Novak’s enemies—was he flattering himself to think this?—were his enemies. If that were so, what else might they have in common? We know more than we know. Yet as Janson read on ceaselessly, his eyes beginning to burn, he felt as if he knew less and less. Occasionally he underlined a detail, though what was striking was how little the details varied. There were countless renditions of Peter Novak’s financial exploits, countless evocations of his childhood in war-torn Hungary, countless tributes to his humanitarian passions. In the Far Eastern Economic Review, he read:

In December of 1992, he announced another ambitious program, donating $100 million in support of scientists of the former Soviet Union. His program was designed to slow down that country’s brain drain—and prevent Soviet scientists from taking up more lucrative employment in places like Iraq, Syria, and Libya. There’s no better example of Novak in action. Even while Europe and the United States were wringing their hands and wondering what to do about the dispersal of scientific talent from the former superpower, Novak was actually doing something about it.

“I find it easier to make money than to spend it, to tell you the truth,” says Novak with a big grin. He remains a man of simple tastes. Every day starts with a spartan breakfast of kasha, and he pointedly eschews the luxury resorts and high-living ways favored by the plutocratic set.

Even Novak’s small, homey eccentricities—like that unvarying daily breakfast of kasha—cycled from one piece to another: a permanent residue of personal “color,” PCBs in the journalistic riverbed. Once in a while, there was a reference to the investigation of Novak’s activities after Great Britain’s “Black Wednesday,” and the conclusion, as summarized by the head of MI6, in the line that Fielding had quoted: “The only law this fellow has broken is the law of averages.” In another widely repeated quote, Peter Novak had explained his relative reticence with the press: “Dealing with a journalist is like dancing with a Doberman,” he had quipped. “You never know if it’s going to lick your face or rip your throat out.” Testimonials from elder statesmen about his role in rebuilding civil society and promoting conflict resolution were woven through every profile. Soon, paragraphs of journalistic prose seemed to blend into one another; quotes recurred with only minor variations, as if struck from boilerplate. Thus, the London Guardian: