“Seriously,” I said. “I want to know. Was that an agency operation? What was going on?”

“It’s a long time ago. I’m too drunk to explain it now.”

“Stop jerking me around! I want the truth. Were you using me in an operation against the French?”

“Calm down, boy. Whoa! It wasn’t a covert operation. That would have required a ‘finding’ and notification of Congress, and it would never, ever, have been approved. No, this was something different. It was informal, freelance. It was fun. It didn’t happen, officially. So relax.”

“You mean you just did it on your own? I can’t believe that. Why would you do that?”

“Because I’m a crazy motherfucker, that’s why. And I like the press. That day I talked to you in Paris was the first time I realized I wanted to be a reporter—had to be a reporter. It was my day of destiny. So it seemed only right to help you out.”

“And nobody else in the agency knew what you were doing?”

“I’m not that crazy. Of course someone knew. Rubino sent me to see you, for God’s sake. But he didn’t give me a script. And he certainly didn’t order me to give you the goods on Costa. That would have been illegal. He simply facilitated my decisions. Actually, I like to think of myself as a coauthor on that story. I should have shared the byline.”

He had explained it, but he hadn’t, either. It was all in that murky area where Cohen liked to operate. I tried one last time to get an answer. “Why me?” I asked. “Why did you work with me?”

“Hey, lighten up! Stop asking so many questions. Have another drink. No wonder journalists are so boring. They never stop working.”

I retreated. We could finish the conversation about Paris another time. And I had one more piece of business to conduct. As we were getting ready to leave, I told Rupert I was working on a profile of Senator James Abelard for a series we were doing on the presidential candidates.

“Do you know any interesting stuff about Abelard?” I asked. “So far, all I can find is people who love him.” It was a throwaway. I had been asking everyone I met the same question that week. Cohen cocked his head. A sly look came over his face, as if he sensed an opportunity.

“What sort of stuff did you have in mind?”

“Personal, political, foreign policy. Anything that explains who he really is and whether he would make a good president.”

“Let me see what I can do,” he said with a wink. “Perhaps I can be of some assistance.”

“Much obliged. Meanwhile, I’ll talk to the bureau chief about you. Call me in a couple of days, and I’ll tell you what he says.”