“Because the president’s Foreign Intelligence Advisory Board heard about it. They wanted to know why the CIA was investigating a prominent journalist. This was the mid-1980s; the Church Committee was still fresh in everybody’s mind. We shared some of what we had, but they weren’t impressed. They asked if we had evidence that Bowman had ever done anything to harm U.S. interests, and we had to say no—the French were our pals back then; they were helping us roll back the Soviets, we were all on the same team. So the DDO dropped the whole investigation down the memory hole. The files don’t even exist anymore. We couldn’t make the case now, even if we wanted to.”

“But Bowman took money from them.” That was what registered for me. The money. That would be the lead in a newspaper story.

“Yes, he took money. Are you happy, now that you know?” He looked at me sitting anxiously in my chair, staring out at the Shirlington skyline. “No, of course you aren’t. You’re wondering what you’re doing here.”

I looked around the barren apartment. I hated being there. I felt as if I had strayed across a boundary line into a place where I shouldn’t be. At that time I still thought I could stay on my side of the road if I just kept my hands on the wheel. “I’m not comfortable meeting in this apartment, Tom,” I said. “It makes me feel like an agent.”

“I’m sorry,” he answered gently. “It was the quickest way to arrange a meeting. If you come to headquarters, I have to fill out paperwork and clear it through public affairs or the DCI, and I didn’t want to go through all that. Next time we’ll meet at my house.”

It was past 8:30. The traffic out on I-95 was bumper-to-bumper all the way into the city. I had gotten what I wanted. Why was I lingering?

“There’s one more thing,” I said. “It doesn’t have anything to do with Arthur Bowman. This source of mine says the agency is falling apart. He claims all the secrecy just hides your incompetence, so nobody outside really knows how bad it is. He thinks I’m crazy to be talking with you at all. Is he right?”

Rubino looked at me coldly, carefully.

“Your source is right that we’re in trouble. We’re weak, and people are taking advantage of us. You remember that big office I had in Paris? The FBI just grabbed it. Another time, when we know each other better, I’ll tell you some of the good things we’ve done—I’ve done—that will show you we’re not always incompetent. But right now, we’re struggling. That’s why we need help, from anyone who has the courage to work with us.”