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I declined to be assisted with my bags； took the elevator to the sixth floor； and stuck the electronic key card into the door。 My room was beige and softly lit by table lamps； with a view across Grand Central Parkway to LaGuardia and the unfathomable blackness of the East River。 The TV was playing “I’ll Take Manhattan” over a caption that read “Welcome to New York Mr。 Nixon。” I turned it off and opened the minibar。 I didn’t even bother to find a glass。 I unscrewed the cap and drank straight from the miniature bottle。
It must have been about twenty minutes and a second miniature later that my new telephone suddenly glowed blue and began to emit a faintly ominous electronic purr。 I left my post at the window to answer it。
“It’s me；” said Rycart。 “Have you settled in？”
“Yes；” I said。
“Are you alone？”
“Yes。”
“Open the door； then。”
He was standing in the corridor； his phone to his ear。 Beside him was the driver who had met me at LaGuardia。
“All right； Frank；” said Rycart to his minder。 “I’ll take it from here。 You keep an eye out in the lobby。”
Rycart slipped his phone into the pocket of his overcoat as Frank plodded back toward the elevators。 He was what my mother would have called “handsome； and knows it”： a striking profile； narrowly set bright blue eyes accentuated by an orangey tan； and that swept…back waterfall of hair the cartoonists loved so much。 He looked a lot younger than sixty。 He nodded at the empty bottle in my hand。 “Tough day？”
“You could say that。”
He came into the room without waiting for an invitation and went straight over to the window and drew the curtains。 I closed the door。
“My apologies for the location；” he said； “but I tend to be recognized in Manhattan。 Especially after yesterday。 Did Frank look after you all right？”
“I’ve rarely had a warmer welcome。”
“I know what you mean； but he’s a useful guy。 Ex…NYPD。 He handles logistics and security for
me。 I’m not the most popular kid on the block right now； as you can imagine。”
“Can I get you something to drink？”
“Water would be fine。”
He prowled around the room while I poured him a glass。 He checked the bathroom； even the
closet。
“What is it？” I said。 “Do you think this is a trap？”
“It crossed my mind。” He unbuttoned his coat and laid it carefully on the bed。 I guessed his
Armani suit cost about twice the annual income of a small African village。 “Let’s face it； you do work for Lang。”
“I met him for the first time on Monday；” I said。 “I don’t even know him。”
Rycart laughed。 “Who does？ If you met him on Monday you probably know him as well as anyone。 I worked with him for fifteen years； and I certainly don’t have a clue where he’s coming from。 Mike McAra didn’t； either； and he was with him from the beginning。”
“His wife said more or less the same thing to me。”
“Well； there you go。 If someone as sharp as Ruth doesn’t get him—and she’s married to him； for God’s sake—what hope do the rest of us have？ The man’s a mystery。 Thanks。” Rycart took the water。
He sipped it thoughtfully； studying me。 “But you sound as though you’re starting to unravel him。”
“I feel as though I’m the one who’s unraveling； quite frankly。”
“Let’s sit down；” said Rycart； patting my shoulder； “and you can tell me all about it。”
The gesture reminded me of Lang。 A great man’s charm。 They made me feel like a minnow
swimming between sharks。 I would need to be on my guard。 I sat down carefully in one of the two small armchairs—it was beige； like the walls。 Rycart sat opposite me。
“So；” he said。 “How do we begin？ You know who I am。 Who are you？”
“I’m a professional ghostwriter；” I said。 “I was brought in to rewrite Adam Lang’s memoirs after Mike McAra died。 I know nothing about politics。 It’s as if I’ve stepped through the looking glass。”
“Tell me what you’ve found out。”
Even I was too canny for that。 I hemmed and hawed。
“Perhaps you could tell me about McAra first；” I said。
“If you like。” Rycart shrugged。 “What can I say？ Mike was the consummate professional。 If you’d pinned a rosette to that suitcase over there and told him it was the party leader； he’d have followed it。 Everyone expected Lang would fire him when he became leader and bring in his own man。 But Mike was too useful。 He knew the party inside out。 What else do you want to know？”
“What was he like； as a person？”
