The Ghost

with Lang enclosed among them, marching purposefully in his usual rolling, muscular way. Behind him walked Amelia and the two secretaries. Amelia was on the phone. I moved toward the group. Lang swept by me, his eyes fixed straight ahead, which was unlike him. Usually he liked to connect with people when he passed them: flash them a smile they’d remember always. As he began descending the staircase, Amelia saw me. She appeared flustered for once, a few blonde hairs actually out of place.
    “I was just trying to call you,” she said as she went by. She didn’t break step. “There’s been a change of plan,” she said over her shoulder. “We’re flying back to Martha’s Vineyard now.”
    “Now?” I hurried after her. “It’s rather late, isn’t it?”
    We started descending the stairs.
    “Adam’s insisting. I’ve managed to find us a plane.”
    “But why now?”
    “I’ve no idea. Something’s come up. You’ll have to ask him.”
    Lang was below and ahead of us. He’d already reached the grand entrance. The bodyguards opened the doors and his broad shoulders were suddenly framed by a halogen glow of light. The shouts of the reporters, the fusillade of camera shutters, the rumble of the Harley-Davidsons—it was as if someone had rolled back the doors to hell.
    “What am I supposed to do?” I asked.
    “Get into the backup car. I expect Adam will want to talk to you on the plane.” She saw my look of panic. “You’re very odd. Is there something the matter?”
    Now what am I supposed to do? I wondered. Faint? Plead a prior engagement? I seemed to be trapped on a moving walkway with no means of escape.
    “Everything seems to be happening in a rush,” I said weakly.
    “This is nothing. You should have been with us when he was prime minister.”
    We emerged into the tumult of noise and light, and it was as if all the controversy generated by the war on terror, year after year of it, had briefly converged on one man and rendered him incandescent. The door to Lang’s stretch limousine was open. He paused to wave briefly at the crowd beyond the security cordon, then ducked inside. Amelia took my arm and propelled me toward the second car. “Go on!” she shouted. The motorbikes were already pulling away. “Don’t forget, we can’t stop if you’re left behind.”
    She slipped in beside Lang, and I found myself stepping into the second limo, next to the secretaries. They shifted cheerfully along the bench seat to make room for me. A Special Branch man climbed in the front, next to the driver, and then we were away, with an accompanying whoop whoop from one of the motorbikes, ringing out like the cheerful whistle of a little tugboat escorting a big liner out to sea.

    IN DIFFERENT CIRCUMSTANCES, I would have relished that journey: my legs stretched out before me; the Harley-Davidsons gliding past us to hold back the traffic; the pale faces of the pedestrians, glimpsed through the smoked glass, turning to watch us as we hurtled by; the noise of the sirens; the vividness of the flashing lights; the speed; the force . I can think of only two categories of human being who are transported with such pomp and drama: world leaders and captured terrorists.
    In my pocket, I surreptitiously fingered my new mobile phone. Ought I to alert Rycart to what was happening? I decided not. I didn’t want to call him in front of witnesses. I would have felt too uncomfortable, my guilt too obvious. Treachery needs privacy. I surrendered myself to events.
    We flew over the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge like gods, Alice and Lucy giggling with excitement, and when we reached LaGuardia a few minutes later we drove past the terminal building, through an open metal gate, and directly onto the tarmac, where a big private jet was being fueled. It was a Hallington plane, in its dark blue livery, with the corporate logo painted on its high tail: Earth with a circle girdling it, like the Colgate ring of confidence. Lang’s limousine swerved to a halt and he was the first to emerge. He dived through the doorway of the mobile body scanner and up the steps into the Gulfstream without a backward glance. A bodyguard hurried after him.
    As I clambered out of the car I felt almost arthritic with anxiety. It took an effort simply to walk over to the steps where Amelia was standing. The night air was shaking with the noise of jets coming in to land. I could see them stacked five or six deep above the water, steps of light ascending