The Ghost

you.”
    “Why not?”
    The couple passed by. I followed their progress in the mirror. They had their hands in one another’s back pockets, like pickpockets on a blind date.
    I took the plunge. “I’m working for Adam Lang. I—”
    “Don’t tell me your name,” he said quickly. “Don’t use any names. Keep everything nonspecific. Where exactly did you find my number?”
    His urgency unnerved me.
    “On the back of a photograph.”
    “What sort of photograph?”
    “Of my client’s days at university. My predecessor had it.”
    “Did he, by God?” Now it was Rycart’s turn to pause. I could hear people clapping at the other end of the line.
    “You sound shocked,” I said.
    “Yes, well, it ties in with something he said to me.”
    “I’ve been to see one of the people in the photograph. I thought you might be able to help me.”
    “Why don’t you talk to your employer?”
    “He’s away.”
    “Of course he is.” He had a satisfied smile in his voice. “And where are you? Without being too specific?”
    “In New England.”
    “Can you get to the city where I am, right away? You know where I am, I take it? Where I work?”
    “I suppose so,” I said doubtfully. “I have a car. I could drive.”
    “No, don’t drive. Flying’s safer than the roads.”
    “That’s what the airlines say.”
    “Listen, my friend,” whispered Rycart fiercely, “if I was in your position, I wouldn’t joke. Go to the nearest airport. Catch the first available plane. Text me the flight number, nothing else. I’ll arrange for someone to collect you when you land.”
    “But how will they know what I look like?”
    “They won’t. You’ll have to look out for them.”
    There was a renewed burst of applause in the background. I started to raise a fresh objection, but it was too late. He had hung up.

    I DROVE OUT OF Belmont without any clear idea of the route I was supposed to take. I checked the rearview mirror neurotically every few seconds, but if I was being followed, I couldn’t tell. Different cars appeared behind me, and none seemed to stay for longer than a couple of minutes. I kept my eyes open for signs to Boston and eventually crossed a big river and joined the interstate, heading east.
    It was not yet three in the afternoon, but already the day was starting to darken. Away to my right, the downtown office blocks gleamed gold against a swollen Atlantic sky, while up ahead the lights of the big jets fell toward Logan like shooting stars. I maintained my usual cautious pace over the next couple of miles. Logan Airport, for those who have never had the pleasure, sits in the middle of Boston Harbor, approached from the south by a long tunnel. As the road descended underground, I asked myself whether I was really going to go through with this, and it was a good measure of my uncertainty that when—a mile later—I rose again into the deeper gloom of the afternoon, I still hadn’t decided.
    I followed the signs to the long-term car park and was just reversing into a bay when my telephone rang. The incoming number was unfamiliar. I almost didn’t answer. When I did, a peremptory voice said, “What on earth are you doing?”
    It was Ruth Lang. She had that presumption of beginning a conversation without first announcing who was calling, a lapse in manners I was sure her husband would never have been guilty of, even when he was prime minister.
    “Working,” I said.
    “Really? You’re not at your hotel.”
    “Aren’t I?”
    “Well, are you? They told me you hadn’t even checked in.”
    I flailed around for an adequate lie and hit on a partial truth. “I decided to go to New York.”
    “Why?”
    “I wanted to see John Maddox, to talk about the structure of the book, in view of the”—a tactful euphemism was needed, I decided—“the changed circumstances.”
    “I was worried about you,” she said. “All day I’ve been walking up and down this fucking beach thinking about what we discussed last night—”
    I interrupted. “I wouldn’t say anything about that on the phone.”
    “Don’t worry, I won’t. I’m not a total fool. It’s just that the more I go over things, the more worried I get.”
    “Where’s Adam?”
    “Still in Washington, as far as I know. He keeps trying to call and I keep not answering. When will you be back?”
    “I’m not sure.”
    “Tonight?”
    “I’ll try.”
    “Do, if you can.” She lowered her voice; I imagined the bodyguard standing nearby.