For one long, painful second, he stared at the briefcase. His every instinct was to cover it with his overcoat or a newspaper, to conceal it under the seat. But the first policeman was already approaching, and any action that drew attention to the briefcase was a mistake. He checked his own reflection in the rearview mirror—he looked pale but composed. Then he opened his door. By the time the first policeman reached his side, he had his documents in his hand; he was polite, respectful—and ready with his excuse.

His apologies, of course; a momentary lapse of concentration. He paused, thinking—don’t mention Amsterdam—then continued smoothly. His mind had been on the details of his breakfast business meeting in Brussels, and the report he would make to Monsieur Lazare when he reached Cazarès headquarters later that morning. He waited, allowing time for these names, of magical significance to any Frenchman, to take effect. They registered—Bertrand could see that.

The policeman did not show deference at once, but his manner thawed somewhat. He remarked that an important business meeting and a momentary lapse of concentration could excuse many things, but not hitting a speed of one hundred and thirty kilometers per hour in a ninety-kilometer-per-hour zone.

Bertrand murmured additional apologies. Handing over his documents, he remarked in a casual way that this was, of course, a very pressured time for anyone associated with Cazarès—as the officer would certainly know, the Cazarès spring collection would be shown the following week.

The policeman absorbed this information. He gave Bertrand a slow, assessing look. His eyes took in the cashmere coat, the expensive suit, shirt, and tie, the conservative Elysée-style haircut, the tinted tortoiseshell-framed spectacles. Bertrand prayed silently that his sobriety of dress would prove his salvation. The Sorbonne, Oxford, an MBA from Harvard Business School—he silently recited this litany of achievements to himself. Let the cop be a reasonable man, he prayed, and not an overofficious busybody, the way some of them were; let him see that he was now dealing with a well-educated, well-connected businessman whose efforts on behalf of Cazarès were of international importance, and added greatly to the luster and prestige of France.

Let him be patriotic; let him be goddamn well impressed, the young man thought wildly, then he froze. While the first policeman was examining his documents with intolerable slowness, his partner was making a measured pass around the Mercedes. He bent over its license plate, touched a rear light, moved around to the front, examined the windshield wipers with minute and terrible attention. Then he opened the passenger door. Bertrand watched him covertly. He leaned into the car; he examined its dashboard, its instrumentation, its CD controls, its hand-stitched black leather seats. Reaching forward, he opened the glove compartment, then shut it again. Bertrand averted his eyes. He thrust his hands into his overcoat pockets, hoping neither policeman would notice that they had started to shake.

The second cop was looking at the attaché case now, Bertrand could sense it. He risked one glance around, and he was right: the man had moved the case, and was inspecting the monogrammed tag. Bertrand felt fear clench his stomach; he began to feel sick and light-headed. He thought, I have to distract them…