The Ghost

figure in a blue windbreaker was striding down the path from the dunes, moving so rapidly that the policeman behind her had to break into an occasional loping run to keep up. The pointed hood was pulled down low to protect her face, and her chin was pressed to her chest, giving Ruth Lang the appearance of a medieval knight in a polyester visor, heading into battle.
    “Adam, we’ve really got to put out a statement of our own,” said Amelia. “If you don’t say anything, or if you leave it too long, you’ll look—” She hesitated. “Well, they’ll draw their own conclusions.”
    “All right,” said Lang. “How about this?” Amelia uncapped a small silver pen and opened her notebook. “Responding to Richard Rycart’s statement, Adam Lang made the following remarks: When a policy of offering one hundred percent support to the United States in the global war on terror was popular in the United Kingdom, Mr. Rycart approved of it. When it became unpopular, he disapproved of it. And when, due to his own administrative incompetence, he was asked to leave the Foreign Office, he suddenly developed a passionate interest in upholding the so-called human rights of suspected terrorists. A child of three could see through his infantile tactics in seeking to embarrass his former colleagues.’ End point. End paragraph.”
    Amelia had stopped writing midway through Lang’s dictation. She was staring at the former prime minister, and if I didn’t know it was impossible, I’d swear the Ice Queen had the beginnings of a tear in one eye. He stared back at her. There was a gentle tap on the open door and Alice came in, holding a sheet of paper.
    “Excuse me, Adam,” she said. “This just came over AP.”
    Lang seemed reluctant to break eye contact with Amelia, and I knew then—as surely as I had ever known anything—that their relationship was more than merely professional. After what seemed an embarrassingly long interlude he took the paper from Alice and started to read it. That was when Ruth came into the study. By this time I was starting to feel like a member of an audience who has left his seat in the middle of a play to find a lavatory and somehow wandered onto the stage: the principal actors were pretending I wasn’t there, and I knew I ought to leave, but I couldn’t think of an exit line.
    Lang finished reading and gave the paper to Ruth. “According to the Associated Press,” he announced, “sources in The Hague—whoever they may be—say the prosecutor’s office of the International Criminal Court will be issuing a statement in the morning.”
    “Oh, Adam!” cried Amelia. She put her hand to her mouth.
    “Why weren’t we given some warning of this?” demanded Ruth. “What about Downing Street? Why haven’t we heard from the embassy?”
    “The phones are disconnected,” said Lang. “They’re probably trying to get through now.”
    “Never mind now !” shrieked Ruth. “What fucking use is now ? We needed to know about this a week ago! What are you people doing?” she said, turning her fury on Amelia. “I thought the whole point of you was to maintain liaison with the Cabinet Office? You’re not telling me they didn’t know this was coming?”
    “The ICC prosecutor is very scrupulous about not notifying a suspect if he’s under investigation,” said Amelia. “Or the suspect’s government, for that matter. In case they start destroying evidence.”
    Her words seemed to stun Ruth. It took her a beat to recover. “So that’s what Adam is now? A suspect?” She turned to her husband. “You need to talk to Sid Kroll.”
    “We don’t actually know what the ICC are going to say yet,” Lang pointed out. “I should talk to London first.”
    “Adam,” said Ruth, addressing him very slowly, as if he had suffered an accident and might be concussed, “if it suits them, they will hang you out to dry. You need a lawyer. Call Sid.”
    Lang hesitated, then turned to Amelia. “Get Sid on the line.”
    “And what about the media?”
    “I’ll issue a holding statement,” said Ruth. “Just a sentence or two.”
    Amelia pulled out her mobile and started scrolling through the address book. “D’you want me to draft something?”
    “Why doesn’t he do it?” said Ruth, pointing at me. “He’s supposed to be the writer.”
    “Fine,” said Amelia, not quite concealing her irritation, “but it needs to go out immediately.”
    “Hang on a minute,” I said.
    “I should sound