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Nothing he uttered that night warrants reprinting。 It was almost a parody of what a politician might say after a terrorist attack。 Yet； watching him； you would have thought his own wife and children had been eviscerated in the blast。 This was his genius： to refresh and elevate the clichés of politics by the sheer force of his performance。 Even Kate was briefly silenced。 Only when he had finished and his largely female； mostly elderly audience was rising to applaud did she mutter； “What’s he doing in New York； anyway？”
“Lecturing？”
“Why can’t he lecture here？”
“I suppose because no one here would pay him a hundred thousand dollars a throw。”
She pressed Mute。
“There was a time；” said Kate slowly； after what felt like a very long silence； “when princes taking their countries to war were supposed to risk their lives in battle—you know； lead by example。 Now they travel around in bombproof cars with armed bodyguards and make fortunes three thousand miles away； while the rest of us are stuck with the consequences of their actions。 I just don’t understand you；” she went on； turning to look at me properly for the first time。 “All the things I’ve said about him over the past few years—‘war criminal’ and the rest of it—and you’ve sat there nodding and agreeing。 And now you’re going to write his propaganda for him； and make him richer。 Did none of it ever mean anything to you at all？”
“Hold on a minute；” I said。 “You’re a fine one to talk。 You’ve been trying to get an interview with him for months。 What’s the difference？”
“What’s the difference？ Christ！” She clenched her hands—those slim white hands I knew so well—and raised them in frustration； half claw； half fist。 The sinews stood out in her arms。 “What’s the difference？We want to hold him to account—that’s the difference！ To ask him proper questions！ About torturing and bombing and lying！ Not ‘How does it feel？’Christ！ This is a complete bloody waste of time。”
She got up then and went into the bedroom to collect the bag she always brought on the nights she planned to stay。 I heard her filling it noisily with lipstick； toothbrush； perfume spray。 I knew if I went in I could retrieve the situation。 She was probably expecting it； we’d had worse rows。 I’d have been obliged to concede that she was right； acknowledge my unsuitability for the task； affirm her moral and intellectual superiority in this as in all things。 It needn’t even have been a verbal confession； a meaningful hug would probably have been enough to get me a suspended sentence。 But the truth was； at that moment； given a choice between an evening of her smug left…wing moralizing and the prospect of working with a so…called war criminal； I preferred the war criminal。 So I simply carried on staring at the television。
Sometimes I have a nightmare in which all the women I have ever slept with assemble together。 It’s a respectable rather than a huge number—were it a drinks party； say； my living room could accommodate them quite comfortably。 And if； God forbid； this gathering were ever to occur； Kate would be the undisputed guest of honor。 She is the one for whom a chair would be fetched； who would have her glass refilled by sympathetic hands； who would sit at the center of a disbelieving circle as my moral and physical flaws were dissected。 She was the one who had stuck it the longest。
She didn’t slam the door as she left but closed it very carefully。 That was stylish； I thought。 On the television screen the death toll had just increased to eight。
TWO
A ghost who has only a lay knowledge of the subject will be able to keep asking the same questions as the lay reader； and will therefore open up the potential readership of the book to a much wider audience。
Ghostwritin g
RHINEHART PUBLISHING UK CONSISTEDof five ancient firms acquired during a vigorous bout of corporate kleptomania in the nineteen nineties。 Wrenched out of their Dickensian garrets in Bloomsbury； upsized； downsized； rebranded； renamed； reorganized； modernized； and merged； they had finally been dumped in Hounslow； in a steel…and…smoked…glass office block with all its pipes on the outside。 It nestled among the pebble…dash housing estates like an abandoned spacecraft after a fruitless mission to find intelligent life。
I arrived； with professional punctuality； five minutes before noon； only to discover the main door locked。 I had to buzz for entry。 A notice board in the foyer announced that the terrorism alert was ORANGE/HIGH 。 Through the darkened glass I could see the security men in their dingy aquarium checking me on a monitor。 When I finally got inside I had to turn out my pockets and pass through a metal detector。
Quigley was waiting for me by the lifts。
“Who’re you expecting to bomb you？” I asked。 “Random House？”
“We’re publishing Lang’s memoirs；” replied Quigley in a stiff voice。 “That alone makes us a target； apparently。 Rick’s already upstairs。”
“How many’ve you seen？”
“Five。 You’re the last。”
