He had a legal pad in front of him, with a checklist. He told me to take the 8:00 A.M. USAir flight, which would get me into Boston at 9:30. The FBI would have someone on the flight, someone at the airport, someone on the water shuttle and a small army on the other side.

“Will I know who they are?” I asked.

“Not unless they’re incompetent. But if anything doesn’t feel right to you, pull the rip cord. Don’t get on the water shuttle. Don’t get off at the other end. We’re counting on you to exercise good judgment. Here. This is for emergencies.”

He handed me a box. Inside was what appeared to be a bulletproof vest.

“It’s made of Kevlar,” he said. It’s light. Police wear them. It will stop almost anything. It was Frank’s idea, after you left. He was worried about you.”

“Journalists don’t wear bulletproof vests.”

“Grow up, will you. I can’t order you to wear the damn vest, but you’d be stupid not to.”

Rubino looked back at his legal pad. I went over my own mental checklist, trying to remember any final worries. “Suppose Bézy isn’t there?” I said. “What do I do then?”

“Abort, immediately. That means you’ve been double-crossed. Get away, however you can.”

“What if I can’t?”

“You mean if you’re kidnapped?”

“Yeah, I guess that’s what I mean.”

“We’ll do whatever we can, but it will be tricky. We only have authority to go after Bézy, and the bureau will stick to its rules of engagement, no matter what. But it’s silly to worry about things like that. This is all going to go fine. Tomorrow night, Michel Bézy will be in a federal prison cell in Boston.”

I looked at my watch. It was getting late. “I should let you have dinner with your family,” I said.

Rubino made me try on the bulletproof vest before I left. It fit perfectly. He shook my hand.

“I’m proud of you,” he said. “You’re a tougher person than I expected.”

When I got back to California Street, I called Bob Marcus, my bureau chief, from the pay phone in the lobby. I told him I had good news. Michel Bézy, the $120 million fixer I wanted to write about, had agreed to see me the next day in Boston. I’d be able to ask him about the money, as our lawyers had insisted I should. Then we could run the story. Marcus kept repeating “Great story!” I think it was still cocktail hour at his house.

“It may get a little messy up there,” I said. “I think the FBI may be interested in this guy, too.”

“Great story!” he said one more time. “And, hey! Be careful!”

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