The Ghost

She glanced up approvingly.
    “A perfect fit,” she said. “And now you need a drink.” She leaned her head over the back of the sofa—I could see the cords of muscle standing out in her neck—and called in her mannish voice in the direction of the stairs, “Dep!” And then to me, “What will you have?”
    “What are you having?”
    “Biodynamic white wine,” she said, “from the Rhinehart Vinery in Napa Valley.”
    “He doesn’t own a distillery, I suppose?”
    “It’s delicious. You must try it. Dep,” she said to the housekeeper, who had appeared at the top of the stairs, “bring the bottle, would you, and another glass?”
    I sat down opposite her. She was wearing a long red wraparound dress, and on her normally scrubbed-clean face was a trace of makeup. There was something touching about her determination to put on a show, even as the bombs, so to speak, were falling all around her. All we needed was a windup gramophone and we could have played the plucky English couple in a Noël Coward play, keeping up brittle appearances while the world went smash around us. Dep poured me some wine and left the bottle.
    “We’ll eat in twenty minutes,” instructed Ruth, “because first,” she said, picking up the remote control and jabbing it fiercely at the television, “we must watch the news. Cheers,” she said and raised her glass.
    “Cheers,” I replied and did the same.
    I drained the glass in thirty seconds. White wine. What is the point of it? I picked up the bottle and studied the label. Apparently the vines were grown in soil treated in harmony with the lunar cycle, using manure buried in a cow’s horn and flower heads of yarrow fermented in a stag’s bladder. It sounded like the sort of suspicious activity for which people quite rightly used to be burned as witches.
    “You like it?” asked Ruth.
    “Subtle and fruity,” I said, “with a hint of bladder.”
    “Pour us some more, then. Here comes Adam. Christ, it’s the lead story. I think I may have to get drunk for a change.”
    The headline behind the announcer’s shoulder read “ LANG: WAR CRIMES. ” I didn’t like the fact that they weren’t bothering to use a question mark anymore. The familiar scenes from the morning unfolded: the press conference at The Hague, Lang leaving the Vineyard house, the statement to reporters on the West Tisbury highway. Then came shots of Lang in Washington, first greeting members of Congress in a warm glow of flashbulbs and mutual admiration, and then, more somberly, Lang with the secretary of state. Amelia Bly was clearly visible in the background: the official wife. I didn’t dare look at Ruth.
    “Adam Lang,” said the secretary of state, “has stood by our side in the war against terror, and I am proud to stand by his side this afternoon and to offer him, on behalf of the American people, the hand of friendship. Adam. Good to see you.”
    “Don’t grin,” said Ruth.
    “Thank you,” said Adam, grinning and shaking the proferred hand. He beamed at the cameras. He looked like an eager student collecting a prize on speech day. “Thank you very much. It’s good to see you.”
    “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” shouted Ruth.
    She pointed the remote and was about to press it when Richard Rycart appeared, passing through the lobby of the United Nations, surrounded by the usual bureaucratic phalanx. At the last minute he seemed to swerve off his planned course and walked over to the cameras. He was a little older than Lang, just coming up to sixty. He’d been born in Australia, or Rhodesia, or some part of the Commonwealth, before coming to England in his teens. He had a cascade of dark gray hair that flooded dramatically over his collar and was well aware—judging by the way he positioned himself—of which was his better side: his left. His tanned and hook-prowed profile reminded me slightly of a Sioux Indian chief.
    “I watched the announcement in The Hague today,” he said, “with great shock and sadness.” I sat forward. This was definitely the voice I’d heard on the phone earlier in the day: that residual, singsong accent was unmistakable. “Adam Lang was and is an old friend of mine—”
    “You hypocritical bastard,” said Ruth.
    “—and I regret that he’s chosen to bring this down to a personal level. This isn’t about individuals. This is about justice. This is about whether there’s to be one law for the rich, white, Western nations and another for the rest of