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To begin with； it didn’t seem that important。 It sounded like old news。 Four British citizens had been picked up in Pakistan a few years back—“kidnapped by the CIA；” according to their lawyer—taken to a secret military installation in eastern Europe； and tortured。 One had died under interrogation； the other three had been imprisoned in Guantánamo。 The new twist； apparently； was that a Sunday paper had obtained a leaked Ministry of Defence document that seemed to suggest that Lang had ordered a Special Air Services unit to seize the men and hand them over to the CIA。 Various expressions of outrage followed； from a human rights lawyer and a spokesman for the Pakistani government。 File footage showed Lang wearing a garland of flowers round his neck on a visit to Pakistan while he was prime minister。 A spokeswoman for Lang was quoted as saying the former prime minister knew nothing of the reports and was refusing to comment。 The British government had consistently rejected demands to hold an inquiry。 The program moved on to the weather； and that was it。
I glanced around the lounge。 Nobody else had stirred。 Yet for some reason I felt as if someone had just run an ice pack down my spine。 I pulled out my cell phone and called Rick。 I couldn’t remember whether he had gone back to America or not。 It turned out he was sitting about a mile away； in the British Airways lounge； waiting to board his flight to New York。
“Did you just see the news？” I asked him。
Unlike me； I knew Rick was a news addict。
“The Lang story？ Sure。”
“D’you think there’s anything in it？”
“How the hell do I know？ Who cares if there is？ At least it’s keeping his name on the front pages。”
“D’you think I should ask him about it？”
“Who gives a shit？” Down the line I heard a loudspeaker announcement howling in the background。 “They’re calling my flight。 I got to go。”
“Just before you do；” I said quickly； “can I run something past you？ When I was mugged on Friday； somehow it didn’t make much sense； the way they left my wallet and only ran off with a manuscript。 But looking at this news—well； I was just wondering—you don’t think they thought I was carrying Lang’s memoirs？”
“But how’d they know that？” said Rick in a puzzled voice。 “You’d only just met Maddox and Kroll。 I was still negotiating the deal。”
“Well； maybe someone was watching the publishers’ offices and then followed me when I left。 It was a bright yellow plastic bag； Rick。 I might as well have been carrying a flare。” And then another thought came to me； so alarming I didn’t know where to begin。 “While you’re on； what do you know about Sidney Kroll？”
“Young Sid？” Rick gave a chuckle of admiration。 “My； but he’s a piece of work； isn’t he？ He’s going to put honest crooks like me out of business。 He cuts his deals for a flat fee rather than commission； and you won’t find an ex…president or a cabinet member who doesn’t want him on their team。 Why？”
“It’s not possible； is it；” I said hesitantly； voicing the thought more or less as it developed； “that he gave me that manuscript because he thought—if anyone was watching—he thought it would look as though I was leaving the building carrying Adam Lang’s book？”
“Why the hell would he do that？”
“I don’t know。 For the fun of it？ To see what would happen？”
“To see if you’d get mugged？”
“Okay； all right； it sounds mad； but just think it through for a minute。 Why are the publishers so paranoid about this manuscript？ Even Quigley hasn’t been allowed to see it。 Why won’t they let it out of America？ Maybe it’s because they think someone over here is desperate to get hold of it。”
“So？”
“So perhaps Kroll was using me as bait—sort of a tethered goat—to test who was after it； find out how far they’d be willing to go。”
Even as the words were leaving my mouth I knew I was sounding ridiculous。
“But Lang’s book is a boring crock of shit！” said Rick。 “The only people they want to keep it away from at this point are their shareholders！That’s why it’s under wraps。”
I was starting to feel a fool。 I would have let the subject go； but Rick was enjoying himself too much。
“‘A tethered goat’！” I could have heard his shout of laughter from the other terminal even without the phone。 “Let me get this straight。 According to your theory； someone must have known Kroll was in town； known where he was Friday morning； known what he’d come to discuss—”
“All right；” I said。 “Let’s leave it。”
“—knownhe might just give Lang’s manuscript to a new ghost； known who you were when you came out of the meeting； known where you lived。 Because you said they were waiting for you； didn’t you？ Wow。 This must’ve been some operation。 Too big for a newspaper。 This must’ve been a government —”
“Forget it；” I said； finally managing to cut him off。 “You’d better catch your flight。”
“Yeah； you’re right。 Well； you have a safe trip。 Get some sleep on the plane。 You’re sounding weird。 Let’s talk next week。 And don’t worry about it。” He rang off。
I stood there holding my silent phone。 It was true。 I was sounding weird。 I went into the men’s room。 The bruise where I’d been punched on Friday had ripened； turned black and purple； and was fringed with yellow； like some exploding supernova beamed back by the Hubble Telescope。
A short time later they announced that the Boston flight was boarding； and once we were in the air my nerves steadied。 I love that moment when a drab gray landscape flickers out of sight beneath you； and the plane tunnels up through the cloud to burst into the sunshine。 Who can be depressed at ten thousand feet when the sun is shining and the other poor saps are still stuck on the ground？ I had a drink。 I watched a movie。 I dozed for a while。 But I must admit I also scoured that business…class cabin for every Sunday newspaper I could find； ignored the sports pages for once； and read all that had been written about Adam Lang and those four suspected terrorists。
WE MADE OUR FINALapproach to Logan Airport at one in the afternoon； local time。
As we came in low over Boston Harbor； the sun we had been chasing all day seemed to travel over the water alongside us； striking the downtown skyscrapers one after the other： erupting columns of white and blue； gold and silver； a fireworks display in glass and steel。 O my America； I thought； my new…found…land—my land where the book market is five times the size of the United Kingdom’s—shine thy light on me！ As I queued for immigration I was practically humming “The Star…Spangled Banner。” Even the guy from the Department of Homeland Security—embodying the rule that the folksier an institution’s name； the more Stalinist its function—couldn’t dent my optimism。 He sat frowning behind his glass screen at the very notion of anyone flying three thousand miles to spend a month on Martha’s Vineyard in midwinter。 When he discovered I was a writer he couldn’t have treated me with greater suspicion if I had been wearing an orange jumpsuit。