“How much money will be kicked back to French politicians if you win the contract?”

“Really, Mr. Truell, this is pathetic. Is this how journalists conduct themselves in America? If you print any aspect of this, we will sue your newspaper and win a very large judgment.”

I had one more question, and I wanted to ask it to protect my friend: to give him some cover, to separate him from me. “What is your relationship with Arthur Bowman? Some of his colleagues at the Mirror, including me, are worried that he’s too close to your company.”

“We have no relationship with Arthur Bowman,” answered Peyron. He removed his cigarette holder from his lips and pointed it at me as he repeated the words. “We have no relationship with Arthur Bowman.”

I took a taxi back to my hotel. This time the surveillance was obvious. One car driven by a Chinese man was on our rear bumper the whole way, and I thought I saw another tail, driven by a European. I went up to my room and waited for Arthur. Five o’clock passed, and I tried to convince myself that nothing was wrong. The old pro had figured out a way to manipulate this new situation, just as he always did. But by 6:00 I was genuinely frightened. I called his room and left messages. I called the press center and left a message there, too. I even called the overnight editor on the foreign desk in New York, thinking they might have heard from him. But there was silence in every direction.

Just before 7:00 P.M. I heard a feeble knock on my door. I rushed to open it, and Arthur stumbled into my room. He looked awful. His face was ashen, a color paler than white, like the color of bones. He was stooped over in pain. I helped him to my bed and laid him down.

“My God, Arthur! What happened to you?”

“Turn on the radio,” he said. I turned the knob and the tinny sound of Chinese pop music filled the room. He told me to make it louder, until the sound covered our voices.

“You need a doctor. Let me call the embassy.”

“Don’t call anyone. Just bring me some whiskey from the minibar. That’s what I need right now.”

I poured the whiskey into a glass and handed it to him. He drank most of it down in one gulp. “What happened?” I asked again.

“You owe me. Big-time.” He managed a half-smile.

“What happened?” I asked a third time.

“Bézy went crazy. Roger Navarre escaped from the lab today. They don’t know where he is. They’re trying to find him.”

My heart leaped. “My God. He did it. He ran away!”

“Shut up!” Bowman said sharply. “Don’t say another fucking word.”

“And they think you know where he went?”