Cohen didn’t fit any image I’d ever had of a CIA officer. I was intrigued. “What did you do before you joined the foreign service?” I ventured.

“How nice of you to ask. I studied Italian renaissance history at Berkeley.” He paused, wondering if I cared to know more, and pressed on when he saw that I did. “I was writing my dissertation on the governance of the Venetian city-state in the fifteenth century. A worthy topic, but my professors could see that I was miserable. One of them suggested government work. I took the exams, and it seemed I had a certain aptitude.”

“So you abandoned the Venetians?”

“Not at all. The good citizens of La Serenissima are with me every day. Venice is my inspiration: founded on an island in a swampy lagoon; sustained by bribery, trickery and political assassination; sponsor of the finest intelligence service the world has ever seen, and arguably the finest flowering of art, as well. In short, the place where heaven and earth meet. No, sir! I will never abandon my beloved Venetians. They are my illuminati.”

The wine had arrived, and Cohen took a long drink. He had a curious twinkle in his eye, as if he were playing some kind of practical joke that only he understood. He was in every respect an unlikely civil servant.

“Tell me something about the newspaper business,” he said. “What’s it like? It must be fabulous. You get to talk to interesting people, attack evil-doers. And your work is all out there. If a reporter is incompetent, you know it instantly, just by reading his story. Not like government work, where it can take years to realize that someone is an idiot.”

“Journalism has its moments,” I allowed, “but a lot of the time it’s a bore.” I looked at my watch—it was nearly 2:30 and we were still getting acquainted. “Maybe we should get down to business,” I said. “I assume that Rubino told you what I’m after.”

“More or less. He said you’re chasing Maurice Costa and his dreaded network, and how they paid two hundred million dollars to make the Taillevent hostage problem go away.” He drained his glass of wine and turned toward me. The mischievous look in his eye had focused into something sharper, almost lethal.

“My information comes from a very good source,” I said, “but I need corroboration. What do you know?”

“Hold on, dottore. First, let’s talk about ground rules. That’s what you reporters say, isn’t it?”

“Yes. That’s what we say.”

“For starters, I assume you know what I do. Beyond that ‘foreign service’ business. I mean, you have doped that out already.”

“I assume you work for the CIA.”