Chapters (57)
- Cover
- Title Page
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- Prologue
- I: PARIS (MAY–JULY 1994)
- 1
- 2
- 3
- 4
- 5
- 6
- 7
- 8
- II: WASHINGTON (JANUARY–MARCH 1996)
- 9
- 10
- 11
- 12
- 13
- 14
- 15
- 16
- 17
- 18
- 19
- III: WASHINGTON–BEIJING (MARCH–MAY 1996)
- 20
- 21
- 22
- 23
- 24
- 25
- 26
- 27
- 28
- 29
- 30
- IV: WASHINGTON–BOSTON–MONTREAL (MAY–JULY 1996)
- 31
- 32
- 33
- 34
- 35
- 36
- 37
- 38
- 39
- 40
- 41
- 42
- V: SANTA ROSA, CALIFORNIA (OCTOBER 1996)
- 43
- Acknowledgments
- Author’s Note
- Praise
- Also by David Ignatius
Olivier took me to the newspaper’s rooftop terrace, which embodied the scruffy, leftist chic of the place. It was a simple canteen, with soft-drink machines and rickety garden furniture and a Ping-Pong table, yet it commanded one of the best views in Paris. A visitor gazed out over the city to the Eiffel Tower, Montmartre and the Beaubourg, with the sound of Ping-Pong balls clicking in his ear. Olivier had a disturbing message to pass along. He said a friend in the DST had told him that I was working on a story about Maurice Costa. The friend had said that I should drop the story, now. Otherwise, my life could be in danger. Olivier wouldn’t identify his source, but he did name the man from whom his source had heard the warning. He was a former Justice Ministry official named Jacques Daghestani—one of the names that Ali Aziz had mentioned.
“I know these people, Eric,” said Olivier. He gazed out over the rooftops of Paris and looked back at me. “They are dangerous. This is France, not America.”
I thanked Olivier for his information. At that point I still thought it was bullshit. A decade as a journalist had taught me that however angry people may get at reporters, they don’t kill them. It only creates more trouble, and guarantees precisely the outcome they want to avoid, which is publicity. I left the meeting with Olivier concerned that Costa’s people were trying so hard to intimidate me, but more convinced than ever that I was onto a great story.
Tuesday morning I was back in the office, making more calls, when I received another summons. This time it was a man who identified himself as the regional security officer at the U.S. embassy, someone I had not only never met but never heard of. He sounded extremely serious. It was normally a fifteen-minute walk from my office to the Avenue Gabriel, but that morning I made it in ten.
The regional security officer—his name was Chuck, I think—said he had been asked by Washington to deliver a message. The United States government had information that a threat had been made against my life. He wouldn’t say what their sources were, or who was doing the threatening. But he said that the State Department regarded the threat as credible. “I cannot force you to leave France,” he said, “but I would strongly advise you to do so.”