Michel Bézy was waiting for me in his suite at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel in Montreal. It was late in the afternoon when we arrived, perhaps 5:00 P.M. He sat in a leather chair, smoking a cigarette, in a small library that adjoined the main living room. He was thin and wiry, with sunken cheeks and dark, radiant eyes. He was different from what I had expected: younger, smoother, better dressed, looking more like an international lawyer than a thug. He was a hip gangster—Jean-Paul Belmondo in a business suit. He appeared to be utterly relaxed. He was on friendly turf, in a fine hotel in the second-largest French-speaking city in the world. I was at a disadvantage—tired after a long day of travel, unsure of what lay ahead. His first words to me were a provocation.

“Mr. Truell,” he said. “I have been waiting many months to ask you a question. Who do you work for? Are you a journalist, or a spy?”

“I work for The New York Mirror,” I answered. “I’ve worked for them for more than ten years.”

“Yes, yes, I know. But who do you really work for?”

“I told you. The New York Mirror.”

“I knew you would say that, and I don’t mind. You may answer as you like. I am happy that you were willing to come to Montreal. It is a mark of courage and respect. Those are qualities I like.”

“I came because I want to interview you for a story.”

“Of course you do. Would you like a drink? Some whiskey? Champagne? You must be tired. Alessi said there was quite a show in Boston.”

“A Diet Coke, thanks.”

“How delightful! A Diet Coke. Americans are so wonderful. A Diet Coke it is.” He called out to Alessi, who went to the bar and fixed my drink. “So, we will have a conversation, you and I. You will ask me questions, and I will ask you questions. I may have a proposal for you, but we can get to that later.”

“I’ll go first.” I took out my notebook and a tape recorder, but he waved his hand for me to put the machine away.

“Don’t be silly!” he said. I put it back in my pocket.

“My question is about money,” I began. “I know that you received a hundred twenty million dollars a week ago from Inter/Orient as a kickback on the China deal, and I know that forty million dollars has already gone to your account in Switzerland. I’d like to give you a chance to comment before we publish it in the Mirror.”

He extended his arms, palms up, like a supplicant.

“What can I do? Your people are so good. How did they do all that? The wire transfers and account numbers were all encrypted. Supposedly the ciphers were unbreakable. It’s all very impressive, I must say. Hats off.”