My next call was to Tom Rubino. I felt I owed him that. I didn’t want him to worry, and it didn’t matter now if Bézy knew I was contacting a CIA officer. I rang his home number. The daughter answered. “Ru-bi-no res-i-dence,” she said, pausing at the end of each syllable to make sure she got it right. Her father came on the phone a moment later.

“This is Eric,” I said. “I’m in Montreal. I’m fine.”

“You really fucked up today!” His voice had a hard edge of anger. “I am in real trouble because of you.”

“I’m sorry. I just called to tell you I was okay.”

“Glad to hear it. Hope you stay that way. Because I have nothing for you. You disobeyed an order. You left me and a lot of other people hanging. We don’t do things that way. There is serious flap potential here, my friend. The inspector general, congressional committees. This is a real mess you’ve handed me.”

“Sorry,” I said again. “I did what I thought was right.”

“Well that’s pretty damned selfish. Anyway, you’re on your own now. I am under direct orders from the DCI to stay out of this. There’s nothing I can do to help you now. You understand that? Nothing.”

“I got it. Best to your wife and daughter.” I hung up.

I felt sorry for him, actually. He was an apparatchik, a prisoner of a bureaucracy that was so bruised and battered, it couldn’t afford any mistakes. He was in an impossible bind: his business required him to take risks, but he faced severe punishment if any of them went bad. He spent so much time protecting his flank against the FBI, he had little energy left for operations. He and his colleagues had held a series of supposedly clandestine meetings with me, and most of them had been photographed by Bézy’s men. Mediocrity, shielded by secrecy. That was the culture my friend Rupert Cohen had rebelled against. It was what had created the world of make-believe intelligence.

Bézy’s watcher was rapping on the door of the phone booth. He was getting impatient.

I knew I should call Ed Weiss before he got the documents, but I didn’t want to talk with him yet. What would I say to him? How would I explain? I dialed his office number in New York, hoping I would get his voice mail; otherwise I would hang up. I heard the familiar mock-tough voice, telling me to leave a message at the beep.