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tanding proudly beside the suspended corpses of their prey： the fishermen would now all be as dead as their fish； I thought； and such was my mood that the notion pleased me。 A big television above the bar was showing an ice hockey game。 I ordered a beer and a bowl of clam chowder and sat where I could see the screen。 I know nothing about ice hockey； but sport is a great place to lose yourself for a while； and I’ll watch anything available。
“You’re English？” said a man at a table in the corner。 He must have heard me ordering。 He was the only other customer in the bar。
“And so are you；” I said。
“Indeed I am。 Are you here on holiday？”
He had a clipped； hello…old…chap…fancy…a…round…of…golf sort of a voice。 That； and the striped shirt with the frayed collar； the double…breasted blazer； the tarnished brass buttons； and the blue silk handkerchief in the top pocket； all flashed bore； bore； bore as clearly as the Edgartown Lighthouse。
“No。 Working。” I resumed watching the game。
“So what’s your line？” He had a glass of something clear with ice and a slice of lemon in it。 Vodka and tonic？ Gin and tonic？ I was desperate not to be trapped into conversation with him。
“Just this and that。 Excuse me。”
I got up and went to the lavatory and washed my hands。 The face in the mirror was that of a man who’d slept six hours out of the past forty。 When I returned to the table； my chowder had arrived。 I ordered another drink but pointedly didn’t offer to buy one for my compatriot。 I could feel him watching me。
“I hear Adam Lang’s on the island；” he said。
I looked at him properly then。 He was in his middle fifties； slim but broad shouldered。 Strong。 His iron…gray hair was slicked straight back off his forehead。 There was something vaguely military about him but also unkempt and faded； as if he relied on food parcels from a veterans’ charity。 I answered in a neutral tone； “Is he？”
“So I hear。 You don’t happen to know his whereabouts； do you？”
“No。 I’m afraid not。 Excuse me again。”
I started to eat my chowder。 I heard him sigh noisily and then the clink of ice as his glass was set down。
“Cunt；” he said as he passed my table。
SIX
I have often been told by subjects that by the end of the research process； they feel as if they have been in therapy。
Ghostwritin g
THERE WAS NO SIGNof him when I came down to breakfast the next morning。 The receptionist told me there was no other guest apart from me in residence。 She that she hadn’t seen a British man in a blazer。 I’d already been awake since four—an improvement on two； but not much—and was groggy enough and hungover enough to wonder if I hadn’t hallucinated the whole encounter。 I felt better after some coffee。 I crossed the road and walked around the lighthouse a couple of times to clear my head； and by the time I returned to the hotel the minivan had arrived to take me to work。
I’d anticipated that my biggest problem on the first day would be physically getting Adam Lang into a room and keeping him there for long enough to start interviewing him。 But the strange thing was that when we reached the house；he was already waiting forme 。 Amelia had decided we should use Rhinehart’s office； and we found the former prime minister； wearing a dark green tracksuit； sprawled in the big chair opposite the desk； one leg draped over the arm。 He was flicking through a history of World War Two that he’d obviously just taken down from the shelf。 A mug of tea stood on the floor beside him。 His trainers had sand on their soles： I guessed he must have gone for a run on the beach。
“Hi； man；” he said； looking up at me。 “Ready to start？”
“Good morning；” I said。 “I just need to sort out a few things first。”
“Sure。 Go ahead。 Ignore me。”
He went back to his book while I opened my shoulder bag and carefully unpacked the tools of the ghosting trade： a Sony Walkman digital tape recorder with a stack of MD…R 74 minidisks and a mains lead （I’ve learned the hard way not to rely solely on my batteries）； a metallic silver Panasonic Toughbook laptop computer； which is not much larger than a hardcover novel and considerably lighter； a couple of small black Moleskine notebooks and three brand…new Jetstream rollerball pens； made by the Mitsubishi Pencil Co。； and finally two white plastic adapters； one a British multipoint plug and one a converter to fit an American socket。 It’s a superstition with me always to use the same items； and to lay them out in the proper sequence。 I also had a list of questions； culled from the books I’d bought in London and my reading of McAra’s first draft the previous day。
“Did you know；” said Lang suddenly； “that the Germans had jet fighters in 1944？ Look at that。” He held up the page to show the photograph。 “It’s a wonder we won。”
“We have no floppy disks；” said Amelia； “only these flash drives。 I’ve loaded the manuscript onto this one for you。” She handed me an object the size of a small plastic cigarette lighter。 “You’re welcome to copy it onto your own computer； but I’m afraid that if you do； your laptop must stay here； locked up； overnight。”
“And apparently Germany declared war on America； not the other way round。”
“Isn’t this all a bit paranoid？”
“The book contains some potentially classified material that has yet to be approved by the Cabinet Office。 More to the point； there’s also a very strong risk of some news organization using unscrupulous methods to try to get hold of it。 Any leak would jeopardize our newspaper serialization deals。”
Lang said； “So you’ve actually got my whole book on that？”
“We could get a hundred books on that； Adam；” said Amelia； patiently。
“Amazing。” He shook his head。 “You know the worst thing about my life？” He closed the book with a snap and replaced it on the shelf。 “You get so out of touch。 You never go in a shop。 Everything’s done for you。 You don’t carry any money—if I want some money； even now； I have to ask one of the secretaries or one of the protection boys to get it for me。 I couldn’t do it myself； anyway； I don’t know my—what’re they called？—I don’t even know that—”
“PIN？”
“You see？ I just don’t have a clue。 I’ll give you another example。 The other week； Ruth and I went out to dinner with some people in New York。 They’ve always been very generous to us； so I say； ‘Right； tonight； this is on me。’ So I give my credit card to the manager and he comes back a few minutes later； all embarrassed； and he shows me the problem。 There’s still a strip where the signature’s supposed to be。” He threw up his arms and grinned。 “The card hadn’t been activated。”
“This；” I said excitedly； “is exactly the sort of detail we need to put in your book。 Nobody knows this sort of thing。”
Lang looked startled。 “I can’t put that in。 People would think I was a complete idiot。”
“But it’s human detail。 It shows what it’s like to be you。” I knew this was my moment。 I had to get him to focus on what we needed right from the start。 I came r