I knew Roy Quigley fairly well； well enough to know he disapproved of me。 He must have been about fifty； tall and tweedy。 In a happier era he would have smoked a pipe and offered tiny advances to minor academics over large lunches in Soho。 Now his midday meal was a plastic tray of salad taken at his desk overlooking the M4； and he received his orders direct from the head of sales and marketing； a girl of about sixteen。 He had three children in private schools he couldn’t afford。 As the price of survival he’d actually been obliged to start taking an interest in popular culture； to wit； the lives of various footballers； supermodels； and foulmouthed comedians whose names he pronounced carefully and whose customs he studied in the tabloids with scholarly detachment； as if they were remote Micronesian tribespeople。 I’d pitched him an idea the year before； the memoirs of a TV magician who had—of course！—been abused in childhood but who had used his skill as an illusionist to conjure up a new life； etc。； etc。 He’d turned it down flat。 The book had gone straight to number one：I Came； I Sawed； I Conquered 。 He still bore a grudge。
“I have to tell you；” he said； as we rose to the penthouse； “that I don’t think you’re the right man for this assignment。”
“Then it’s a good job it’s not your decision； Roy。”
Oh； yes； I had Quigley’s measure right enough。 His title was UK Group Editor in Chief； which meant he had all the authority of a dead cat。 The man who really ran the global show was waiting for us in the boardroom： John Maddox； chief executive of Rhinehart Inc。； a big； bull…shouldered New Yorker with alopecia。 His bald head glistened under the strip lighting like a massive； varnished egg。 As a young man he’d acquired a wrestler’s physique in order （according toPublishers Weekly ） to tip out the window anyone who stared too long at his scalp。 I made sure my gaze never rose higher than his superhero chest。 Next to him was Lang’s Washington attorney； Sidney Kroll； a bespectacled fortysomething with a delicate pale face； floppy raven hair； and the limpest and dampest handshake I’d been offered since Dippy the Dolphin bobbed up from his pool when I was twelve。
“And Nick Riccardelli I think you knopleting the introductions with just a hint of a shudder。 My agent； who was wearing a shiny gray shirt and a thin red leather tie； winked up at me。
“Hi； Rick；” I said。
I felt nervous as I took my seat beside him。 The room was lined； Gatsby…like； with immaculate unread hardcover books。 Maddox sat with his back to the window。 He laid his massive； hairless hands on the glass…topped table； as if to prove he had no intention of reaching for a weapon just yet； and said； “I gather from Rick you’re aware of the situation and that you know what we’re looking for。 So perhaps you could tell us exactly what you think you’d bring to this project。”
“Ignorance；” I said brightly； which at least had the benefit of shock value； and before anyone could interrupt I launched into the little speech I’d rehearsed in the taxi coming over。 “You know my track record。 There’s no point my trying to pretend I’m something I’m not。 I’ll be completely honest。 I don’t read political memoirs。 So what？” I shrugged。 “Nobody does。 But actually that’s not my problem。” I pointed at Maddox。 “That’syour problem。”
“Oh； please；” said Quigley quietly。
“And let me be even more recklessly honest；” I went on。 “Rumor has it you paid ten million dollars for this book。 As things stand； how much of that d’you think you’re going to see back？ Two million？ Three？ That’s bad news for you； and that’s especially bad news；” I said； turning to Kroll； “for your client。 Because for him this isn’t about money。 This is about reputation。 This is Adam Lang’s opportunity to speak directly to history； to get his case across。 The last thing he needs is to produce a book that nobody reads。 How will it look if his life story ends up on the remainder tables？ But it doesn’t have to be this way。”
I know in retrospect what a huckster I sounded。 But this was pitch talk； remember—which； like declarations of undying love in a stranger’s bedroom at midnight； shouldn’t necessarily be held against you the next morning。 Kroll was smiling to himself； doodling on his yellow pad。 Maddox was staring hard at me。 I took a breath。
“The fact is；” I continued； “a big name alone doesn’t sell a book。 We’ve all learned that the hard way。 What sells a book—or a movie； or a song—isheart 。” I believe I may even have thumped my chest at this point。 “And that’s why political memoir isthe black hole of publishing。 The name outside the tent may be big； but everyone knows that once they’re inside they’re just going to get the same old tired show； and who wants to pay twenty…five dollars for that？ You’ve got to put in some heart； and that’s what I do for a living。 And whose story has more heart than the guy who starts from nowhere and ends up running a country？”
I leaned forward。 “You see； here’s the joke： a leader’s autobiography ought to bemore interesting than most memoirs； notless 。 So I see my ignorance about politics as an advantage。 Icherish my ignorance； quite frankly。 Besides； Adam Lang doesn’t need any help from me with the politics of this book—he’s a political genius。 What he does need； in my humble opinion； is the same thing a movie star needs； or a baseball player； or a rock star： an experienced collaborator who knows how to ask him the questions that will draw out his heart。”
There was a silence。 I was trembling。 Rick gave my knee a reassuring pat under the table。 “Nicely done。”
“What utter balls；” said Quigley。
“Think so？” asked Maddox； still looking at me。 He said it in a neutral voice； but if I had been Quigley； I would have detected danger。
“Oh； John；of course ；” said Quigley； with all the dismissive scorn of four generations of Oxford scholars behind him。 “Adam Lang is a world…historical figure； and his autobiography is going to be a world publishing event。 A piece of histo