71； describing how Lang had “held the audience spellbound” with his final speech； as he glimpsed eternal damnation。
While Lang went off to play tennis with one of his bodyguards； I dropped by the downstairs office to check on the transcription。 An hour’s interviewing generally yields between seven and eight thousand words； and Lang and I had been at it from nine till nearly one。 Amelia had set both secretaries on the task。 Each was wearing headphones。 Their fingers skimmed the keyboards； filling the room with a soothing rattle of plastic。 With a bit of luck I would have about a hundred double…spaced pages of material to show for that morning’s work alone。 For the first time since arriving on the island； I felt the warm breath of optimism。
“This is all new to me；” said Amelia； who was bent over Lucy’s shoulder； reading Lang’s words as they unfurled across the screen。 “I’ve never heard him mention any of this before。”
“The human memory is a treasure…house； Amelia；” I said； deadpan。 “It’s merely a matter of finding the right key。”
I left her peering at the screen and went into the kitchen。 It was about as large as my London flat； with enough polished granite to furnish a family mausoleum。 A tray of sandwiches had been laid out。 I put one on a plate and wandered around the back of the house until I came to a solarium—I suppose that’s what you would call it—with a big sliding glass door leading to an outside swimming pool。 The pool was covered with a gray tarpaulin depressed by rainwater； on which floated a brown scum of rotting leaves。 There were two silvered wooden cube…shaped buildings at the far end； and beyond those the scrub oak and the white sky。 A small； dark figure—so bundled up against the cold he was almost spherical—was raking leaves and piling them into a wheelbarrow。 I presumed he must be the Vietnamese gardener； Duc。 I really must try to see this place in summer； I thought。
I sat down on a lounge； releasing a faded odor of chlorine and suntan lotion； and called Rick in New York。 He was in a rush； as usual。
“How’s it going？”
“We had a good morning。 The man’s a pro。”
“Great。 I’ll call Maddox。 He’ll be glad to hear it。 The first fifty thousand just came in； by the way。 I’ll wire it over。 Speak to you later。” The line went dead。
I finished my sandwich and went back upstairs； still clutching my silent phone。 I had had an idea； and my newborn confidence gave me the courage to act on it。 I went into the study and closed the door。 I plugged Amelia’s flash drive into my laptop； then I attached a cable from my computer to the cell phone and dialed up the internet。 How much easier my life would be； I reasoned—how much quicker the job would be done—if I could work on the book in my hotel room each night。 I told myself I was doing no harm。 The risks were minimal。 The machine rarely left my side。 If necessary； it was small enough to fit under my pillow while I slept。 The moment I was online； I addressed an email to myself； attached the manuscript file； and pressed Send。
The upload seemed to take an age。 Amelia started calling my name from downstairs。 I glanced at the door and suddenly my fingers were thick and clumsy with anxiety。 “Your file has been transferred；” said the female voice that for some reason is favored by my internet service provider。 “You have email；” she announced a fraction later。
Immediately I yanked the cable out of the laptop； and I had just removed the flash drive when somewhere in the big house a klaxon started。 At the same time there was a hum and a rattle above the window behind me and I spun round to see a heavy metal shutter dropping from the ceiling。 It descended very quickly； blocking first the view of the sky； then the sea and the dunes； flattening the winter afternoon to dusk； crushing the last sliver of light to blackness。 I groped for the door and when I flung it open the unfiltered sound of the siren was strong enough to vibrate my stomach。
The same process was happening in the living room： one； two； three shutters falling like steel curtains。 I stumbled in the gloom； cracking my knee against a sharp edge。 I dropped my phone。 As I stooped to retrieve it； the klaxon stalled on a rising note and died with a moan。 I heard heavy footsteps coming up the steps； and then a saber of light flashed into the big room； catching me in a furtive crouch； my arms flung up to shield my face： a parody of guilt。
