a run of bad weather on the way。
I went up to my room and stood in the shadows for a while； listening to the creaking of the old inn sign and the relentlessboom…hiss； boom…hiss of the surf beyond the empty road。 The lighthouse switched itself on at the precise moment when the beam was pointing directly at the hotel； and the sudden eruption of red into the room jerked me out of my reverie。 I turned on the desk lamp and took my laptop out of my shoulder bag。 We had traveled a long way together； that laptop and I。 We had endured rock stars who believed themselves messiahs with a mission to save the planet。 We had survived footballers whose monosyllabic grunts would make a silverback gorilla sound as if he were reciting Shakespeare。 We had put up with soon…to…be…forgotten actors who had egos the size of a Roman emperor’s； and entourages to match。 I gave the machine a comradely pat。 Its once shiny metal case was scratched and dented： the honorable wounds of a dozen campaigns。 We had got through those。 We would somehow get through even this。
I hooked it up to the hotel telephone； dialed my internet service provider； and； while the connection was going through； went into the bathroom for a glass of water。 The face that stared back at me from the mirror was a deterioration even on the specter of the previous evening。 I pulled down my lower eyelids and examined the yolky whites of my eyes； before moving on to the graying teeth and hair； and the red filigrees of my cheeks and nose。 Martha’s Vineyard in midwinter seemed to be aging me。 It was Shangri…La in reverse。
From the other room I heard the familiar announcement： “You have email。”
I saw at once that something was wrong。 There was the usual queue of a dozen junk messages； offering me everything from penis enlargement to theWall Street Journal ； plus an email from Rick’s office confirming the payment of the first part of the advance。 Just about the only thing that wasn’t listed was the email I had sent myself that afternoon。
For a few moments； I stared stupidly at the screen； then I opened the separate filing cabinet on the laptop’s hard drive that automatically stores every piece of email； incoming and outgoing。 And there； sure enough； to my immense relief； at the top of the “Email you have sent” queue was one titled “no subject；” to which I had attached the manuscript of Adam Lang’s memoirs。 But when I opened the blank email and clicked on the box labeled “download；” all I received was a message saying； “That file is not currently available。” I tried a few more times； always with the same result。
I took out my mobile and called the internet company。
I shall spare you a full account of the sweaty half hour that followed—the endless selecting from lists of options； the queuing； the listening to Muzak； the increasingly panicky conversation with the company’s representative in Uttar Pradesh or wherever the hell he was speaking from。
The bottom line was that the manuscript had vanished； and the company had no record of its ever having existed。
I lay down on the bed。
I am not very technically minded； but even I was beginning to grasp what must have happened。 Somehow； Lang’s manuscript had been wiped from the memory of my internet service provider’s computers； for which there were two possible explanations。 One was that it hadn’t been uploaded properly in the first place； but that couldn’t be right； because I had received those two messages while I was still in the office： “Your file has been transferred” and “You have email。” The other was that the file had since been deleted。 But how could that have happened？ Deletion would imply that someone had direct access to the computers of one of the world’s biggest internet conglomerates and was able to cover his tracks at will。 It would also imply—had to imply—that my emails were all being monitored。
Rick’s voice floated into my mind—“Wow。 This must’ve been some operation。 Too big for a newspaper。 This must’ve been agovernment”—followed swiftly by Amelia’s—“You do realize how serious this is getting； don’t you？”
“But the book is crap！” I cried out loud； despairingly； at the portrait of the Victorian whaling master hanging opposite the bed。 “There’s nothing in it that’s worth all this trouble！”
The stern old Victorian sea dog stared back at me； unmoved。 I had broken my promise； his expression seemed to say； and something out there—some nameless force—knew it。
EIGHT
Authors are often busy people and hard to get hold of； sometimes they are temperamental。 The
publishers consequently rely on the ghosts to make the process of publication as smooth as possible。
Ghostwritin g
THERE y doing any more work that night。 I didn’t even turn on the television。 Oblivion was all I craved。 I switched off my mobile； went down to the bar； and； when that closed； sat up in my room emptying a bottle of scotch until long past midnight； which no doubt explains why for once I slept right through the night。
I was woken by the bedside telephone。 The harsh metallic tone seemed to vibrate my eyeballs in their dusty sockets； and when I rolled over to answer it I felt my stomach keep on rolling； wobbling away from me across the mattress and onto the floor like a taut balloon full of some noxious； viscous liquid。 The revolving room was very hot； the air…conditioning turned up to maximum。 I realized I’d gone to sleep fully dressed and had left all the lights burning。
