The Ghost

of Article Fifty-eight, which covers arrest warrants. ‘At any time after the initiation of an investigation, the Pre-Trial Chamber shall, on the application of the Prosecutor, issue a warrant of arrest of a person if, having examined the application and the evidence or other information submitted by the Prosecutor, it is satisfied that there are reasonable grounds to believe that the person has committed a crime within the jurisdiction of the Court, and the arrest of the person appears necessary to ensure the person’s appearance at trial.’” He fixed his solemn gaze on Adam Lang.
    “Jesus,” said Lang. “What are ‘reasonable grounds’?”
    “It won’t happen,” said Kroll.
    “You keep saying that,” said Ruth irritably, “but it could.”
    “It won’t but it could,” said Kroll, spreading his hands. “Those two statements aren’t incompatible.” He permitted himself one of his private smiles and turned to Adam. “Nevertheless, as your attorney, until this whole thing is resolved, I do strongly advise you not to travel to any country that recognizes the jurisdiction of the International Criminal Court. All it would take is for two of these three judges to decide to grandstand to the human rights crowd, go ahead and issue a warrant, and you could be picked up.”
    “But just about every country in the world recognizes the ICC,” said Lang.
    “America doesn’t.”
    “And who else?”
    “Iraq,” said Josh, “China, North Korea, Indonesia.”
    We waited for him to go on; he didn’t.
    “And that’s it ?” said Lang. “Everywhere else does ?”
    “No, sir. Israel doesn’t. And some of the nastier regimes in Africa.”
    Amelia said, “I think something’s happening.” She aimed the remote at the television.

    AND SO WE WATCHED as the Spanish chief prosecutor—all massive black hair and bright red lipstick, as glamorous as a film star in the silvery strobe of camera flashes—announced that she had that morning been granted the power to investigate the former British prime minister, Adam Peter Benet Lang, under Articles Seven and Eight of the 1998 Rome Statute of the International Criminal Court.
    Or rather, the others all watched her, while I watched Lang. “AL—intense concentration,” I jotted in my notebook, pretending to take down the words of the chief prosecutor but really studying my client for any insights I could use later. “Reaches hand out for R: she doesn’t respond. Glances at her. Lonely, puzzled. Withdraws hand. Looks back at screen. Shakes head. CP says ‘was this just single incident or part of systematic pattern of criminal behavior?’ AL flinches. Angry. CP: ‘justice must be equal for rich & poor, powerful & weak alike.’ AL shouts at screen: ‘What about the terrorists?’”
    I had never witnessed any of my authors at a real crisis in their lives before, and scrutinizing Lang, I gradually began to realize that my favorite catchall question—“How did it feel?”—was in truth a crude tool, vague to the point of uselessness. In the course of those few minutes, as the legal procedure was explained, a rapid succession of emotions swept across Lang’s craggy face, as fleeting as cloud shadows passing over a hillside in spring—shock, fury, hurt, defiance, dismay, shame…How were these to be disentangled? And if he didn’t know precisely what he felt now, even as he was feeling it, how could he be expected to know it in ten years’ time? Even his reaction at this moment I would have to manufacture for him. I would have to simplify it to make it plausible. I would have to draw on my own imagination. In a sense, I would have to lie.
    The chief prosecutor finished her statement, briefly answered a couple of shouted questions, then left the podium. Halfway out of the room, she stopped to pose for the cameras again, and there was another blizzard of phosphorus as she turned to give the world the benefit of her magnificent aquiline profile, and then she was gone. The screen reverted to the aerial shot of Rhinehart’s house, in its setting of woods, pond, and ocean, as the world waited for Lang to appear.
    Amelia muted the sound. Downstairs, the phones started ringing.
    “Well,” said Kroll, breaking the silence, “there was nothing in that we weren’t expecting.”
    “Yes,” said Ruth. “Well done.”
    Kroll pretended not to notice. “We should get you to Washington, Adam, right away. My plane’s waiting at the airport.”
    Lang was still