“All rightee. Where and when? We can choose from a range of excellent restaurants managed by former LA covert-action partners: Vietnamese, Afghan, Lebanese, Ethiopian, Thai. Luckily, they all cook better than they fight.”

We settled on a Thai restaurant on upper Connecticut Avenue whose chief virtue, from my standpoint, was that the tables were far apart. This time I made sure to arrive before Cohen. I wanted to control the field of play. I chose a booth far in the back of the restaurant and sat facing the door.

Eventually Rupert arrived. He was wearing a Burberrys trench coat and had shaved off the goatee. He looked less like a hippie film director and more like a spy. Or, to be precise, more like an intellectual in the costume of a spy.

“Could you please tell me what the fuck is going on?” I said when he sat down. “You’ve got me spooked about Bowman. Where did he get this story?”

“From the French, sans doute.”

“But the story says the Senate Intelligence Committee is conducting an investigation.”

“Come on! You’re a reporter. You know how it’s done. You go to the committee with some dirt, and they launch an investigation. Then you report the investigation. But Bowman’s original tip came from the French. Had to.”

“How can you be so sure? He could have gotten it anywhere.”

“Nope. Only another intelligence service could come up with gourmet goodies like these, mon ami, and it wasn’t the Chinese. The French do this. It’s a game they’ve been playing with us for years. We uncover their payoff in Brazil and leak it to the press. They uncover our payoff in Brazil and leak it to the press. But I must say, things are getting a bit out of control in China.”

“How did the French find out about the payoff, assuming you’re right?”

“Because our man in Shanghai got caught. I keep telling you the organization is incompetent, but you don’t believe me. Things like this don’t happen if you do it right. That’s why we have tradecraft. So we won’t get caught.”

Cohen’s bitterness toward his employer continued to amaze me. He was like a postal worker, ready to open fire at any moment with a machine gun. He actually made me feel sorry for the CIA. “You really hate them,” I said.

“No, no, no. I am not a hater. I am a healer. My problem is that I’m in the wrong profession. I’m a journalist, trapped inside an intelligence officer’s body. I could go on Oprah, but instead I’m trying to help you.”