And then, below Dupont Circle, I would arrive at last at my destination, the precinct of the prosperous parasites: the lawyers and lobbyists, the trade associations, the national federations and international unions. And the journalists, God bless us, housed in the velvet cages that were the Washington bureaus of the nation’s newspapers and magazines. In this neighborhood the restaurants were French and Italian; the parking lots charged ten dollars a day, and the jewelry stores gave you a careful look before buzzing open the door. But the panhandlers were here, too, sleeping in the doorways of the office buildings, charging what amounted to a tax on the city’s indifference. Each morning it was the same trip, and after a few weeks it became a routine. I would pass through my air locks and arrive at the office and wait for something to happen. That was the essential, inescapable passivity of our trade. We waited—for the president to make a speech, for Congress to pass a bill, for a terrorist to plant a bomb, for something to happen so that we could write about it. And something always did.

My phone rang one cold, overcast morning in mid-January. I was at my desk, reading through a stack of adulatory press clips about Senator Abelard and wondering how Dirk and I were going to write anything interesting. When I picked up the phone I heard a strange, eager voice at the other end. “Buongiorno, magnifico! Did you get my letter?”

I had to think a moment—what letter?—before remembering Rupert Cohen’s job query. My fish was on the line. “You’re early,” I said. “I thought you wouldn’t be in Washington for another week.”

“Tradecraft!” he said. “Never stick to the initial timetable. Change it before the meeting. Makes it harder to arrange surveillance.”

“I’ll remember that.” I couldn’t tell whether he was serious or not. “I’m glad you called. I did get your letter, and I’d be happy to meet with you. When would you like to get together?”

“Tonight. Seven-thirty.”

“Okay,” I said. Actually, it wasn’t okay. I had a date to go to the movies with a woman who worked at CNN, but she could wait. “Where?”

“Adams-Morgan. Meet me at the Belmont Kitchen, on the corner of Eighteenth and Belmont.”

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll see you there.”

“Hold on, dottore, you didn’t ask for the recognition code.”

“I don’t need one. I already know what you look like.”

“You always need a recognition code. If you see a guy who looks like me in the Belmont Kitchen, ask him: ‘What built Venice?’”

“Okay. And what’s the answer?”