“So how can I help you, my friend?” he said as we bobbed in the water. “You were not very communicative on the phone.”

I explained that I was investigating what had really happened at Taillevent. I said I didn’t believe the official French version. I suspected it was a lie.

“Of course it’s a lie,” he said amiably. He was resting his head on a rubber float, slowly treading water with his feet. “A complete lie.”

“So what happened to the terrorists? Where are they now?”

“They were paid off, my dear Eric. That is the way all problems in France are solved. The government paid these people to go away, and they did. That’s what the French do—with the Iranians, the Syrians, the Lebanese and now the Africans. It’s always the same. And some of the money always sticks to the hands of the Frenchmen who made the pay-offs.”

Ali confided that the Taillevent hostage incident had been a fraud. It had been staged by a group of African politicians and middlemen who thought they were being shortchanged and wanted more money. Vert/Vertu didn’t exist, except for the bizarre science professor Obado, who had been so loquacious in his interview with me. That was why he had been killed, Ali said. He had talked too much.

To understand the Taillevent affair, Ali said, you needed to understand the depth of French corruption in Africa. The French had sent many billions of francs in aid to its former colonies on the understanding that some of the money would come back home—in kickbacks to the French political parties, to middlemen and to the politicians themselves.

“Here is the real secret,” said Ali in his softest, most conspiratorial voice. “The Africa network was operated by a clever old gentleman who is one of France’s most senior politicians. The money he gathered from Africa was part of the glue of French politics. It was the caisse noire, the ‘black fund,’ from which people could draw when they needed cash.”

“Who is he?” I was as eager as a dog in heat.

“My dear Eric, don’t ask me that.”

“Why not? Don’t you know his name?”

“Of course I do. That is why you should not ask me. The man is one of my clients. That is the one thing I cannot tell you. The rest, I don’t care. I can tell you his advisers—people like Jacques Daghestani and Michel Bézy—names you have never heard of. But not the man himself. Please.” He held up his hand, plaintively, as if I were trying to pick his pocket.