“Who’s looking for work?” For all I knew, he was referring to the vintners of France.

“The underemployed gentlemen at the CIA. They have a serious problem, now that the cold war is over. They are selling raincoats in Saudi Arabia. Nobody’s buying. So they have to look for new product lines. Two years ago the hot item was drugs. This year it seems to be economic espionage. Combating the wily Frog.”

“Maybe the French are a threat. Costa’s network was real. It was dangerous.”

“Perhaps to Frenchmen, but surely not to the United States. However sordid a character Maurice Costa may be, it’s a problem for the French to resolve. Costa has been doing more or less the same things since the 1950s, and nobody in Washington gave a damn. He was actually something of a favorite out at Langley because he despised the Russians so much. Now Costa and his network are suddenly a three-alarm fire. What does that tell you?”

“That I’ve been an unwitting lobbyist for the CIA Full Employment Act.”

“Precisely.” Bowman swept his silver-gray hair back from his forehead. “The agency is out beating the bushes for new business. It is inventing new roles for itself. This whole mania about economic espionage is dangerous nonsense, if you ask me. But then, what do I know?”

“You know everything, Arthur. That’s what everyone says.”

The seafood sausage arrived. At the touch of my knife, it released the most fragrant perfume of truffles and buttery shrimps, lobster and scallops. We finished off the white Burgundy; instantly the waiter brought the red to accompany the pigeon ragout, rich with the flavors of wild game. I was so full that I couldn’t imagine ordering dessert. But Bowman said that if I didn’t, he would never invite me to dinner again.

“Imagine a man coming to a great restaurant and not ordering dessert,” he said. “It’s appalling. This is their artistry. It’s like going to the Louvre and refusing to look at the Mona Lisa.” He studied the menu.

“There is only one possible choice,” he concluded, “and that is the Marquise au chocolat.” That turned out to be an intensely rich chocolate cake, more mousse than cake, topped with crème anglaise that had been mixed with ground pistachios. The owner insisted that we have a glass of Sauternes, on the house.

I was a sensualist that night. I had never eaten so well or been so thoroughly charmed. Bowman had one more question for me.

“What are you going to do when your tour in Paris is up, young Truell?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it,” I answered. “I have another year here, possibly two. I’d love another tour overseas. Maybe Moscow. I’ll worry about it when the time comes.”