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“In that case； could I have a lift back to my hotel？ I’ll do some work there instead。”
She exhaled smoke through her nose and scrutinized me。 “You’re not planning to take that manuscript out of here； are you？”
“Of course not！” My voice always rises an octave when I tell a lie。 I could never have become a politician： I’d have sounded like Donald Duck。 “I just want to write up what we did today； that’s all。”
“Because you do realize how serious this is getting； don’t you？”
“Of course。 You can check my laptop if you want。”
She paused just long enough to convey her suspicion。 “All right；” she said； finishing her cigarette。 “I’ll trust you。” She dropped the stub and extinguished it delicately with the pointed toe of her shoe； then stooped and retrieved it。 I imagined her at school； similarly removing the evidence： the head girl who was never caught smoking。 “Collect your stuff。 I’ll get one of the boys to take you into Edgartown。”
We walked back into the house and parted in the corridor。 She headed back to the ringing telephones。 I climbed the stairs to the study； and as I came closer； I could hear Ruth and Adam Lang shouting at one another。 Their voices were muffled； and the only words I heard distinctly came at the tail end of her final rant： “…spending the rest of my bloody life here！” The door was ajar。 I hesitated。 I didn’t want to interrupt； but on the other hand I didn’t want to hang around and be caught looking as if I were eavesdropping。 In the end I knocked lightly； and after a pause I heard Lang say wearily； “Come。”
He was sitting at the desk。 His wife was at the other end of the room。 They were both breathing heavily； and I sensed that something momentous—some long…pent…up explosion—had just occurred。 I could understand now why Amelia had fled outside to smoke。
“Sorry to interrupt；” I said； gesturing toward my belongings。 “I wanted to—”
“Fine；” said Lang。
“I’m going to call the children；” said Ruth bitterly。 “Unless of course you’ve already done it？”
Lang didn’t look at her； he looked at me。 And； oh； what layers of meaning there were to be read in those glaucous eyes！ He invited me； in that long instant； to see what had become of him： stripped of his power； abused by his enemies； hunted； homesick； trapped between his wife and mistress。 You could write a hundred pages about that one brief look and still not get to the end of it。
“Excuse me；” said Ruth and pushed past me quite roughly； her small； hard body banging into mine。 At the same moment； Amelia appeared in the doorway； holding a telephone。
“Adam；” she said； “it’s the White House。 They have the president of the United States on the line for you。” She smiled at me and ushered me toward the door。 “Would you mind？ We need the room。”
IT WAS PRETTY WELLdark by the time I got back to the hotel。 There was just enough light in the sky to show up the big； black storm clouds massing over Chappaquiddick； rolling in from the Atlantic。 The girl in reception； in her little lace mobcap； said there was a run of bad weather on the way。
I went up to my room and stood in the shadows for a while； listening to the creaking of the old inn sign and the relentlessboom…hiss； boom…hiss of the surf beyond the empty road。 The lighthouse switched itself on at the precise moment when the beam was pointing directly at the hotel； and the sudden eruption of red into the room jerked me out of my reverie。 I turned on the desk lamp and took my laptop out of my shoulder bag。 We had traveled a long way together； that laptop and I。 We had endured rock stars who believed themselves messiahs with a mission to save the planet。 We had survived footballers whose monosyllabic grunts would make a silverback gorilla sound as if he were reciting Shakespeare。 We had put up with soon…to…be…forgotten actors who had egos the size of a Roman emperor’s； and entourages to match。 I gave the machine a comradely pat。 Its once shiny metal case was scratched and dented： the honorable wounds of a dozen campaigns。 We had got through those。 We would somehow get through even this。
I hooked it up to the hotel telephone； dialed my internet service provider； and； while the connection was going through； went into the bathroom for a glass of water。 The face that stared back at me from the mirror was a deterioration even on the specter of the previous evening。 I pulled down my lower eyelids and examined the yolky whites of my eyes； before moving on to the graying teeth and hair； and the red filigrees of my cheeks and nose。 Martha’s Vineyard in midwinter seemed to be aging me。 It was Shangri…La in reverse。
From the other room I heard the familiar announcement： “You have email。”
I saw at once that something was wrong。 There was the usual queue of a dozen junk messages； offering me everything from penis enlargement to theWall Street Journal ； plus an email from Rick’s office confirming the payment of the first part of the advance。 Just about the only thing that wasn’t listed was the email I had sent myself that afternoon。
For a few moments； I stared stupidly at the screen； then I opened the separate filing cabinet on the laptop’s hard drive that automatically stores every piece of email； incoming and outgoing。 And there； sure enough； to my immense relief； at the top of the “Email you have sent” queue was one titled “no subject；” to which I had attached the manuscript of Adam Lang’s memoirs。 But when I opened the blank email and clicked on the box labeled “download；” all I received was a message saying； “That file is not currently available。” I tried a few more times； always with the same result。
I took out my mobile and called the internet company。
I shall spare you a full account of the sweaty half hour that followed—the endless selecting from lists of options； the queuing； the listening to Muzak； the increasingly panicky conversation with the company’s representative in Uttar Pradesh or wherever the hell he was speaking from。
The bottom line was that the manuscript had vanished； and the company had no record of its ever having existed。
I lay down on the bed。
I am not very technically minded； but even I was beginning to grasp what must have happened。 Somehow； Lang’s manuscript had been wiped from the memory of my internet service provider’s computers； for which there were two possible explanations。 One was that it hadn’t been uploaded properly in the first place； but that couldn’t be right； because I had received those two messages while I was still in the office： “Your file has been transferred” and “You have email。” The other was that the file had since been deleted。 But how could that have happened？ Deletion would imply that someone had direct access to the computers of one of the world’s biggest internet conglomerates and was able to cover his tracks at will。 It would also imply—had to imply—that my emails were all being monitored。
Rick’s voice floated into my mind—“Wow。 This must’ve been some operation。 Too big for a newspaper。 This must’ve been agovernment”—followed swiftly by Amelia’s—“You do realize how serious this is getting； don’t you？”
“But the book is crap！” I cried out loud； despairingly； at the portrait of the Victorian whaling master hanging opposite the bed。 “There’s nothing in it that’s worth all this trouble！”
The stern old Victorian sea dog stared back at me； unmoved。 I had broken my promise； his expression seemed to say； and something out there—some nameless force—knew it。
EIGHT
Authors are often busy people and hard to get hold of； sometimes they are temperamental。 The
publishers consequently rely on the ghosts to make the process of publication as smooth as possible。
Ghostwritin g
THERE y doing any more work that night。 I didn’t even turn on the television。 Oblivion was all I craved。 I switched off my mobile； went down to the bar； and； when that closed； sat up in my room emptying a bottle of scotch until long past midnight； which no doubt explains why for once I slept right through the night。