Arthur Bowman met me at Dulles Airport. He was carrying a traveling bag that contained his red velvet bedroom slippers, a CD player with a selection of Bach cantatas and a small shaving kit. I will say this for Bowman: the man knew how to travel. As always on his overseas trips, he was flying first-class. That was part of his understanding with Philip Sellinger. They had concocted some rationale involving the likelihood of meeting important sources, but the truth was that Bowman liked big seats and fine food and wine, and he felt these modest perks were a small price for the Mirror’s stockholders to pay to keep him happy and productive.

When they called for the first-class passengers to board the plane, I reached out to shake Bowman’s hand farewell. I was flying coach and would be spending the next fourteen hours back in steerage, doubtless surrounded by children with earaches who would howl all the way to China. But instead of saying good-bye, Bowman handed me a first-class boarding pass.

“I got you upgraded,” he said. His explanation had something to do with frequent-flier miles and a friend who worked at a travel agency. I didn’t really understand it, but I didn’t quarrel. I just followed Arthur past the stares of envious travelers who parted to make way for us.

Somewhere over Pittsburgh, the stewardess served cocktails and the two of us began to talk. We hadn’t spent much time together since that night at the Athenian Club, and I wasn’t sure what the balance was in our relationship anymore. We had known each other for years as stereotypes—Bowman the all-knowing veteran of a thousand deadlines and me the brash kid. Those roles had come crashing down in one evening, but I wasn’t sure what had replaced them. The truth was, we didn’t know each other very well.

“This trip is costing Phil Sellinger $5,758,” announced Bowman, raising his glass of Glenfiddich in homage to the publisher. “And that’s just my ticket. Isn’t that extraordinary? Not simply the money, but as a statement of journalistic principle. I had to scream at Peyron’s people. They wanted to fly both of us first-class on Air France, gratis. I gave them a speech about newspaper ethics and told them to piss off. We were flying United.”

“How did you persuade Peyron to let me attend the conference? He can’t have been pleased.”