“Sorry； sir；” came a policeman’s puzzled voice from the darkness。 “Didn’t realize there was anyone up here。”
IT WAS A DRILL。They held it once a week。 “Lockdown；” I think they called it。 Rhinehart’s security people had installed the system to protect him against terrorist attack； kidnap； hurricanes； unionized labor； the Securities and Exchange Commission； or whatever passing nightmare currently stalked the restless nights of theFortune 500。 As the shutters rose and the pale wash of Atlantic light was released back into the house； Amelia came into the living room to apologize for not having warned me。 “It must have made you jump。”
“You could say that。”
“But then I did rather lose track of you。” There was an edge of suspicion to her manicured voice。
“It’s a big house。 I’m a big boy。 You can’t keep an eye on me all the time。” I tried to sound relaxed； but I knew I radiated unease。
“A word of advice。” Her glossy pink lips parted in a smile； but her big； clear blue eyes were as cold as crystal。 “Don’t go wandering round too much on your own。 The security boys don’t like it。”
“Gotcha。” I smiled back。
There was a squeak of rubber soles on polished wood and Lang came hurtling up the stairs at a tremendous rate； taking them two or three at a time。 He had a towel around his neck。 His face was flushed； his thick and wavy hair damped and darkened by sweat。 He seemed angry about something。
“Did you win？” asked Amelia。
“Didn’t play tennis in the end。” He blew out his breath； dropped into the nearby sofa； bent forward； and started vigorously toweling his head。 “Gym。”
Gym？ I looked at him in amazement。 Hadn’t he already been for a run before I arrived？ What was he in training for？ The Olympics？
I said； in a jovial way； designed to show Amelia how unfazed I was； “So； are you ready to get back to work？”
He glanced up at me furiously and snapped； “You call what we’re doingwork ？”
It was the first time I’d ever seen a flash of bad temper from him； and it struck me with the force of a revelation that all this running and pressing and lifting had nothing whatever to do with training； he wasn’t even doing it for enjoyment。 It was simply what his metabolism demanded。 He was like some rare marine specimen fished up from the depths of the ocean； which could live only under extreme pressure。 Deposited on the shore； exposed to the thin air of normal life； Lang was in constant danger of expiring from sheer boredom。
“Well； I certainly call it work；” I said stiffly。 “For both of us。 But if you think it’s not intellectually demanding enough for you； we can stop now。”
I thought I might have gone too far； but then with a great effort of self…control—so great； you could practically see the intricate machinery of his facial muscles； all the little levers and pulleys and cables； working together—he managed to hoist a tired grin back onto his face。 “All right； man；” he said tonelessly。 “You win。” He flicked me with his towel。 “I was only kidding。 Let’s get back to it。”
SEVEN
Quite often； particularly if you are helping them write a memoir or autobiography； the author will dissolve into tears when telling the story…Your job under these circumstances is to pass the tissues； keep quiet and keep recording。
Ghostwritin g
“WERE YOUR PARENTS ATall political？”
We were once again in the study； in our usual positions。 He was sprawled out in the armchair； still wearing his tracksuit； the towel still draped round his neck。 He exuded a faint aroma of sweat。 I sat opposite with my notebook and list of questions。 The minirecorder was on the desk beside me。
“Not at all； no。 I’m not sure my father even voted。 He said they were all as bad as one another。”
“Tell me about him。”
“He was a builder。 Self…employed。 He was in his fifties when he met my mother。 He’d already got two teenage sons by his first wife—she’d run off and left him some while before。 Mum was a teacher； twenty years younger than him。 Very pretty； very shy。 The story was he came to do some repair work on the school roof； and they got talking； and one thing led to another； and they got married。 He built them a house and the four of them moved in。 I came along the following year； which was a shock to him； I think。”
“Why？”
“He thought he was through with babies。”
“I get the impression； reading what’s already been written； that you weren’t that close to him。”
Lang took his time before answering。 “He died when I was sixteen。 He’d already retired by then； because of bad health； and my stepbrothers had grown up； married； moved