“It’s not in any of the business directories; it isn’t listed on any stock exchange; it has never registered a bond offering; the only mention of it in the Financial Times or The Wall Street Journal over the past five years was when they did the deal with us. In normal corporate terms, they don’t exist. They say their corporate headquarters are in Geneva, but I asked a buddy of mine at the AP to check it out, and it’s basically just a fancy mailing address with a nice office on the Rue du Rhône and a few secretaries to answer the phones. So my buddy pulled the Geneva corporate registration records to see who controls the stock of Press Alert, S.A. And it turns out to be a shell corporation with an address in the Bahamas. You want to explain that to me, Mr. Hotshot Friend of the Publisher? How did the Mirror get in bed with a company like that?”

“Because Sellinger needed money,” I said. “That’s the only thing I really know. Back in March, before the Press Alert deal was announced, he was so desperate he had Arthur Bowman out beating the bushes, looking for the five hundred million. Bowman talked to investors from Japan, Korea, Saudi Arabia and Britain, but he didn’t get anywhere. But Sellinger obviously got the money from somewhere.”

“How do you know that, Eric? I’d hate to think you actually are a friend of the publisher.”

“Because I brought Bowman’s computer back with me from China. One of the things he left on the hard drive was a memo to Sellinger, describing the contacts he’d made with all these investors.”

“You sneak. That is so un-Truell-like. You are showing encouraging signs of going to seed.”

Behind George on the wall was a picture of Edd “Kookie” Byrnes on the set of 77 Sunset Strip. The inscription read: “Great dinner, Emilio! Thanks a million, Baby!”

“Just promise me one thing,” I said. “You’ll tell Sellinger if you find out anything important.”

“You’re missing the point, Eric.” His eyes were glinting. “It may be Sellinger’s scam.”

The lady on the phone said she was calling from the Washington bureau of Hard Copy. She asked if I could hold one moment for Mr. Cohen. Jesus! I thought. He’d actually done it. The mad Venetian scholar had found a job as a reporter.

“It’s me!” announced Rupert. “It’s the Hatchet Man. I’m getting ready to do my first live segment next week and I’m looking for material. And you are on my list, Mr. Gergen. Most definitely on my list of news suspects.”

“I have nothing for you, Hatchet Man. You’re a competitor.”