The dining room of the Athenian Club was constructed on the same vast scale as the salon below. The ceiling vaulted up more than two stories, giving it the feel of a state room in an English palace. The Pakistani maître d’hôtel greeted Arthur with the familiarity of a colonial batman. “Mr. Bowman, sir!” He almost clicked his heels. Bowman gave him a tired smile. He was not a man for grand gestures at that moment. The maître d’ seated us at a table by the windows, which looked out toward the illuminated façades of the Old Executive Office Building and the White House. We were almost the only diners left in the room. We ordered quickly, desultorily. Bowman asked for a steak and a 1979 Barbaresco. The red wine seemed to pull him back together.

“I knew we’d end up like this,” he said. “I felt it, as long ago as that night at Taillevent. You and I were bound to collide. And when I heard several weeks ago that you had gone to Weiss to denounce me, it was only a matter of time.”

“Weiss told you about our conversation?” He didn’t answer, and I wasn’t clever enough to understand that there was someone else he might be protecting. He took a drink—from his water glass—and cleared his throat.

“I’m not a spy,” he said. “I do not receive money from the French intelligence service, and I never have. There are reasons, perhaps, why someone would be confused. For many years I have had close relationships with senior officers of the DGSE, including this fellow Salan you mentioned. They have been among my best sources, and they have given me dozens of good stories over the years. Often, when the United States government was trying hard to suppress something, the French would tell me the truth. They’re troublemakers when it comes to the Americans. That’s why they’re valuable.

“Another reason people might be confused is that for a number of years I have maintained a consulting contract with a French company. It’s a law firm, actually. I write occasional opinion papers for them, give them advice. It’s a freelance thing. Some reporters appear on television shows, some have contracts to write articles for Vanity Fair, some give speeches. I have my French consulting contract. Perhaps I should have disclosed it to Weiss and Sellinger long ago, but I never did.”

“Who runs the law firm?” I asked. I suspected I knew the answer.

“A Frenchman named Michel Bézy. A brilliant man, very well connected.”

I nodded. Let it be, I told myself. He’s finally talking. Don’t stop him now.