But Ali loved to gossip. This, for him, was the equivalent of an ordinary investment banker explaining how a leveraged buyout had been put together. Ali explained how the feud had begun with a dispute about an oil deal in Gabon. One of the French nationalized oil companies had been buying oil cheaply there for years, and sharing the spoils with local politicians. But the Gabonese had recently discovered that they were being diddled—part of their share was going to pay huge commissions to middlemen in Switzerland—so they got angry. They talked to other Africans and realized that the French were cheating them, too, so they decided to get even. And that’s what had led to Taillevent. The crisis had been resolved only when the French had agreed to give the Africans a bigger slice of the gâteau.

“Everyone is happy,” said Ali. “The Africans and their agents will get a larger percentage, the French will get a bit less. The so-called terrorists disappear back into the shadows; several of them are probably on the Riviera at this very moment, enjoying the weather. But the system survives.”

“How much will the Africans take away from the deal?” If I was going to write a story, I needed the number.

“In the short run, a billion francs, about two hundred million dollars. Over the next five years, more than one billion dollars.”

We talked awhile longer. Ali gave me lunch: fresh fish that had been caught that morning and fried whole, a salad of fresh tomatoes and fresh figs for dessert. The meal reminded me of Beirut; indeed, everything about that day reminded me of Beirut. I felt alive as a reporter, on the track of a story that mattered. But I still didn’t have everything I needed. As I was preparing to leave for the airport late that afternoon, I brought the conversation back to the events at Taillevent.

“I want to know the French politician’s name, Ali,” I said. “The one who runs the network. I’ve never asked you for anything valuable before. You’ve offered me things in the past, and I’ve always said no. This time I’m asking you for a favor. I need his name.”

Ali Aziz gave me a look that was less reproach than surprise. In the code of the East, he owed me. He took out a piece of paper, wrote something on it, folded it up and handed it to me.

“I am giving this to you, Eric, because you are my friend and you have asked for it. But I know you will not be able to publish a story about it, because if you do, they will kill you. So it will remain a secret.”

I didn’t open the piece of paper until I was in the car, heading back to Nice airport. On it was written the name of the French minister of defense, Maurice Costa.