“Because you get paid better for your mendacity than we do. And, you can get on those great TV talk shows.” He smiled and stroked his goatee. “No, seriously, I want to be a journalist because I would be fucking good at it. Isn’t that the way you people talk? God damn fucking good! I’m smart, I’m inquisitive, and I’m basically an anarchist. I like to cause trouble. Are those not the essential qualities of a journalist?”

“They’re useful, especially when you’re twenty-two and just out of college. But you have one rather large liability.”

“What’s that?” He was looking at me, wide-eyed, as if he could not imagine that he had any drawbacks whatsoever.

How to answer? I wanted to keep him on the line, but I couldn’t mislead him. “You have spent the last ten years working for the CIA, Rupert. For most newspapers, that’s a fatal flaw.”

“Why? It’s not as if I’m trying to keep it a secret. And I won’t be maintaining any continuing relationship with the organization. Quite the opposite. I hate LA. So what’s the problem.”

“The problem is that, in the eyes of many editors, you are contaminated by your former employment. Just as they wouldn’t hire an ex-bank robber to run a bank, they won’t hire an ex-spy to be a reporter.”

“I don’t see the analogy. I really don’t.”

“I’m not saying I agree with them. I’m just trying to explain how most editors would probably react to you.”

“Are you sure? I would be such a good reporter.”

“I’ll check, if you like. I’ll run the idea by my bureau chief, without mentioning your name, and see how he reacts. How would that be?”

“Splendid! You are most generous. I cannot ask for more than that.”

He ordered another martini, while I continued nursing the first. As he got drunker Rupert busied himself constructing a miniature log cabin with the pretzel sticks. He asked me about my job, now that I was back in Washington. I tried to explain what a ‘special projects reporter’ did, which only made him salivate more at the prospect of being a journalist and doing essentially whatever you wanted. I waited until he was thoroughly bombed before asking the question that had been bothering me since that afternoon in Paris when I received the sheet of paper that had allowed me to vaporize the career of a French cabinet minister.

“I have a question for you, Rupert, if you don’t mind. Why did you send me that page of Special Intelligence in Paris? Were you trying to nail Costa?”

“I was trying to do you a favor. You wanted something, so I got it for you. It worked. He resigned. Next question.” He went back to his pretzel logs.