ood woman。 It had everything。 You could give it at Christmas to your grungy teenager or your churchgoing granny； and each would be equally happy。 It sold three hundred thousand copies in hardcover in the UK alone。
“You knowChristy ？” It seemed so unlikely。
“We stayed at his house on Mustique last winter。 I read his memoirs。 They were by the bed。”
“Now I’m embarrassed。”
“No。 Why？ They were brilliant； in a horrible kind of a way。 Listening to his scrambled stories over dinner and then seeing how you’d turned them into something resembling a life—I said to Adam then： ‘This is the man you need to write your book。’”
I laughed。 I couldn’t stop myself。 “Well； I hope your husband’s recollections aren’t quite as hazy as Christy’s。”
“Don’t count on it。” She pulled back her hood and took a deep breath。 She was better looking in the flesh than she was on television。 The camera hated her almost as much as it loved her husband。 It didn’t catch her amused alertness； the animation of her face。 “God； I miss home；” she said。 “Even though the kids are away at university。 I keep telling him it’s like being married to Napoleon on Saint Helena。”
“Then why don’t you go back to London？”
She didn’t say anything for a while； just stared at the ocean； biting her lip。 Then she looked at me； sizing me up。 “You did sign that confidentiality agreement？”
“Of course。”
“You’re sure？”
“Check with Sid Kroll’s office。”
“Because I don’t want to read about this in some gossip column next week； or in some cheap little kiss…and…tell book of your own a year from now。”
“Whoa；” I said； taken aback by her venom。 “I thought you just said I was your idea。 I didn’t ask to come here。 And I haven’t kissed anyone。”
She nodded。 “All right then。 I’ll tell you why I can’t go home； between you and me。 Because there’s something not quite right with him at the moment； and I’m a bit afraid to leave him。”
Boy； I thought。 This just gets better and better。
“Yes；” I replied diplomatically。 “Amelia told me he was very upset by Mike’s death。”
“Oh； did she？ Quite whenMrs。 Bly became such an expert in my husband’s emotional state I’m not sure。” If she had hissed and sprung claws she couldn’t have made her feelings plainer。 “Losing Mike certainly made it worse； but it isn’t just that。 It’s losing power—that’s the real trouble。 Losing power； and now having to sit down and relive everything； year by year。 While all the time the press are going on and on about what he did and didn’t do。 He can’t get free of the past； you see。 He can’t move on。” She gestured helplessly at the sea； the sand； the dunes。 “He’s stuck。 We’re both stuck。”
As we walked back to the house； she put her arm through mine。 “Oh； dear；” she said。 “You must be starting to wonder what you’ve let yourself in for。”
THERE WAS A LOTmore activity in the compound when we got back。 A dark green Jaguar limousine with a Washington license plate was parked at the entrance； and a black minivan with darkened windows was drawn up behind it。 As the front door opened； I could hear several telephones ringing at once。 A genial gray…haired man in a cheap brown suit was sitting just inside； drinking a cup of tea； talking to one of the police guards。 He jumped up smartly when he saw Ruth Lang。 They were all quite scared of her； I noticed。
“Afternoon； ma’am。”
“Hello； Jeff。 How was New York？”
“Bloody chaos； as usual。 Like Piccadilly Circus in the rush hour。” He had a crafty London accent。 “Thought for a while I wouldn’t get back in time。”
Ruth turned to me。 “They like to have the car ready in position when Adam lands。” She began the long process of wriggling out of her windbreaker just as Amelia Bly came round the corner； a cell phone wedged between her elegant shoulder and her sculpted chin； her nimble fingers zipping up an attaché case。 “That’s fine； that’s fine。 I’ll tell him。” She nodded to Ruth and carried on speaking—“On Thursday he’s in Chicago”—then looked at Jeff and tapped her wristwatch。
“Actually； I thinkI’ll go to the airport；” said Ruth； suddenly pulling her windbreaker back down。 “Amelia can stay here and polish her nails or something。 Why don’t you come？” she added to me。 “He’s keen to meet you。”
Score one to the wife； I thought。 But no： in the finest traditions of the British civil service； Amelia bounced off the ropes and came back punching。 “Then I’ll travel in the backup car；” she said； snapping her cell phone shut and smiling sweetly。 “I can do my nails in there。”
Jeff opened one of the Jaguar’s rear doors for Ruth； while I went round and nearly broke my arm tugging at the other。 I slid into the leather seat and the door closed behind me with a gaseous thump。
“She’s armored； sir；” said Jeff into the rearview mirror as we pulled away。 “Weighs two and a half tons。 Yet she’ll still do a hundred with all four tires shot out。”
“Oh； do shut up； Jeff；” said Ruth； good…humoredly。 “He doesn’t want to hear all that。”
“The windows are an inch thick and don’t open； in case you were thinking of trying。 She’s airtight against chemical and biological attack； with oxygen for an hour。 Makes you think； doesn’t it？ At this precise moment； sir； you’re probably safer than you’ve ever been in your life； or ever will be again。”
Ruth laughed again and made a face。 “Boys with their toys！”
