“Are you, now? Well, sit down. Or we can go up to my office and talk.”

“That would not be wise, illustrissimo, I assure you.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I was hoping we could meet later today, actually, for lunch. You pick the restaurant, because you will be picking up the tab. I would offer to pay, but that would require me to submit operational paperwork that would defeat the purpose of our discussion. Is that acceptable?”

I thought a moment, but no more than that. He was strange, but that was hardly a disqualification. “Sure,” I said.

I suggested that we meet at an out-of-the-way place on Avenue Jean-Jaurès called Au Cochon d’Or, out near the old stockyards in the humble nineteenth arrondissement. It was one of my favorite spots in Paris: it had a rough, workingman’s atmosphere, without the pretensions of the fancy expense-account places. Rupert said he would meet me there at 2:00. It was that simple—like a fish, swimming into an open net. I was quite sure, back then, that Rupert Cohen was the fish.

As he got up from the table he took another sip of my coffee. “Ciao, professore!” he said, giving me a little salute and disappearing into the Paris morning.

Rupert Cohen was still wearing his black leather jacket when he arrived at the restaurant. I had made the reservation, from a pay phone, under a false name—already, I was playing Rupert’s game—and asked for a quiet table in the back. Rupert insisted that we order a bottle of wine, straight-away. Before we got to drinking, an activity at which I suspected he was more proficient than I, there were several things I wanted to know.

“Excuse me for being blunt,” I said, “but who are you? Where do you work?”

“I am a foreign service officer,” he said serenely. “Until recently, I worked at the American embassy in Rome, in the commercial section. I am now here in Paris, as one of the U.S. representatives to UNESCO. A fine organization. I help them with things.”

“Help them with what?” He didn’t look much like a diplomat, and he certainly didn’t look like a UN bureaucrat.

“Security problems. It’s not a very demanding job, frankly. It leaves me time for other things.”

“So how long have you been in the, uh …” I paused.

“Foreign service,” he said, finishing my sentence. “Eight years. Before Rome, I was in Belgrade. Before that, in Beijing.”

I looked down at his wrist as he spoke. He was wearing a most peculiar timepiece. Displayed on the dial was a portrait of Mao Tse-tung. As the seconds ticked off. Mao waved his hand to an imaginary crowd.

“Quite a watch,” I said.

He gave me a goofy grin. “China is what’s happening, my man. Even the French realize that. China is the twenty-first century.”