“You need to check out of your hotel immediately；” said Amelia。 “Things have changed。” Her voice pierced my skull like a knitting needle。 “There’s a car on its way。”
That was all she said。 I didn’t argue； I couldn’t。 She’d gone。
I once read that the ancient Egyptians used to prepare a pharaoh for mummification by drawing his brain out through his nose with a hook。 At some point in the night a similar procedure had seemingly been performed on me。 I shuffled across the carpet and pulled back the curtains to unveil a sky and sea as gray as death。 Nothing was stirring。 The silence was absolute； unbroken even by the cry of a gull。 A storm was coming in all right； even I could tell that。
But then； just as I was about to turn away； I heard the distant sound of an engine。 I squinted down at the street beneath my window and saw a couple of cars pull up。 The doors of the first opened and two men got out—young； fit looking； wearing ski jackets； jeans； and boots。 The driver stared up at my window and instinctively I took a step backward。 By the time I risked a second look； he had opened the rear of the car and was bent over it。 When he straightened he took out what at first； in my paranoid state； I took to be a machine gun。 Actually it was a television camera。
I started to move quickly then； or at least as quickly as my condition would allow。 I opened the window wide to let in a blast of freezing air。 I undressed； showered in lukewarm water； and shaved。 I put on clean clothes and packed。 By the time I got down to reception it was eight forty…five—an hour after the first ferry from the mainland had docked at Vineyard Haven—and the hotel looked as though it was staging an international media convention。 Whatever you might say against Adam Lang； he was certainly doing wonders for the local economy： Edgartown hadn’t been this busy since Chappaquiddick。 There must have been thirty people hanging around； drinking coffee； swapping stories in half a dozen languages； talking on their mobiles； checking equipment。 I’d spent enough time around reporters to be able to tell one type from another。 The television correspondents were dressed as though they were going to a funeral； the news agency hacks were the ones who looked like gravediggers。
I bought a copy of theNew York Times and went into the restaurant； where I drank three glasses of orange juice straight off； before turning my attention to the paper。 Lang wasn’t buried in the international section any longer。 He was right up there on the front page：
WAR CRIMES COURT
TO RULE ON BRITISH
EX…PM
~ ANNOUNCEMENT
DUE TODAY
~
Former Foreign Sec。
Alleges Lang OK’d
Use of Torture by CIA
Lang had issued a “robust” statement； it said （I felt a thrill of pride）。 He was “embattled；” “coping with one blow after another”—beginning with “the accidental drowning of a close aide earlier in the year。” The affair was “an embarrassment” for the British and American governments。 “A senior administration official” insisted； however； that the White House remained loyal to a man who was formerly its closest ally。 “He was there for us and we’ll be there for him；” the official added； speaking only after a guarantee of anonymity。
But it was the final paragraph that really made me choke into my coffee：
The publication of Mr。 Lang’s memoirs； which had been scheduled for June； has been brought forward to the end of April。 John Maddox； chief executive of Rhinehart Publishing Inc。； which is reported to have paid 10 million for the book； said that the finishing touches were now being put to the manuscript。 “This is going to be a world publishing event；” Mr。 Maddox toldThe New York Times in a telephone interview yesterday。 “Adam Lang will be giving the first full inside scoop by a leader on the West’s war on terror。”
I rose； folded the newspaper； and walked with dignity through the lobby； carefully stepping around the camera bags； the two…foot zoom lenses； and the handheld mikes in their woolly gray windproof prophylactics。 Between the members of the fourth estate； a cheerful； almost a party atmosphere prevailed； as might have existed among eighteenth…century gentlefolk off for a good day out at a hanging。
“The newsroom says the press conference in The Hague is now at ten o’clock Eastern；” someone shouted。
I passed unnoticed and went out onto the veranda； where I put a call through to my agent。 His assistant answered—Brad； or Brett； or Brat： I forget his name； Rick changed his staff almost as quickly as he changed his wives。
I asked to speak to Mr。 Ricardelli。
“He’s away from the office right now。”
“Where is he？”
“On a fishing trip。”
“Fishing？”
“He’ll be calling in occasionally to check his messages。”
“That’s nice。 Where is he？”
“The Bouma National Heritage Rainforest Park。”
“Christ。 Where’s that？”
“It was a spur…of…the…moment thing—”
“Where is it？”
Brad； or Brett； or Brat； hesitated。 “Fiji。”
THE MINIVAN TOOK MEup the hill out of Edgartown； past the bookshop and the little cinema and the whaling church。 When we reached the edge of town； we followed the signs left to West Tisbury rather than right to Vineyard Haven； which at least implied that I was being taken back to the house； rather than straight to the ferry to be deported for breaching the Official Secrets Act。 I sat behind the police driver； my suitcase on the seat beside me。 He was one of the younger ones； dressed in their standard non…uniform uniform of gray zippered jacket and black tie。 His eyes so