It was a hot morning in July, a day when the canopy of summer had settled over Washington, trapping the heat and the bugs and the car exhaust. I was coming out of the coffee bar in Dupont Circle where I went each morning to drink my cappuccino and read the newspapers. Just outside the door I saw the familiar face of Rupert Cohen. He had a stylish new haircut, short on the sides and moussed on the top; the scraggly beard was gone, and so were the goofy bohemian clothes. He was dressed in a well-cut Italian linen suit, slightly baggy at the knees; his shoes were the kind you buy in New York for four hundred dollars. Rupert had a microphone in his hand and I saw, to my horror, that a cameraman was following him.

“What are you doing here, Rupert? Is that camera on?”

“This is the Hatcher Man, coming to you from Dupont Circle in Washington, where the fat-cat journalists live,” he said into the microphone. “The man who just walked out of the fancy coffee shop—where they charge two dollars for a cup of java!—is Eric Truell, former reporter from The New York Mirror.”

“Turn the damn camera off, Rupert!” I thought this must be another of his pranks.

I began walking up Connecticut Avenue toward my apartment building. Rupert and the cameraman followed close behind, calling out for me to stop so they could interview me. It was hard to break free, because a small crowd had formed. They wanted to watch the ambush interview. It was like a sporting event; some of the onlookers were razzing me, asking me what I was afraid of.

“Why are you running, Mr. Truell?” shouted Rupert. “The Hatchet Man wants to ask you some questions. What happened to you in China in May?”

“Nothing happened. Stop this! I can’t believe you’re doing this, Rupert. You’re my friend.”

“What happened in China?” he repeated. “Is it true that your colleague Arthur Bowman was murdered by the Chinese government? Why was he killed? What had he been doing?”

“I have to go. No comment.” I pushed at the people in front of me, opening a hole in the circle of onlookers, and dashed through it. People in the crowd began to boo me, and cheer on the Hatchet Man. I ran up a block, where I had to stop for a traffic light. Rupert caught up with me again.

“Why are you running away, Mr. Truell? Isn’t it true that when you were in China, you were conducting a secret intelligence operation for the CIA?”

“God damn it, Rupert! This is private. How can you do this? No comment.”

“Why is the Mirror covering up what happened? Why aren’t the other newspapers reporting anything? Why is there this conspiracy of silence?”

“Go away, Rupert. Leave me alone. My career is ruined. Isn’t that enough?”