“I’m always nervous before I start something new,” he said. “But the minute we arrive in Beijing, it will go away. It’s the anticipation I don’t like. You’ve heard the saying: A coward dies a thousand deaths, a brave man only once. That’s corny, but it’s true. I remember trying to get into Iraq in 1980, after the war with Iran started. I had flown to Kuwait and told Ed Weiss that in twenty-four hours I’d be in Basra, where the heaviest fighting was. The Iranians were bombing the city, and the Iraqis were attacking across the river toward Khorramshahr. I’d done this sort of thing in Vietnam, but it took me a whole day to get up my nerve. I drove up to the border the first day and chickened out. I was so ashamed I went back to my hotel in Kuwait City and got stinking drunk. Even with all the booze, I barely slept that night, because I knew that the next day I’d have to do it. Weiss was clamoring for copy. But the minute I was across the border, it was easy. I was doing what I knew how to do. I was so high after a few weeks in Basra they had to drag me home.”

Bowman was a pro, but I wondered if even he had any idea of what might lie ahead. “Arthur,” I said, “when we talked that night at the Athenian Club, you said you were afraid Peyron would try to pressure you in Beijing. What did you mean? What would he want you to do?”

“Cook a story, probably. I don’t know. Maybe more. You never know with these guys. But if he leans on me, I’m going to lean back.”

“How are you going to do that? What’s your leverage?”

“You, young Truell. I’ll tell them that if they don’t back off, you’ll write a story that will blow them sky-high—two weeks before the Chinese announce the contract. Why do you think I let you come along? You’re my insurance policy.”

Cocktail hour seemed to last until we were over Denver. Bowman and I were, as the therapists like to say, “self-medicating.” But for all the boozy talk, he remained a mysterious figure to me. Above all, I didn’t understand what had led him to accept money from people he must have known were connected with French intelligence. When you’re drinking with someone, you eventually lose the normal inhibition about asking questions that might be offensive. So I asked.

“How did you get involved with Peyron and Bézy and the rest of them in the beginning? What made you do it?”

The question took him by surprise. He drew back into the vastness of his first-class seat and closed his eyes. I thought I had lost him, but a moment later he began talking.