“To attend your conference. If you win the contract, your company’s relationship with China will be one of the biggest stories in the world. I want to understand it—by investigating what you’re doing here.”

“I see.” He nodded, took several puffs on his cigarette and then stubbed it out. “Why did you go to our research facility at Qinghua University this morning?”

I waited for words to come. I didn’t feel fear so much as uncertainty about what would happen next. Of course he knew I had been to the lab. We had given our names to Seraut, who had called Peyron’s office. The only thing that reassured me was that he couldn’t know what had transpired during our visit—otherwise he wouldn’t be asking me questions.

“Biotechnology is a hot topic,” I said. “I heard you had a project at Qinghua, and I wanted to see it. I talked to your group vice president, Mr. Minart, about it, this morning. Ask him. He’ll remember me.”

“Please—” He waved his hand dismissively, as if I was wasting his time with an answer like that. “Why did you want to see Roger Navarre?”

“Because I knew that he was a prominent biologist who was doing interesting work. I’d met him before, in Paris, to talk about his research. Check your records; you’ll see. I was curious about what he was doing here, so I wanted to see him. That’s what I do. I’m a reporter. I talk to people who are doing interesting things, and then I write stories.”

He put his hand up, palm out. “Enough,” he said, arching one of those big eyebrows. “Who told you about Navarre? You say you ‘heard’ that he was doing interesting work, and you ‘heard’ that we had a research project. But where did you hear these things. They are not widely known, I assure you.”

“From sources. From people back in the United States who follow your company.”

“From the CIA.” Both of his black, bushy eyebrows were now angled upward. “Is that the answer?”

“From sources,” I repeated. “I’m a journalist. I talk to people who have information. That’s my job.”

Peyron put his lips together and made a contemptuous sound, which was something between a kiss and a cluck. “Nonsense,” he said. “What did you say to Mr. Navarre when you were talking to him?”

The fear came now in a sudden surge. I tried to talk, but nothing came out. My chest felt tight, as if a corset had been cinched around it. I closed my pad and put my tape recorder back in my briefcase.

“This isn’t an interview,” I said. “You’re asking all the questions. I want to leave now.” I stood up to go. The security man was on his feet instantly.