 He’s never been more popular than since he died。”
“He should have done it years ago；” I said。 They didn’t smile。 “And is it really true that nobody
else was killed？”
“Nobody；” said Murphy； “which was a miracle； believe me。”
“In fact；” said the man from MI5； “Mrs。 Bly wonders if Mr。 Lang didn’t actually recognize his
assassin and deliberately head toward him； knowing that something like this might happen。 Can you shed any light on that？”
“It sounds far…fetched；” I said。 “I thought a fuel truck had exploded。”
“It urphy； clicking his pen and slipping it into his inside pocket。 “We eventually found the killer’s head on the terminal roof。”
I WATCHED LANG’S FUNERALon CNN two days later。 My eyesight was more or less restored。 I could see it was tastefully done： the queen； the prime minister； the U。S。 vice president and half the leaders of Europe； the coffin draped in the Union Jack； the guard of honor； the solitary piper playing a lament。 Ruth looked very good in black； I thought； it was definitely her color。 I kept a lookout for Amelia； but I didn’t see her。 During a lull in proceedings； there was even an interview with Richard Rycart。 Naturally； he hadn’t been invited to the service； but he’d gone to the trouble of putting on a black tie and paid a very moving tribute from his office in the United Nations： a great colleague…a true patriot…we had our disagreements…remained friends…my heart goes out to Ruth and the family…as far as I’m concerned the whole chapter is closed。
I found the mobile phone he had given me and threw it out the window。
The next day； when I was due to be discharged from hospital； Rick came up from New York to say good…bye and take me to the airport。
“Do you want the good news or the good news？” he said。
“I’m not sure your idea of good news is the same as mine。”
“Sid Kroll just called。 Ruth Lang still wants you to finish the memoirs； and Maddox will give you an extra month to work on the manuscript。”
“And the good news is？”
“Very cute。 Listen； don’t be so goddamned snooty about it。 This is a really hot book now。 This is Adam Lang’s voice from the grave。 You don’t have to work on it here anymore； you can finish it in London。 You look terrible； by the way。”
“His ‘voice from the grave’？” I repeated incredulously。 “So now I’m to be the ghost of a ghost？”
“Come on； the whole situation is rich with possibilities。 Think about it。 You can write what you like； within reason。 Nobody’s going to stop you。 And you liked him； didn’t you？”
I thought about that。 In fact； I had been thinking about it ever since I came round from the sedative。 Worse than the pain in my eyes and the buzzing in my ears； worse even than my fear that I would never emerge from the hospital； was my sense of guilt。 That may seem odd； given what I’d learned； but I couldn’t work up any sense of self…justification or resentment against Lang。 I was the one at fault。 It wasn’t just that I’d betrayed my client； personally and professionally； it y actions had set in motion。 If I hadn’t gone to see Emmett； Emmett wouldn’t have contacted Lang to warn him about the photograph。 Then maybe Lang wouldn’t have insisted on flying back to Martha’s Vineyard that night to see Ruth。 Then I wouldn’t have had to tell him about Rycart。 And then； and then…？ It nagged away at me as I lay in the darkness。 I just couldn’t erase the memory of how bleak he had looked on the plane at the very end。
“Mrs。 Bly wonders if Mr。 Lang didn’t actually recognize his assassin and deliberately head toward him； knowing that something like this might happen…”
“Yes；” I said to Rick。 “Yes； I did like him。”
“Well； there you go。 You owe it to him。 And besides； there’s another consideration。”
“Which is what？”
“Sid Kroll says that if you don’t fulfill your contractual obligations and finish the book； they’ll sue
your ass off。”
AND SO I RETURNEDto London； and for the next six weeks I barely emerged from my flat； except once； early on； to go out for dinner with Kate。 We met in a restaurant in Notting Hill Gate； midway between our homes—territory as neutral as Switzerland and about as expensive。 The manner of Adam Lang’s death seemed to have silenced even her hostility； and I suppose a kind of glamour attached to me as an eyewitness。 I had turned down a score of requests to give interviews； so that she was the first person； apart from the FBI and MI5； to whom I described what had happened。 I desperately wanted to tell her about my final conversation with Lang。 I would have done； too。 But in the way of these things； just as I was about to broach it； the waiter came over to discuss dessert； and when he left she announced she had something she wanted to tell me； first。
She was engaged to be married。
I confess it was a shock。 I didn’t like the other man。 You’d know him if I mentioned his name： craggy； handsome； soulful。 He specializes in flying briefly into the world’s worst trouble spots and flying out again with moving descriptions of human suffering； usually his own。
“Congratulations；” I said。
We skipped dessert。 Our affair； our relationship—ourthing —whatever it was—ended ten minutes later with a peck on the cheek on the pavement outside the restaurant。
“You were going to tell me something；” she said； just before she got into her taxi。 “I’m sorry I cut you off。 I only didn’t want you to say anything； you know…too personal…without telling you first about how things were with me and—”
“It doesn’t matter；” I said。
“Are you sure you’re all right？ You seem…different。”
“I’m fine。”
“If you ever need me； I’ll always be there for you。”
“There？” I said。 “I don’t know about you； but I’m here。 Where’s there？”
I held open the door of her cab for her。 I couldn’t help overhearing that the address she gave the driver wasn’t hers。
After that； I withdrew from the world。 I spent my every waking hour with Lang； and now that he was dead； I found I suddenly had his voice。 It was more a Ouija board than a keyboard that I sat down to every morning。 If my fingers typed out a sentence that sounded wrong； I could almost physically feel them being drawn to the Delete key。 I was like a screenwriter producing lines with a particularly demanding star in mind： I knew he might say this； but not that； might do this scene； never that。
The bas