The Ghost(英文版)- 第38部分

　　“And　then　he　called　me；”　said　Rycart。　He　had　stopped　pacing　and　was　looking　at　himself　in　the　mirror　above　the　chest　of　drawers。　He　put　both　hands　to　his　forehead　and　smoothed　his　hair　back　over　his　ears。　“Christ；　I’m　shattered；”　he　said。　“Look　at　me。　I　was　never　like　this　when　I　was　in　government；　even　when　I　was　working　eighteen　hours　a　day。　You　know；　people　get　it　all　wrong。　It　isn’t　having　power　that’s　exhausting—it’snot　having　it　that　wears　you　out。”

　　“What　did　he　say　when　he　called？　McAra？”

　　“The　first　thing　that　struck　me　was　that　he　didn’t　sound　his　usual　self　at　all。　You　were　asking　me　what　he　was　like。　Well；　he　was　a　pretty　tough　operator；　which　of　course　is　what　Adam　liked　about　him：　he　knew　he　could　always　rely　on　Mike　to　do　the　dirty　work。　He　was　sharp；　businesslike。　You　could　almost　say　he　was　brutal；　especially　on　the　phone。　My　private　office　used　to　call　him　McHorror：　‘The　McHorror　just　rang　for　you；　Foreign　Secretary…’　But　that　day；　I　remember；　his　voice　was　completely　flat。　He　sounded　broken；　actually。　He　said　he’d　just　spent　the　past　year　in　the　archives　in　Cambridge；　working　on　Adam’s　memoirs；　going　over　our　whole　time　in　government；　and　just　getting　more　and　more　disillusioned　with　it　all。　He　said　that　that　was　where　he’d　found　the　memorandum　about　Operation　Tempest。　But　the　real　reason　he　was　calling；　he　said；　was　that　that　was　just　the　tip　of　the　iceberg。　He　said　he’d　just　discovered　something　much　more　important；　something　that　made　sense　of　everything　that　had　gone　wrong　while　we　were　in　power。”

　　I　could　hardly　breathe。　“What　was　it？”

　　Rycart　laughed。　“Well；　oddly　enough；　I　did　ask　him　that；　but　he　wouldn’t　tell　me　over　the　phone。　He　said　he　wanted　to　meet　me　to　discuss　it　face…to…face：　it　was　that　big。　The　only　thing　he　would　say　was　that　the　key　to　it　could　be　found　in　Lang’s　autobiography；　if　anyone　bothered　to　check；　that　it　was　all　there　in　the　beginning。”

　　“Those　were　his　exact　words？”

　　“Pretty　much。　I　made　a　note　as　he　was　talking。　And　that　was　it。　He　said　he’d　call　me　in　a　day　or　two　to　fix　a　meeting。　But　I　heard　nothing；　and　then　about　a　week　later　it　was　in　the　press　that　he　was　dead。　And　nobody　else　ever　called　me　on　that　phone；　because　nobody　else　had　that　number。　So　you　can　imagine　why　I　was　so　excited　when　it　suddenly　started　ringing　again。　And　so　here　we　are；”　he　said；　gesturing　to　the　room；　“the　perfect　place　to　spend　a　Thursday　night。　And　now　I　think　you　should　tell　me　exactly　what　the　hell　is　going　on。”

　　“I　will。　Just　one　more　thing；　though。　Why　didn’t　you　tell　the　police？”

　　“You　are　joking；　are　you？　Discussions　at　The　Hague　were　at　a　very　delicate　stage。　If　I’d　told　the　police　that　McAra　had　been　in　contact　with　me；　naturally　they’d　have　wanted　to　know　why。　Then　it　would　have　been　bound　to　get　back　to　Lang；　and　he　would　have　been　able　to　make　some　kind　of　preemptive　move　against　the　war　crimes　court。　He’s　still　a　hell　of　an　operator；　you　know。　That　statement　he　put　out　against　me　the　day　before　yesterday—‘The　international　struggle　against　terror　is　too　important　to　be　used　for　the　purposes　of　domestic　political　revenge。’　Wow。”　He　shuddered　admiringly。　“Vicious。”

　　I　squirmed　slightly　in　my　chair；　but　Rycart　didn’t　notice。　He’d　gone　back　to　inspecting　himself　in　the　mirror。　“Besides；”　he　said；　sticking　out　his　chin；　“I　thought　it　was　accepted　that　Mike　had　killed　himself；　either　because　he　was　depressed；　or　drunk；　or　both。　I’d　only　have　confirmed　what　they　already　knew。　He　was　certainly　in　a　poor　state　when　he　rang　me。”

