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I WENT DOWNSTAIRS WITHAlice and stood behind her shoulder while she sat at a keyboard； patiently waiting for the ex–prime minister’s words to flow from my mouth。 It wasn’t until I started contemplating what Lang should say that I realized I hadn’t asked him the crucial question： had he actually ordered the seizure of those four men？ That was when I knew that of course he must have done； otherwise he’d simply have denied it outright at the weekend； when the original story broke。 Not for the first time； I felt seriously out of my depth。
“I have always been a passionate—” I began。 “No； scrub that。 I have always been a strong—no； committed —supporter of the work of the International Criminal Court。” Had he been？ I’d no idea。 I assumed he had。 Or； rather； I assumed he’d always pretended he had。 “I have no doubt that the ICC will quickly see through this politically motivated piece of mischief making。” I paused。 I felt it needed one more line； something broadening and statesmanlike。 What would I say if I were him？ “The international struggle against terror；” I said； in a sudden burst of inspiration； “is too important to be used for the purposes of personal revenge。”
Lucy printed it； and when I took it back up to the study I felt a curious bashful pride； like a schoolboy handing in his homework。 I pretended not to see Amelia’s outstretched hand and showed it first to Ruth （at last I was learning the etiquette of this exile’s court）。 She nodded her approval and slid it across the desk to Lang； who was listening on the telephone。 He glanced at it silently； beckoned for my pen； and inserted a single word。 He tossed the statement back to me and gave me the thumbs…up。
Into the telephone he said； “That’s great； Sid。 And what do we know about these three judges？”
“Am I allowed to see it？” said Amelia； as we went downstairs。
Handing it over； I noticed that Lang had added “domestic” to the final sentence： “The international struggle against terror is too important to be used for the purposes ofdomestic personal revenge。” The brutal antithesis of “international” and “domestic” made Rycart appear even more petty。
“Very good；” said Amelia。 “You could be the new Mike McAra。”
I gave her a look。 I think she meant it as a compliment。 It was always hard to tell with her。 Not that I cared。 For the first time in my life I was experiencing the adrenaline of politics。 Now I saw why Lang was so restless in retirement。 I guessed this was how sport must feel； when played at its hardest and fastest。 It was like tennis on Centre Court at Wimbledon。 Rycart had fired his serve low across the net； and we had lunged for it； got our racket to it； and shot the ball right back at him； with added spin。 One by one the telephones were reconnected and immediately began ringing； demanding attention； and I heard the secretaries feeding my words to the hungry reporters：“I have always been a committed supporter of the work of the International Criminal Court。” I watched my sentences emailed to the news agencies。 And within a couple of minutes； on the computer screen and on television； I started seeing and hearing them all over again （“In a statement issued in the last few minutes； the former prime minister says…”）。 The world had become our echo chamber。
In the middle of all this； my own phone rang。 I jammed the receiver to one ear and had to put my finger in the other to hear who was calling。 A faint voice said； “Can you hear me？”
“Who is this？”
“It’s John Maddox； from Rhinehart in New York。 Where the hell are you？ Sounds like you’re in a madhouse。”
“You’re not the first to call it that。 Hold on； John。 I’ll try to find somewhere quieter。” I walked out into the passage and kept following it round to the back of the house。 “Is that better？”
“I’ve just heard the news；” said Maddox。 “This can only be good for us。 We should start with this。”
“What？” I was still walking。
“This war crimes stuff。 Have you asked him about it？”
“Haven’t had much chance； John； to be honest。” I tried not to sound too sarcastic。 “He’s a little tied up right now。”
“Okay； so what’ve you covered so far？”
“The early years—childhood； university—”
“No； no；” said Maddox impatiently。 “Forget all that crap。This is what’s interesting。 Get him to focus on this。 And he mustn’t talk to anyone else about it。 We need to keep this absolutely exclusive to the memoirs。”
I’d ended up in the solarium； where I’d spoken to Rick at lunchtime。 Even with the door closed I could still hear the faint noise of the telephones ringing on the other side of the house。 The notion that Lang would be able to avoid saying anything about illegal kidnapping and torture until the book came out was a joke。 Naturally I didn’t put it in quite those terms to the chief executive of the third largest publishing house in the world。 “I’ll tell him； John；” I said。 “It might be worth your while talking to Sidney Kroll。 Perhaps Adam could say that his lawyers have instructed him not to talk。”
“Good idea。 I’ll call Sid now。 In the meantime； I want you to accelerate the timetable。”
“Accelerate？” In the empty room my voice sounded thin and hollow。
“Sure。 Accelerate。 As in speed things up。 Right at this moment； Lang is hot。 People are starting to get interested in him again。 We can’t afford to let this opportunity slip。”
“Are you now saying you want the book inless than a month？”
“I know it’s tough。 And it’ll probably mean settling for just a polish on a lot of the manuscript rather than a total rewrite。 But what the hell。 No one’s going to read most of that stuff anyway。 The earlier we go； the more we’ll sell。 Think you can do it？”
No； was the answer。 No； you bald…headed bastard； you psychopathic prick—have you seriously read this junk？ You must be out of your fucking mind。 “Well； John；” I said mildly； “I can try。”
“Good man。 And don’t worry about your own deal。 We’ll pay you just as much for two weeks’ work as we would for four。 I tell you； if this war crimes thing comes off； it could be the answer to our prayers。”
By the time he hung up； two weeks had somehow ceased to be a figure plucked at random from the air and had become a firm deadline。 I would no longer conduct forty hours of interviews with Lang； ranging over his whole life。 I would get him to focus specifically on the war on terror； and we would begin the memoir with that。 The rest I would do my best to improve； rewriting where I could。
“What if Adam isn’t keen on this？” I asked； in what proved to be our final exchange。
“He will be；” said Maddox。 “And if he isn’t； then you can just remindAdam ”—his tone implied we were just a pair of faggoty Englishmen—“of his contractual obligation to produce a book that gives us a full and frank account of the war on terror。 I’m relying on you。 Okay？”
It’s a melancholy place to be； a solarium when there’s no sun。 I could see the gardener in exactly the same spot where he had been working the day before； stiff and clums