“Because you—how shall I say this nicely?—because you had a good reputation.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning that over the years people had found you a sensible, hardworking, trustworthy fellow. In short”—he paused—“a good journalist. And you were quite knowledgeable about France.”

“But you didn’t know anything about me.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised. We knew more than you might imagine, even in our feeble state. We knew you had a Lebanese friend who was exceedingly well informed.”

“Shit!” I felt embarrassed and angry. They’d been spying on me. Perhaps Ali had told them; perhaps they’d been bugging my phone; perhaps they had an agent in the DST who was sharing their taps of my phone. There was no way to know. “What else?” I said.

“Let’s see … We knew you were working on a story about French biotechnology.”

“Why did you care about that silly story? It never even ran.”

“Hot topic, professore. Very hot. That French scientist you met is a certified big deal.”

“Why? What are you talking about?”

He wagged his finger at me. “Naughty, naughty. You know very well that as a representative of the United States government I am forbidden to discuss classified information.”

“Goddammit. You are pissing me off! You used me. You spied on me, and then you used me. That’s against the rules. Intelligence agencies aren’t supposed to do that with journalists.”

“Tell that to the French, chum.” He winked and sat back in his chair. He opened his mouth and dropped a string bean into it.

“What do you mean? Stop playing games.”

“I mean that the French intelligence service has recruited a prominent journalist at one of America’s leading newspapers.”

“Which newspaper?”

“I knew you’d ask that. But I’m sorry. No more information until I have my job. Can we talk about that now, please. You have been stalling long enough, and I’m beginning to think it’s deliberate.”

He was right. I was stalling. I was still afraid that the moment I finally admitted there was no job for him at the Mirror, he would stop talking and the secrets would dry up. I put him off a few more minutes while we ordered a hearty midwinter dinner: pumpkin soup; yeasty, crusty bread; roast quail; a tasty bottle of Merlot. But I was uneasy. Reporters like to think they’re in control of situations, but it was obvious that in this continuing encounter with Rupert I was not. It was like a feeling I remembered from tennis. Sometimes, in a tight match, I would begin to see an imaginary line traced by the tennis ball connecting me and my opponent. As long as I was moving that line back and forth, dictating the terms of play, I was winning the match. But when my opponent was moving the invisible line, I knew I was going to lose.