“Do I need to tell you how important this is? I don’t think so. As a scientist, I regret to say that modern biotechnology has made possible an entirely new category of weapons. Imagine the most gruesome deaths possible. It will be possible to replicate them, on a massive scale, with these designer weapons. These are weapons of terror. Their mere existence may induce a target population to capitulate. Imagine such weapons in the hands of the Chinese leadership. They would threaten the security of the United States. So please pay attention during your trip. I really don’t think that’s too much to ask.”

She called for Rubino on the intercom and primly left the room, without even bothering to say good-bye to me. Rubino arrived carrying a large map of Beijing with him, which he now attached at four corners to a cork bulletin board on the side wall. He showed me where Navarre’s lab was—inside the gates of Qinghua University, northwest of the city. Qinghua was the Chinese version of MIT, and the campus was technically off-limits to foreigners. Rubino said the only way to get in would be with help from Bowman’s friends at Unetat. They had an office in the laboratory complex, and their guests were allowed in and out.

He folded up the map and handed it to me, along with the portfolio of Dr. Ginsburg’s slides. I took them silently. I gazed out the window and stared at the traffic sailing by on I-270. Across the highway was a fancy health club, with a big sign advertising its racquetball courts and indoor pool: GET IN SHAPE FOR SUMMER NOW! I was somewhere, nowhere, staring out the window, trying to keep from looking down.

“Now listen to me, Eric,” said Rubino. “There’s one more thing I have to tell you. I’ve had to do something a little unusual. The agency operates under an executive order that normally bars us from using U.S. journalists in any operational capacity. Because we’ve given you some special help today—and because we’ll want to talk to you when you get back—I’ve decided to seek a special waiver from the director. He has agreed to let you do this. But there’s a procedure involved.”

“What procedure? I’m not following you.”

“Technically, what we’re doing is sending you under journalistic cover to gather intelligence—information that’s vital to the national security, which we could not obtain in any other way. That is the basis on which we have obtained the waiver.”

That last statement had the icy precision of a legal document. I had understood, in my heart, what I was doing. But I had never stated it to myself so baldly. It was like seeing your face in a mirror under a harsh light.

“What will I be?” I asked. “A CIA agent?”