When I returned to Paris, I did something unusual. I called the U.S. embassy and asked to speak to a man named Tom Rubino, who I had always suspected was the CIA chief of station in Paris. We’d had lunch once, at the suggestion of a mutual friend who was the Paris correspondent for one of the British newspapers, and we’d had a pleasant enough time. He was looser than the usual diplomat, more self-confident, and we had polished off a bottle of wine at lunch. I’d asked him for help once after that, on a story about U.S. covert action in Bosnia, and while he hadn’t said much, he hadn’t lied either. But I didn’t like dealing with CIA people. There was an unspoken rule among American foreign correspondents that the agency was off-limits. The potential cost of any information outweighed the benefit.

But the calculus in this case seemed different. I was working on a potentially explosive story. Even discounting Ali’s warning, the risk of a libel suit was still substantial. I needed a second source before I could even consider publishing it. And I couldn’t think of where to turn for hard information about such a sensitive topic other than the U.S. government. So I called Rubino, and he was surprisingly warm on the telephone.

“I liked your reporting from Taillevent,” he said. “Keep at it! You’ve just scratched the surface.” Funny enough, I said, that was the reason for my call. I told him I was working on a follow-up story, and before I could say any more, he suggested that we meet for coffee in thirty minutes at a café near the embassy.

Rubino arrived wearing a knit sports shirt and a pair of slacks. He suggested we take a table outside. He was a handsome man, with dark, close-cropped hair and an ex-athlete’s body. He reminded me of the kind of people I used to meet in tennis tournaments—very focused during matches, very loose off the court. I commented on the fact that he wasn’t wearing a suit and tie. “Today is casual day,” he said. “The ambassador is visiting a computer factory in Lyons. There’s nobody I need to impress.”

He asked what I was working on, and I explained. A source had told me that the French had paid $200 million—as a first installment on an eventual $1 billion—to the intermediaries who represented prominent African politicians. The architect of the deal had been none other than the French defense minister, Maurice Costa. Rubino studied me intently as I talked. He took in every word, but let out nothing of his own.

“What do you want from me?” he asked when I was done.

“Confirmation. I can’t go with what I have. I need another source. I have to know it’s true.”