The Ghost

punishment than death—and boy, will Lang be an exile. He won’t be able to travel anywhere in the world, not even the handful of shitty little countries that don’t recognize the ICC, because there’ll always be a danger that his plane may have to put in somewhere with engine trouble or to refuel. And we’ll be waiting for him. And that’s when we’ll get him.”
    I glanced at Rycart. He was staring straight ahead, nodding slightly.
    “Or the political climate may change here one day,” he went on, “and there’ll be a public campaign to hand him over to justice. I wonder if he’s thought of that. His life is going to be hell.”
    “You almost make me feel sorry for him.”
    Rycart gave me a sharp look. “He’s charmed you, hasn’t he? Charm! The English disease.”
    “There are worse afflictions.”
    We crossed the Triborough Bridge, the tires thumping on the joints in the road like a fast pulse.
    “I feel as though I’m in a tumbril,” I said.
    It took us a while to make the journey downtown. Each time the traffic came to a stop, I thought of opening the door and making a run for it. The trouble was, I could imagine the first part well enough—darting through the stationary cars and disappearing down one of the cross streets—but then it all became a blank. Where would I go? How would I pay for a hotel room if my own credit card, and presumably the false one I’d used earlier, were known to my pursuers? My reluctant conclusion, from whichever angle I examined my predicament, was that I was safer with Rycart. At least he knew how to survive in this alien world into which I had blundered.
    “If you’re that worried, we can arrange to have a fail-safe signal,” said Rycart. “You can call me using the phone Frank gave you, let’s say at ten past every hour. We don’t have to speak. Just let it ring a couple of times.”
    “What happens if I don’t make the call?”
    “I won’t do anything if you miss the first time. If you miss a second, I’ll call Lang and tell him I hold him personally responsible for your safety.”
    “Why is it that I don’t find that very reassuring?”
    We were almost there. I could see ahead, on the opposite side of Park Avenue, a great, floodlit Stars and Stripes, and beside it, flanking the Waldorf’s entrance, a Union Jack. The area in front of the hotel was cordoned off by concrete blocks. I counted half a dozen police motorcycles waiting, four patrol cars, two large black limousines, a small crowd of cameramen, and a slightly larger one of curious onlookers. As I eyed it, my heart began to accelerate. I felt breathless.
    Rycart squeezed my arm. “Courage, my friend. He’s already lost one ghost in suspicious circumstances. He can hardly afford to lose another.”
    “This can’t all be for him, surely?” I said in amazement. “Anyone would think he was still prime minister.”
    “It seems I’ve only made him even more of a celebrity,” said Rycart. “You people should be grateful to me. Okay, good luck. We’ll talk later. Pull over here, Frank.”
    He turned up his collar and sank down in his seat, and there was pathos as well as absurdity in the precaution. Poor Rycart: I doubt if one person in ten thousand in New York would have known who he was. Frank pulled up briefly on the corner of East Fiftieth Street to let me out and then eased deftly back into the traffic, so that the last view I ever had of Rycart was of the back of his silvery head dwindling into the Manhattan evening.
    I was on my own.
    I crossed the great expanse of road, yellow with taxis, and made my way past the crowds and the police. None of the cops standing around challenged me; seeing my suitcase, they must have assumed I was just a guest checking in. I went through the art deco doors, up the grand marble staircase, and into the Babylonian splendor of the Waldorf’s lobby. Normally I would have used my mobile to contact Amelia, but even I had learned my lesson there. I went over to one of the concierges at the front desk and asked him to call her room.
    There was no reply.
    Frowning, he hung up. He was just starting to check his computer when a loud detonation sounded on Park Avenue. Several guests who were checking in ducked, only to straighten ruefully when the explosion turned into a cannonade of gunning motorcycle engines. From the interior of the hotel, across the immense expanse of the golden lobby, came a wedge of security men, Special Branch and Secret Service,