“What was he likeas a person？ ” Rycart gave me a strange look； as if it were the oddest question he’d ever heard。 “Well； he had no life outside politics； if that’s what you mean； so you could say that Lang was everything to him—wife； kids； friends。 What else？ He was obsessive； a detail man。 Almost everything Adam wasn’t； Mike was。 Maybe that was why he stayed on； right through Downing Street and all the way out again； long after the others had all cashed in and gone to make some money。 No fancy corporate jobs for our Mike。 He was very loyal to Adam。”
“Not that loyal；” I said。 “Not if he was in touch with you。”
“Ah； but that was only right at the very end。 You mentioned a photograph。 Can I see it？”
When I fetched the envelope； his face had the same greedy expression as Emmett’s； but when he saw the picture； he couldn’t hide his disappointment。
“Is this it？” he said。 “Just a bunch of privileged white kids doing a song…and…dance act？”
“It’s a bit more interesting than that；” I said。 “For a start； why’s your number on the back of it？”
Rycart gave me a sly look。 “Why exactly should I help you？”
“Why exactly shouldI helpyou ？”
We stared at one another。 Eventually he grinned； showing large； polished white teeth。
“You should have been a politician；” he said。
“I’m learning from the best。”
He bowed modestly； thinking I meant him； but actually it was Lang I had in mind。 Vanity； that was his weakness； I realized。 I could imagine how deftly Lang would have flattered him； and what a blow his sacking must have been to his ego。 And now； with his lean face and his prow of a nose and those piercing eyes； he was as hell…bent on revenge as any discarded lover。 He got to his feet and went over to the door。 He checked the corridor up and down。 When he returned he loomed over me； pointing a tanned finger directly at my face。
“If you double…cross me；” he said； “you’ll pay for it。 And if you doubt my willingness to hold a grudge and eventually settle the score； ask Adam Lang。”
“Fine；” I said。
He was too agitated now to sit still； and that was something else I only realized at that moment： the pressure he was under。 You had to hand it to Rycart。 It did take a certain nerve to drag your former party leader and prime minister in front of a war crimes tribunal。
“This ICC business；” he said； patrolling up and down in front of the bed； “it’s only hit the headlines in the past week； but let me tell you I’ve been pursuing this thing behind the scenes foryears 。 Iraq； rendition； torture； Guantánamo—what’s been done in this so…called war on terror is illegal under international law； just as much as anything that happened in Kosovo or Liberia。 The only difference is we’re the ones doing it。 The hypocrisy is nauseating。”
He seemed to realize he was starting on a speech he’d already made too many times before and checked himself。 He took a sip of water。 “Anyway； rhetoric is one thing and evidence is another thing entirely。 I could sense the political climate changing； that was helpful。 Every time a bomb went off； every time another soldier was killed； every time it became a little bit clearer we’d started another Hundred Years’ War without a clue how to end it； things shifted farther my way。 It was no longer inconceivable that a Western leader could wind up in the dock。 The worse the mess he’d left behind him got； the more people were willing to see it； wanted to see it。 What I needed was just one piece of evidence that would meet the legal standard of proof—a single document with his name on it would have been enough—and I didn’t have it。
“And then suddenly； just before Christmas； there it was。 I had it in my hands。 It just came through the post。 Not even a covering letter。 ‘Top Secret： Memorandum from the Prime Minister to the Secretary of State for Defence。’ It was five years old； written back in the days when I was still foreign secretary； but I’d no idea it even existed。 A smoking gun if ever there was one—Christ； the barrel was still hot！ A directive from the British prime minister that these four poor bastards should be snatched off the streets in Pakistan by the SAS and handed over to the CIA。”
“A war crime；” I said。
“A war crime；” he agreed。 “A minor one； okay。 But so what？ In the end； they could only get Al Capone for tax evasion。 It didn’t mean Capone wasn’t a gangster。 I carried out a few discreet checks to make sure the memo was authentic； then I took it to The Hague in person。”