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“I’m sorry。” He looked up。 “The Yale Dramatic Association。 I thought I’d maintain my theatrical interests when I went over to Cambridge for my doctoral research。 Alas； I only managed a term in the Footlights before pressure of work put an end to my dramatic career。 May I keep this？”
“I’m afraid not。 But I’m sure I can get you a copy。”
“Would you？ That would be very kind。” He turned it over and inspected the back。 “The Cambridge Evening News 。 You must tell me how you came by it。”
“I’d be happy to；” I said。 And again I waited。 It was like playing a hand of cards。 He would not yield a trick unless I forced him。 The big clock ticked back and forth a few times。
“Come into my study；” he said。
He opened a door and I followed him into a room straight out of Rick’s London club： dark green wallpaper； floor…to…ceiling books； library steps； overstuffed brown leather furniture； a big brass lectern in the shape of an eagle； a Roman bust； a faint odor of cigars。 One wall was devoted to memorabilia： citations； prizes； honorary degrees； and a lot of photographs。 I took in Emmett with Bill Clinton and Al Gore； Emmett with Margaret Thatcher and Nelson Mandela。 I’d tell you the names of the others if I knew who they were。 A German chancellor。 A French president。 There was also a picture of him with Lang； a grin…and…grip at what seemed to be a cocktail party。 He saw me looking。
“The wall of ego；” he said。 “We all have them。 Think of it as the equivalent of the orthodontist’s fish tank。 Do take a seat。 I’m afraid I can only spare a few minutes； unfortunately。”
I perched on the unyielding brown sofa while he took the captain’s chair behind his desk。 It rolled easily back and forth。 He swung his feet up onto the desk； giving me a fine view of the slightly scuffed
soles of his brogues。
“So；” he said。 “The picture。”
“I’m working with Adam Lang on his memoirs。”
“I know。 You said。 Poor Lang。 It’s a very bad business； this posturing by The Hague。 As for Rycart—the worst foreign secretary since the war； in my view。 It was a terrible error to appoint him。 But if the ICC continues to behave so foolishly； they will succeed merely in making Lang first a martyr and then a hero； and thus；” he added； gesturing graciously toward me； “a bestseller。”
“How well do you know him？”
“Lang？ Hardly at all。 You look surprised。”
“Well； for a start； he mentions you in his memoirs。”
Emmett appeared genuinely taken aback。 “Now it’s my turn to be surprised。 What does he say？”
“It’s a quote； at the start of the final chapter。” I pulled the relevant page from my bag。 “‘As long as these nations’—that’s everyone who speaks English—‘stand together；’” I read； “‘freedom is safe； whenever they have faltered； tyranny has gathered strength。’ And then Lang says； ‘I profoundly agree with this sentiment。’”
“Well； that’s decent of him；” said Emmett。 “And his instincts as prime minister were good； in my judgment。 But that doesn’t mean I know him。”
“And then there’s that；” I said； pointing to the wall of ego。
“Oh；that 。” Emmett waved his hand dismissively。 “That was just taken at a reception at Claridge’s； to mark the tenth anniversary of the Arcadia Institution。”
“The Arcadia Institution？” I repeated。
“It’s a little organization I used to run。 It’s very select。 No reason why you should have heard of it。 The prime minister graced us with his presence。 It was purely professional。”
“But you must have known Adam Lang at Cambridge；” I persisted。
“Not really。 One summer term； our paths crossed。 That was it。”
“Can you remember much about him？” I took out my notebook。 Emmett eyed it as if I’d just pulled out a revolver。 “I’m sorry；” I said。 “Do you mind？”
“Not at all。 Go ahead。 I’m just rather bewildered。 No one’s ever mentioned the Cambridge connection between us in all these years。 I’ve barely thought about it myself until this moment。 I don’t think I can tell you anything worth writing down。”
“But you performed together？”
“In one production。 The summer revue。 I can’t even remember now what it was called。 There
were a hundred members； you know。”
“So he made no impression on you？”
“None。”
“Even though he became prime minister？”
“Obviously if I’d known he was going to do that； I’d have taken the trouble to get to know him
better。 But in my time I’ve met eight presidents； four popes； and five British prime ministers； and none of them was what I would describe as personally truly outstanding。”
Yes； I thought； and has it ever occurred to you they might not have reckoned you were up to much； either？ But I didn’t say that。 Instead I said； “Can I show you something else？”
“If you really think it will be of interest。” He ostentatiously checked his watch。
I took out the other photographs。 Now that I looked at them again； it was clear that Emmett featured in several。 Indeed； he was unmistakably the man on the summer picnic； giving the thumbs…up behind Lang’s back； while the future prime minister did a Bogart with his joint and was fed strawberries and champagne。
I reached across and handed them to Emmett； who performed his affected little piece of stage business again； pushing up his glasses so that he could study the pictures with his naked eyes。 I can see him now： sleek and pink and imperturbable。 His expression didn’t flicker； which struck me as peculiar； because mine certainly would have done； in similar circumstances。
“Oh my；” he said。 “Is that what I think it is？ Let’s hope he didn’t inhale。”
“But that is you standing behind him； isn’t it？”
“I do believe it is。 And I do believe I’m on the point of issuing a stern warning to him on the perils of drug abuse。 Can’t you just sense it forming on my lips？” He gave the pictures back to me and pulled his spectacles back down onto his nose。 Tilting farther back in his chair； he scrutinized me。 “Does Mr。 Lang really want these published in his memoirs？ If so； I would prefer it if I weren’t identified。 My children would be mortified。 They’re so much more puritanical than we were。”
“Can you tell me the names of any of the others in the picture？ The girls； perhaps？”
“I’m sorry。 That summer is just a blur； a long and happy blur。 The world may have been going to pieces around us； but we were making merry。”
His words reminded me of something that Ruth had said； about all the things that were going on at the time the picture was taken。
“You must have been lucky；” I said； “given you were at Yale in the late sixties； to avoid being drafted to Vietnam。”
“You know the old saying： ‘if you had the dough； you didn’t have to go。’ I got a student deferment。 Now；” he said； twirling in his chair and lifting his feet off the desk。 He was suddenly much more businesslike。 He picked up a pen and opened a notebook。 “You were going to tell me where you got those pictures。”
“Does the name Michael McAra mean an