“Last night …” he began, and then stopped. He was so angry he was still having trouble getting the words out. He took a deep breath, which seemed to help. “Last night, I was invited to a dinner party given by the French ambassador here. Peyron was there. Bézy was there. Some other people from Unetat. It was very French, very civilized. After the dinner, Bézy asked me to stay. He took me to a room upstairs that was like a bubble. I figured it must be where they talk about secrets. Inside, it was like a little conference room. I really didn’t want to be there with him. Bézy is a shit.” His voice was rising again.

“Not so loud. What did Bézy say?”

“He gave me a document, which he said came from the National Security Agency. He said it was the specs for a plan the NSA and CIA had drawn up that would allow them to capture whatever Chinese communications traffic they wanted, if the U.S. consortium wins the contract. He claimed it was like a trapdoor; with it, the Americans could read encrypted Chinese stuff. He wanted me to write a story about it in the Mirror. A big exposé that would end any chance for the Americans to win the contract.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I said no. I wouldn’t do it.”

I was surprised, I will admit. For months I had watched Bowman write whatever the French gave him. Now he was refusing. “Why?” I asked. “Because the document isn’t true?”

“No, not that. It probably is true. Hell, I hope it’s true. It sounds like a good idea. No, I said I wouldn’t do it because I knew it was wrong. Bézy made me feel like a whore, taking me into his secret room and trying to use me to screw my own country. It made me sick, Eric. I love my newspaper. It’s the thing I care about most in the world. I’m not going to turn the Mirror’s pages over to them. I won’t do it anymore. And that’s what I told him. I gave him a loud ‘Fuck you,’ to his face, in his bubble.”

“What did he say?”

“All the shit you’d expect from someone like that. He said it was too late for me to back out. He said it was the last thing they would ever ask me to do. He said if I did it, I could name my reward: an apartment on the Île St.-Louis; that villa I liked so much in Cap d’Antibes, whatever I wanted.”

“Did he threaten you?”

“Not really. I think he knew that would backfire—exposing me publicly as a French spy. No, he didn’t try that. He tried something nastier.” Bowman looked away, in embarrassment.

“Well, what did he do, then, if he didn’t threaten you?”