Lazare’s suite of offices was on the top floor of the building. His lair was guarded by a succession of secretaries and assistants and minions stationed in a sequence of hushed rooms. Since Bertrand was anticipated, no one made any motion to stop him, though Lazare’s most senior secretary, a woman, lifted her eyes to an exquisite clock set into the paneling opposite her mahogany desk. She gave a tiny gesture of warning: “Calmez-vous,” she said.

Bertrand straightened his tie, tightened his grip on that attaché case, and opened the far door. He walked through an anteroom, along an enfilade flanked by mirrors and by tall windows overlooking the rue St. Honoré. It was one of the most beautiful, and one of the most expensive, views in the world—or so Bertrand liked to boast to his wife.

The door to Lazare’s office was thickly padded with black leather to absorb sound. Bertrand paused, cleared his throat, then entered. He knew his arrival had already been announced, and—as always—he gave himself a few seconds in the doorway, so his eyes could accustom themselves to the gloom in which Lazare preferred to work.

He crossed the parquet floor to the desk and chair that constituted this office’s only furniture. He stood looking down at Lazare, gave a respectful half-bow, and braced himself for the onslaught.

There was silence. The onslaught never came. Lazare slowly raised his head. He looked at the attaché case rather than Bertrand. Then with one long-fingered hand he swept the documents in front of him to the side of his desk.

“No difficulties?” he asked.

“No, sir, none. The traffic was very bad on the autoroute. I apologize for being late.”

“You have the new product?”

“Yes, sir. As arranged.”

“We have enough time?”

“Yes, sir. They advise a four-day monitoring period, to establish tolerance. One tablet daily, first thing in the morning, with food…” Bertrand hesitated.

“Continue,” Lazare said.

“Food intake is advised, sir. Water intake must be ensured, before and after dosage. They stressed that point.”

“Side effects?”

Bertrand hesitated again. Lazare moved, leaning forward so the pool of light from his desk lamp lit his features. “You heard me. Side effects? Yes or no?”

“Well, obviously, sir, the testing of the product has been limited so far, but they claim no adverse reactions. In a few cases an accelerated pulse rate, but that lasts only a few hours. Sleeplessness has been known, but only in cases where dosage has been increased, or administered too late in the day—”

Lazare cut him off with a curt gesture of the hand. He motioned Bertrand to place the attaché case on his desk, then looked at it in silence for a while. These silences on Lazare’s part were famous, designed to intimidate, Bertrand had once thought. Now, more used to his ways, he saw Lazare’s silences as less theatrical, a product of his extraordinary and unsettling concentration. To all intents and purposes, Bertrand knew, he had just ceased to exist.