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eolithic age。
“Quite a place；” I said。 “Don’t you get lonely at night？”
“We’re in here；” said Amelia； opening a door。
I followed her into a big study； adjoining the sitting room； which was presumably where Marty Rhinehart worked on holiday。 There was a similar view from here； except that this angle favored the ocean more than the pond。 The shelves were full of books on German military history； their swastikaed spines whitened by exposure to the sun and the salt air。 There were two desks： a little one in the corner at which a secretary sat typing at a computer； and a larger one； entirely clear except for a photograph of a powerboat and a model of a yacht。 The sour old skeleton that was Marty Rhinehart crouched over the wheel of his boat—living disproof of the old adage that you can’t be too thin or too rich。
“We’re a small team；” said Amelia。 “Myself； Alice here”—the girl in the corner looked up—“and Lucy； who’s with Adam in New York。 Jeff the driver’s also in New York—he’ll be bringing the car back this afternoon。 Six protection officers from the UK—three here and three with Adam at the moment。 We badly need another pair of hands； if only to handle the media； but Adam can’t bring himself to replace Mike。 They were together so long。”
“And how long have you been with him？”
“Eight years。 I worked in Downing Street。 I’m on attachment from the Cabinet Office。”
“Poor Cabinet Office。”
She flashed her nail…polish smile。 “It’s my husband I miss the most。”
“You’re married？ I notice you’re not wearing a ring。”
“I can’t； sadly。 It’s far too large。 It bleeps when I go through airport security。”
“Ah。” We understood one another perfectly。
“The Rhineharts also have a live…in Vietnamese couple； but they’re so discreet you’ll hardly notice them。 She looks after the house and he does the garden。 Dep and Duc。”
“Which is which？”
“Duc is the man。 Obviously。”
She produced a key from the pocket of her well…cut jacket and unlocked a big gunmetal filing cabinet； from which she withdrew a box file。
“This is not to be removed from this room；” she said； laying it on the desk。 “It is not to be copied。 You can make notes； but I must remind you that you’ve signed a confidentiality agreement。 You have six hours to read it before Adam gets in from New York。 I’ll have a sandwich sent up to you for lunch。 Alice； come on。 We don’t want to cause him any distractions； do we？”
After they’d gone； I sat down in the leather swivel chair； took out my laptop； switched it on； and created a document titled “Lang ms。” Then I loosened my tie and unfastened my wristwatch and laid it on the desk beside the file。 For a few moments I allowed myself to swing back and forth in Rhinehart’s chair； savoring the ocean view and the general sensation of being world dictator。 Then I flipped open the lid of the file； pulled out the manuscript； and started to read。
ALL GOOD BOOKS AREdifferent but all bad books are exactly the same。 I know this to be a fact because in my line of work I read a lot of bad books—books so bad they aren’t even published； which is quite a feat； when you consider what is published。
And what they all have in common； these bad books； be they novels or memoirs； is this： they don’t ring true。 I’m not saying that a good bookis true necessarily； just that itfeels true for the time you’re reading it。 A publishing friend of mine calls it the seaplane test； after a movie he once saw about people in the City of London that opened with the hero arriving for work in a seaplane he landed on the Thames。 From then on； my friend said； there was no point in watching。
Adam Lang’s memoir failed the seaplane test。
It wasn’t that the facts in it were wrong—I wasn’t in a position to judge at that stage—it was rather that the whole book somehow felt false； as if there was a hollow at its center。 It consisted of sixteen chapters； arranged chronologically： “Early Years；” “Into Politics；” “Challenge for the Leadership；” “Changing the Party；” “Victory at the Polls；” “Reforming Government；” “Northern Ireland；” “Europe；” “The Special Relationship；” “Second Term；” “The Challenge of Terror；” “The War on Terror；” “Sticking the Course；” “Never Surrender；” “Time to Go；” and “A Future of Hope。” Each chapter was between ten and twenty thousand words long and hadn’t been written so much as cobbled together from speeches； official minutes； communiqués； memoranda； interview transcripts； office diaries； party manifestos； and newspaper articles。 Occasionally； Lang permitted himself a private emotion（“I was overjoyed when our third child was born”） or a personal observation（“the American president was much taller than I had expected”） or a sharp remark（“as foreign secretary； Richard Rycart often seemed to prefer presenting the foreigners’ case to Britain rather than the other way round”） but not very often； and not to any great effect。 And where was his wife？ She was barely mentioned。
“A crock of shit；” Rick had called it。 But actually this was worse。 Shit； to quote Gore Vidal； has its own integrity。 This was a crock of nothing。 It was strictly accurate and yet overall it was a lie—it had to be； I thought。 No human being could pass through life and feel so little。 Especially Adam Lang； whose political stock…in…trade was emotional empathy。 I skipped ahead to the chapter called “The War on Terror。” If there was going to be anything to interest American readers it must surely be here。 I skimmed it； searching for words like “rendition；” “torture；” “CIA。” I found nothing； and certainly no mention of Operation Tempest。 What about the war in the Middle East？ Surely some mild criticism here of the U。S。 president； or the defense secretary； or the secretary of state； some hint of betrayal or letdown； some behind…the…scenes scoop or previously classified document？ No。 Nowhere。 Nothing。 I took a gulp； literally and metaphorically； and began reading again from the top。
At some point the secretary； Alice； must have brought me in a tuna sandwich and a bottle of mineral water； because later in the afternoon I noticed them at the end of the desk。 But I was too busy to stop； and besides I wasn’t hungry。 In fact； I was beginning to feel nauseous as I shuffled those sixteen chapters； scanning the sheer white cliff face of featureless prose for any tiny handhold of interest I could cling to。 No wonder McAra had thrown himself off the Martha’s Vineyard ferry。 No wonder Maddox and Kroll had flown to London to try to rescue the project。 No wonder they were paying me fifty thousand dollars a week。 All these seemingly bizarre events were rendered entirely logical by the direness of the manuscript。 And now it would bemy reputation that would come spiraling down； strapped into the backseat of Adam Lang’s kamikaze seaplane。 I would be the one pointed out at publishing parties—assuming I was ever invited to another publishing party—as the ghost who had collaborated on the biggest flop in publishing history。 In a sudden shaft of paranoid insight； I fancied I saw my real role in the operation： designated fall guy。
I finished the last of the six hundred and twenty…one pages（“Ruth and I look forward to the future； whatever it may hold”） in midafternoon； and when I laid down the manuscript I pressed my hands to my cheeks and opened my mouth and eyes wide； in a reasonable imitation of Edvard Munch’s The Scream。
That was when I heard a cough in the doorway and looked up to see Ruth Lang watching me。 To this day I don’t know how long she’d been there。 She raised a thin black eyebrow。
“As bad as that？” she said。
SHE WAS WEARING Aman’s thick； shapeless white sweater； so long in the sleeves that only her chewed fingernails were visible； and once we got downstairs she pulled on top of this a pale blue hooded windbreaker； disappearing for a while as she tugged it over her head； her pale face emerging at last with a frown。 Her short dark hair stuck up in Medusa…like spikes。
It was she who had proposed a walk。 She said I looked