Now I began to worry. There is something about the power and authority of the U.S. government that gives information a different status. It “reifies” it, as the philosophers like to say—it turns it into a thing that feels harder and more concrete. I wanted to go down the hall and find Tom Rubino, but I knew that would be unwise. He had warned me specifically not to contact him again about the Costa business. My point of contact was Rupert Cohen, but I’d heard nothing from him since our meeting the previous Friday, and I found that silence ominous. I was out on the firing line by myself.

I thought about my options. The first thing I needed to do was call the Mirror to let them know what was happening. I hadn’t briefed my editors about what I was working on, except to say that I was following up my earlier Taillevent reporting. I waited until 4:00 P.M. Paris time—10:00 A.M. in New York—and then called Lynn Frenzel, the foreign editor. I gave her a bare-bones version of the story and told her about the death threats, and then went through the whole thing again while Ed Weiss listened on the other line.

Frenzel spoke up first. She thought I should leave Paris. “No story is worth getting killed over,” she said. “I learned that in Central America.”

I waited for Weiss to speak. Before giving me any advice of his own, he asked me what I wanted to do. There was a long pause while I thought. I cleared my throat.

“Here’s the way I feel,” I said. “If I really thought I was in danger, I’d want to leave, obviously. I’m not crazy. But I don’t think anyone really intends to kill me. They just want to scare me. And I hate to give in to that kind of pressure. So I guess that means I want to stay.”

“I love you, Eric,” said Weiss. It was spontaneous, but he meant it. Journalism for Weiss was a love affair. “But that’s the wrong answer. The right answer is that you should leave Paris for a while. Go to London. See a show. Let things settle. Then come back and write whatever the fuck you want.”

“That sounds like the official line,” I said.

“Yes. But it’s also the unofficial line. I’m not going to order you to leave. You should do what you think is right. But like the lady said, no story is worth getting killed over.”