“It’s both right and wrong,” said Ralph. “That’s the problem. According to my friends in the general counsel’s office, the ATC sales rep in Shanghai was working for the CIA. It was a deal the previous CEO made with the agency, to keep a few slots abroad for CIA cover. A lot of big companies do it. Very hush-hush. Bad idea, it turns out. And yes, indeed, this CIA guy in Shanghai may have paid five million to some Chinese big shot, just like your story says. But that was CIA business, not American Telephone business.”

“Are you sure?” I rubbed my eyes. There was a blue haze in the room from all the cigarette smoke.

“Absolutely. We don’t pay anyone cash bribes anymore. We give them consulting contracts, or equity in a joint venture. It’s all legal. Ask the Justice Department.” He said it matter-of-factly, as if it were common knowledge in the business world.

“Where did this story come from, Ralph?” I asked. “Who leaked it?”

“You’re asking me? You’re from the Mirror, and you’re asking me who leaked this story to you? You gotta be kidding. I should be asking you that, so we can go find the leaker and string him up by the balls.”

“What I mean is, do you think the competition—the French company, Unetat—had anything to do with this?”

“Maybe. Probably. I really don’t know, to be honest. But that would take nerve, for the French to accuse us of bribery. They bribe anything that walks in Asia. And that’s just the beginning.”

“What do you mean, Ralph? What else do they do?”

“Listen, my friend, the French have done stuff on this China deal that would tie your intestines into a bow. Sweetheart agreements with Beijing. Kickbacks to people in France. There’s even a crazy rumor the French are helping the Chinese on some big weapons project. Nobody will talk about it. But even if I knew the details, which I don’t, I wouldn’t tell you—even if you are a friend of Dirk’s, and even if you do keep calling me Ralph, which isn’t my name. All I will tell you is: Look into it. Find people who really know what’s going on, and ask them about it. Because this one is nasty.”

Late that afternoon I heard the unmistakable, singsong voice of Rupert Cohen on the other end of the telephone. This time he didn’t even bother to address me by an Italian honorific. His first words were: “What did I tell you?” He wanted to gloat, but I cut him off. For me, this had ceased being a joke.

“I need to see you, tonight,” I said. “This Bowman thing is really beginning to bother me.”