The outside world seemed muffled； distant。 The forest track ran smooth and quiet as rubber。 Perhaps this is what it feels like being carried in the womb； I thought： this wonderful feeling of complete security。 We ran over the dead skunk； and the big car didn’t register the slightest tremor。
“Nervous？” asked Ruth。
“No。 Why？ Should I be？”
“Not at all。 He’s the most charming man you’ll ever meet。 My own Prince Charming！” And she gave her deep…throated； mannish laugh again。 “God；” she said； staring out of the window； “will I be glad to see the back of these trees。 It’s like living in an enchanted wood。”
I glanced over my shoulder at the unmarked minivan following close behind。 I could see how this was addictive。 I was getting used to it already。 Being forced to give it up after it had become a habit would be like letting go of mommy。 But thanks to terrorism； Lang would never have to give it up—never have to stand in line for public transport； never even drive himself。 He was as pampered and cocooned as a Romanov before the revolution。
We came out of the forest onto the main road； turned left； and almost immediately swung right through the airport perimeter。 I stared out of the window in surprise at the big runway。
“We’re here already？”
“In summer Marty likes to leave his office in Manhattan at four；” said Ruth； “and be on the beach by six。”
“I suppose he has a private jet；” I said in an attempt at knowingness。
“Of course he has a private jet。”
She gave me a look that made me feel like a hick who’d just used his fish knife to butter his roll。Of course he has a private jet。 You don’t own a thirty…million…dollar house and travel to it by bus。 The man must have a carbon footprint the size of a yeti’s。 I realized then that just about everybody the Langs knew these days had a private jet。 Indeed； here came Lang himself； in a corporate Gulfstream； dropping out of the darkening sky and skimming in low over the gloomy pines。 Jeff put his foot down and a minute later we pulled up outside the little terminal。 There was a self…important cannonade of slamming doors as we piled inside—me； Ruth； Amelia； Jeff； and one of the protection officers。 Inside； a patrolman from the Edgartown police force was already waiting。 Behind him on the wall I could see a faded photograph of Bill and Hillary Clinton being greeted on the tarmac at the start of some scandal…shrouded presidential vacation。
The private jet taxied in from the runway。 It was painted dark blue and hadHALLINGTON written in gold letters by the door。 It looked bigger than the usual CEO’s phallic symbol； with a high tail and six windows either side； and when it came to a stop and the engines were cut the silence over the deserted airfield was unexpectedly profound。
The door opened； the steps were lowered； and out came a couple of Special Branch men。 One headed straight for the terminal。 The other waited at the foot of the steps； going through the motions of checking the empty tarmac； glancing up and around and behind him。 Lang himself seemed in no hurry to disembark。 I could just about make him out in the shadows of the interior； shaking hands with the pilot and a male steward； then finally—almost reluctantly； it seemed to me—he came out and paused at the top of the steps。 He was holding his own briefcase； which was not something he had done when he was prime minister。 The wind lifted the back of his jacket and plucked at his tie。 He smoothed down his hair。 He glanced around as if he was trying to remember what he was supposed to do。 It was on the edge of becoming embarrassing when suddenly he caught sight of us watching him through the big glass window。 He pointed and waved and grinned； exactly the way he had in his heyday； and the moment—whatever it was—had passed。 He came striding eagerly across the concourse； transferring his briefcase from one hand to the other； trailed by a third Special Branch man and a young woman pulling a suitcase on wheels。
We left the window just in time to meet him as he came in through the arrivals gate。
“Hi； darling；” he said and stooped to kiss his wife。 His skin had a slightly orange tint。 I realized he was wearing makeup。
She stroked his arm。 “How was New York？”
“Great。 They gave me the Gulfstream Four—you know； the transatlantic one； with the beds and the shower。 Hi； Amelia。 Hi； Jeff。” He noticed me。 “Hello；” he said。 “Who are you？”
“I’m your ghost；” I said。
I regretted it the instant I said it。 I’d conceived it as a witty； self…deprecatory； break…the…ice kind of a line。 I’d even practiced my delivery in the mirror before I left London。 But somehow out there； in that deserted airport； amid the grayness and the quietness； it hit precisely the wrong note。 He flinched。
“Right；” he said doubtfully； and although he shook my hand； he also drew his head back slightly； as if to inspect me from a safer distance。
Christ； I thought； he thinks I’m a lunatic。
“Don’t worry；” Ruth told him。 “He isn’t always such a jerk。”
FIVE
It is essential for the ghost to make the subject feel completely comfortable in his or her company。
Ghostwritin g
“BRILLIANT OPENING LINE；” SAIDAmelia as we drove back to the house。 “Did they teach you that at ghost school？”
We were sitting together in the back of the minivan。 The secretary who’d just flown in from New York—her name was Lucy—and the three protection officers occupied the seats in front of us。 Through the windscreen I could see the Jaguar immediately ahead carrying the Langs。 It was starting to get d