　　“And　I　can　tell　you　why；”　I　said。　“What　he’d　just　found　out　was　that　one　of　the　men　in　that　picture　with　Lang　at　Cambridge—the　picture　McAra　had　in　his　hand　when　he　spoke　to　you—was　an　officer　in　the　CIA。”

　　Rycart　had　been　checking　his　profile。　He　stopped。　His　brow　corrugated。　And　then；　with　great　slowness；　he　turned　his　face　toward　me。

　　“He　waswhat　？”

　　“His　name　is　Paul　Emmett。”　Suddenly　I　couldn’t　get　the　words　out　fast　enough。　I　was　desperate　to　unburden　myself—to　share　it—to　let　someone　else　try　to　make　sense　of　it。　“He　later　became　a　professor　at　Harvard。　Then　he　went　on　to　run　something　called　the　Arcadia　Institution。　Have　you　heard　of　it？”

　　“I’ve　heard　of　it—of　course　I’ve　heard　of　it；　and　I’ve　always　steered　well　clear　of　it；　precisely　because　I’ve　always　thought　it　had　CIA　written　all　over　it。”　Rycart　sat　down。　He　seemed　stunned。

　　“But　is　that　really　plausible？”　I　asked。　“I　don’t　know　how　these　things　work。　Would　someone　join　the　CIA　and　then　immediately　be　sent　off　to　do　postgraduate　research　in　another　country？”

　　“I’d　say　that’s　highly　plausible。　What　better　cover　could　you　want？　And　where　better　than　a　university　to　spot　the　future　best　and　the　brightest？”　He　held　out　his　hand。　“Show　me　the　photograph　again。　Which　one　is　Emmett？”

　　“It　may　all　be　balls；”　I　warned；　pointing　Emmett　out。　“I’ve　no　proof。　I　just　found　his　name　on　one　of　those　paranoid　websites。　They　said　he　joined　the　CIA　after　he　left　Yale；　which　must　have　been　about　three　years　before　this　was　taken。”

　　“Oh；　I　can　believe　it；”　said　Rycart；　studying　him　intently。　“In　fact；　now　you　mention　it；　I　think　I　did　hear　some　gossip　once。　But　then　that　whole　international　conference　circuit　world　is　crawling　with　them。　I　call　them　the　military…industrial…academic　complex。”　He　smiled　at　his　own　wit；　then　looked　serious　again。　“What’s　really　suspicious　is　that　he　should　have　known　Lang。”

　　“No；”　I　said；　“what’sreally　suspicious　is　that　a　matter　of　hours　after　McAra　tracked　down　Emmett　to　his　house　near　Boston；　he　was　found　washed　up　dead　on　a　beach　in　Martha’s　Vineyard。”

　　AFTER　THAT　I　TOLDhim　everything　I’d　discovered。　I　told　him　the　story　about　the　tides　and　the　flashlights　on　the　beach　at　Lambert’s　Cove；　and　the　curious　way　the　police　investigation　had　been　handled。　I　told　him　about　Ruth’s　description　of　McAra’s　argument　with　Lang　on　the　eve　of　his　death；　and　about　Lang’s　reluctance　to　discuss　his　Cambridge　years；　and　the　way　he’d　tried　to　conceal　the　fact　that　he’d　become　politically　active　immediately　after　leaving　university　rather　than　two　years　later。　I　described　how　McAra；　with　his　typical　dogged　thoroughness；　had　discovered　all　this；　turning　up　detail　after　detail　that　gradually　destroyed　Lang’s　account　of　his　early　years。　That　was　presumably　what　he　meant　when　he　said　that　the　key　to　everything　was　in　the　beginning　of　Lang’s　autobiography。　I　told　him　about　the　satellite　navigation　system　in　the　Ford　and　how　it　had　taken　me　to　Emmett’s　doorstep；　and　how　strangely　Emmett　had　behaved。

　　And；　of　course；　the　more　I　talked；　the　more　excited　Rycart　became。　I　guess　it　must　have　been　like　Christmas　for　him。

　　“Just　suppose；”　he　said；　pacing　up　and　down　again；　“that　it　was　Emmett　who　originally　suggested　to　Lang　that　he　should　think　about　a　career　in　politics。　Let’s　face　it；　someone　must　have　put　the　idea　into　his　pretty　little　head。　I’d　been　a　junior　member　of　the　party　since　I　was　fourteen。　What　year　did　Lang　join？”

　　“Nineteen　seventy…five。”

　　“Seventy…five！　You　see；　that　would　make　perfect　sense。　Do　you　remember　what　Britain　was　like　in　seventy…five？　The　security　services　were　out　of　control；　spying　on　the　prime　minister。　Retired　generals　were　forming　private　armies。　The　economy　was　collapsing。　There　were　strikes；　riots。　It　wouldn’t　exactly　be　a　surprise　if　the　CIA　had　decided　to　recruit　a　few　bright　young　things　and　had　encouraged　them　to　make　their　careers　in　useful　places—the　civil　service；　the　media；　politics。　It’s　what　they　do　everywhere　else；　after　all。”

