“He was less than thrilled about your trip, as you surmise. The New Asia story did not amuse him and Bézy. But I made it a point d’honneur. I told them you were the best young reporter at the paper. I said that unless they allowed you to cover the conference, I would refuse to participate. I also pointed out that you were likely to be in Beijing regardless of what they did—since the Chinese had given you a visa. At that point, logic prevailed. They concluded that they couldn’t stop your trip, so they embraced it. Peyron says he wants to meet you. He’ll give you an interview if you want.”

“I’d love to talk to him, and Bézy, too. And I’d like to see some of the technology projects Unetat is doing with the Chinese. Do you think they’d go for that?”

“Why not? They want everybody to know how friendly they are with the Chinese. They think it will help them win the contract. What do you want to see?”

“I gather they’re doing a joint biotechnology project,” I said, treading as lightly as I could. “Maybe we could look at that.”

“No harm in asking,” he answered. He held his glass of whiskey up to the window. The crystal filtered the bright sunlight like a prism, casting a dozen different shades on the golden liquid. “No harm at all.”

I wanted to tell Bowman the truth—to describe the chain of events that had put me on that airplane next to him, to recount the meetings with Rubino and Ginsburg—to draw him into the web of obligations that I had incurred, so that I could turn to him later if I needed help. But I knew that was unwise. I was beginning to like Bowman, but I still wasn’t sure that I trusted him. And he had enough problems of his own. People who had paid him a lot of money over the years thought they owned him, and he was about to default on their investment.

“Are you worried about what might happen in Beijing?” I asked. I was curious about what he might answer. Bowman was one of those people who make a point of not registering emotion.