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《The Ghost》作者：Robert Harris（《影子写手》英文版）
内容简介
The stunning new novel from the No。 1 bestselling author of Fatherland； Enigma； Archangel； Pompeii and Imperium。
作者简介
Robert Harris worked as a reporter on the BBC’s Newsnight and Panorama programmes； before becoming Political Editor of the Observer in 1987； and then a columnist on the Sunday Times and the Daily Telegraph。 In 2003 he was named Columnist of the Year in the British Press Awards。 Robert Harris is the author of Fatherland； Enigma； Archangel； Pompeii and Imperium； all worldwide bestsellers。From the Hardcover edition。
CONTENTS
AUTHOR’S NOTE ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX SEVEN EIGHT NINE TEN ELEVEN TWELVE THIRTEEN FOURTEEN FIFTEEN SIXTEEN SEVENTEEN ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ALSO BY ROBERT HARRIS
FICTION
Imperium
Pompeii
Archangel
Enigma
Fatherland
NONFICTION
Selling Hitler： The Story of the Hitler Diaries
SimonSays
To Gill
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I would like to thank Andrew Crofts for permission to use the quotes from his excellent handbook； Ghostwriting （A & C Black； 2004）。 Two other successful ghostwriters； Adam Sisman and Luke Jennings； were kind enough to share their experiences with me。 Philippe Sands； QC； generously provided advice about international law。 Rose Styron spent several days showing me round Martha’s Vineyard： I could not have had a more gracious and well…informed guide。 My publisher； David Rosenthal； and my agent； Michael Carlisle； were even more helpful and encouraging than usual—although each is as unlike his fictional counterpart as it is possible to be。
Robert Harris Cap Bénat； July 26； 2007
I am not I： thou art not he or she： they are not they。
Evelyn Waugh；
Brideshead Revisited
THEGHOST
ONE
Of all the advantages that ghosting offers； one of the greatest must be the opportunity that you get to meet
people of interest。
Andrew
Crofts；
Ghostwritin g
THE MOMENT I HEARDhow McAra died； I should have walked away。 I can see that now。 I should have said； “Rick； I’m sorry； this isn’t for me； I don’t like the sound of it；” finished my drink； and left。 But he was such a good storyteller； Rick—I often thoughthe should have been the writer and I the literary agent—that once he’d started talking there was never any question I wouldn’t listen； and by the time he had finished； I was hooked。
The story； as Rick told it to me over lunch that day； went like this：
McAra had caught the last ferry from Woods Hole； Massachusetts； to Martha’s Vineyard two Sundays earlier。 I worked out afterward it must have been January the twelfth。 It was touch…and…go whether the ferry would sail at all。 A gale had been blowing since midafternoon and the last few crossings had been canceled。 But toward nine o’clock the wind eased slightly； and at nine forty…five the master decided it was safe to cast off。 The boat was crowded； McAra was lucky to get a space for his car。 He parked belowdecks and then went upstairs to get some air。
No one saw him alive again。
The crossing to the island usually takes forty…five minutes； but on this particular night the weather slowed the voyage considerably： docking a two…hundred…foot vessel in a fifty…knot wind； said Rick； is nobody’s idea of fun。 It was nearly eleven when the ferry made land at Vineyard Haven and the cars started up—all except one： a brand…new tan…colored Ford Escape SUV。 The purser made a loudspeaker appeal for the owner to return to his vehicle； as he was blocking the drivers behind him。 When he still didn’t show； the crew tried the doors； which turned out to be unlocked； and freewheeled the big Ford down to the quayside。 Afterward they searched the ship with care： stairwells； bar； toilets； even the lifeboats—nothing。 They called the terminal at Woods Hole to check if anyone had disembarked before the boat sailed or had perhaps been accidentally left behind—again： nothing。 That was when an official of the Massachusetts Steamship Authority finally contacted the Coast Guard station in Falmouth to report a possible man overboard。
A police check on the Ford’s license plate revealed it to be registered to one Martin S。 Rhinehart of New York City； although Mr。 Rhinehart was eventually tracked down to his ranch in California。 By now it was about midnight on the East Coast； nine p。m。 on the West。
“This isthe Marty Rhinehart？” I interrupted。
“This is he。”
Rhinehart immediately confirmed over the telephone to the police that the Ford belonged to him。 He kept it at his house on Martha’s Vineyard for the use of himself and his guests in the summer。 He also confirmed that； despite the time of year； a group of people were staying there at the moment。 He said he would get his assistant to call the house and find out if anyone had borrowed the car。 Half an hour later she rang back to say that someone was indeed missing； a person by the name of McAra。
Nothing more could be done until first light。 Not that it mattered。 Everyone knew that if a passenger had gone overboard it would be a search for a corpse。 Rick is one of those irritatingly fit Americans in their early forties who look about nineteen and do terrible things to their body with bicycles and canoes。 He knows that sea： he once spent two days paddling a kayak the entire sixty miles round the island。 The ferry from Woods Hole plies the strait where Vineyard Sound meets Nantucket Sound； and that is dangerous water。 At high tide you can see the force of the currents sucking the huge channel buoys over onto their sides。 Rick shook his head。 In January； in a gale； insnow ？ No one could survive more than five minutes。
A local woman found the body early the next morning； thrown up on the beach about four miles down the island’s coast at Lambert’s Cove。 The driver’s license in the wallet confirmed him to be Michael James McAra； age fifty； from Balham in south London。 I remember feeling a sudden shot of sympathy at the mention of that dreary； unexotic suburb： he certainly was a long way from home； poor devil。 His passport named his mother as his next of kin。 The police took his corpse to the little morgue in Vineyard Haven and then drove over to the Rhinehart residence to break the news and to fetch one of the other guests to identify him。
It must have been quite a scene； said Rick； when the volunteer guest finally showed up to view the body： “I bet the morgue attendant is still talking about it。” There was one patrol car from Edgartown with a flashing blue light； a second car with four armed guards to secure the building； and a third vehicle； bombproof； carrying the instantly recognizable man who； until eighteen months earlier； had been the prime minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland。
THE LUNCH HAD BEENRick’s idea。 I hadn’t even known he was in town until he rang me the night before。 He insisted we meet at his club。 It was nothis club； exactly—he was actually a member of a similar mausoleum in Manhattan； whose members had reciprocal dining rights in London—but he loved it all the same。 At lunchtime only men were admitted。 Each wore a dark blue suit and was over sixty； I hadn’t felt so young since I left university。 Outside； the winter sky pressed down on London like a great gray tombstone。 Inside； yellow electric light from three immense candelabra glinted on dark polished tables； plated silverware； and rubied decanters of claret。 A small card placed between us announced that the club’s annual backgammon tournament would be taking place that evening。 It was like the changing of the guard or the houses of parliament—a foreigner’s image of England。
“I’m amazed this hasn’t been in the papers；” I said。
“Oh； but it has。 Nobody’s made a secret of it。 There’ve been obituaries。”
And； now I came to think of it； Idid vaguely remember seeing something。 But I had been working fifteen hours a day for a month to finish my new book； the autobiography of a footballer； and the world beyond my study had become a blur。
“What on earth was