　　“But　not　in　Britain；　surely；”　I　said。　“We’re　an　ally。”

　　Rycart　looked　at　me　with　contempt。　“The　CIA　was　spying　onAmerican　students　back　then。　Do　you　really　think　they’d　have　been　squeamish　about　spying　on　ours？　Of　course　they　were　active　in　Britain！　They　still　are。　They　have　a　head　of　station　in　London　and　a　huge　staff。　I　could　name　you　half　a　dozen　MPs　right　now　who　are　in　regular　contact　with　the　CIA。　In　fact—”　He　stopped　pacing　and　clicked　his　fingers。　“That’s　a　thought！”　He　whirled　round　to　look　at　me。　“Does　the　name　Reg　Giffen　mean　anything　to　you？”

　　“Vaguely。”

　　“Reg　Giffen—Sir　Reginald　Giffen；　later　Lord　Giffen；　now　dead　Giffen；　thank　God—spent　so　long　making　speeches　in　the　House　of　Commons　on　behalf　of　the　Americans；　we　used　to　call　him　the　member　for　Michigan。　He　announced　his　resignation　as　an　MP　in　the　first　week　of　the　nineteen　eighty…three　election　general　campaign；　and　it　caught　everyone　by　surprise；　apart　from　one　very　enterprising　and　photogenic　young　party　member；　who　just　happened　to　have　moved　into　his　constituency　six　months　earlier。”

　　“And　who　then　got　the　nomination　to　become　the　party’s　candidate；　with　Giffen’s　support；”　I　said；　“and　who　then　won　one　of　the　safest　seats　in　the　country　when　he　was　still　only　thirty。”　The　story　was　legendary。　It　was　the　start　of　Lang’s　rise　to　national　prominence。　“But　you　can’t　really　think　that　the　CIA　asked　Giffen　to　help　fix　it　so　that　Lang　could　get　into　parliament？　That　sounds　very　far…fetched。”

　　“Oh；　come　on！　Use　your　imagination！　Imagine　you’re　Professor　Emmett；　now　back　in　Harvard；　writing　unreadable　bilge　about　the　alliance　of　the　English…speaking　peoples　and　the　need　to　combat　the　Communist　menace。　Haven’t　you　got　potentially　the　most　amazing　agent　in　history　on　your　hands？　A　man　who’s　already　starting　to　be　talked　about　as　a　future　party　leader？　A　possible　prime　minister？　Aren’t　you　going　to　persuade　the　powers　that　be　at　the　Agency　to　do　everything　they　can　to　further　this　man’s　career？　I　was　already　in　parliament　myself　when　Lang　arrived。　I　watched　him　come　from　nowhere　and　streak　past　all　of　us。”　He　scowled　at　the　memory。　“Of　course　he　hadhelp　。　He　had　no　real　connection　with　the　party　at　all。　We　couldn’t　begin　to　understand　what　made　him　tick。”

　　“Surely　that’s　the　point　of　him；”　I　said。　“He　didn’t　have　an　ideology。”

　　“He　may　not　have　had　an　ideology；　but　he　sure　as　hell　had　an　agenda。”　Rycart　sat　down　again。　He　leaned　toward　me。　“Okay。　Here’s　a　quiz　for　you。　Name　me　one　decision　that　Adam　Lang　took　as　prime　minister　that　wasn’t　in　the　interests　of　the　United　States　of　America。”

　　I　was　silent。

　　“Come　on；”　he　said。　“It’s　not　a　trick　question。　Just　name　me　one　thing　he　did　that　Washington　wouldn’t　have　approved　of。　Let’s　think。”　He　held　up　his　thumb。　“One：　deployment　of　British　troops　to　the　Middle　East；　against　the　advice　of　just　about　every　senior　commander　in　our　armed　forces　and　all　of　our　ambassadors　who　know　the　region。　Two”—up　went　his　right　index　finger—“complete　failure　to　demand　any　kind　of　quid　pro　quo　from　the　White　House　in　terms　of　reconstruction　contracts　for　British　firms；　or　anything　else。　Three：　unwavering　support　for　U。S。　foreign　policy　in　the　Middle　East；　even　when　it’s　patently　crazy　for　us　to　set　ourselves　against　the　entire　Arab　world。　Four：　the　stationing　of　an　American　missile　defense　system　on　British　soil　that　does　absolutely　nothing　for　our　security—in　fact；　the　complete　opposi