He stood quietly, looking down at Lazare, whose fine hands now rested on the briefcase. He had worked for him since 1991, yet he understood him no better than on the day of his arrival. In four years Lazare had permitted no intimacies or insights, had conveyed not one single personal fact. Bertrand knew only that Lazare was around fifty, that he was probably not French by origin, that he spoke five languages fluently, that he worked long, slept little, and was rumored to live alone—although Lazare kept several properties in and around Paris, as well as others abroad, so even that rumor might not be correct. Of Lazare’s famous business acumen and ferocity, Bertrand had firsthand experience; of his dedication to Cazarès as a business empire, there was no question. Bertrand remained uncertain whether it was true, as whispered, that this dedication and devotion extended to Maria Cazarès herself.

The silence continued. Looking down at the disconcerting and ascetic man who employed him, Bertrand, who did not like Lazare but respected him, felt admiration and fear mix with pity. It was not in Lazare’s proud nature to admit weakness, and yet evidence of weakness—a weakness he would never have suspected—now lay between them on Lazare’s desk. If this was what it took to get Lazare through the days leading up to the collection, then the strain upon him recently must have been greater than Bertrand had thought. Examining Lazare now, he realized he could detect evidence of that strain, and that he should have noticed it earlier. Lazare looked fatigued and bleak; when he raised his dark eyes, Bertrand was shocked by their expression.

“Open the case,” Lazare said.

Bertrand did so. Inside were a number of tiny packages, each painstakingly wrapped by Bertrand in his Amsterdam hotel room the night before, according to Lazare’s precise instructions. Each package consisted of a white box, two inches square, and each contained one tablet folded inside a piece of heavy gold faille. Each box had as its outer wrapping the heavy white raw silk that was one of Cazarès’s signature textiles; each box was fastened with Cazarès’s silver silk cord. The packages glimmered in the light from the desk lamp. They looked tiny, tempting, as if they contained something rare and sumptuous, a precious stone, some intricately worked jewel, or a minute phial of rare scent. It had been Lazare’s idea that they were best disguised as gifts. There were six of the boxes in all. Lazare moved them so that four lay next to his left hand, and two to his right. He looked up once more. The lamplight accentuated the sharp jut of his features, and the dark, impenetrable quality of his stare.

“A four-day monitoring period. That takes me to the day before the collection. Then?”

Bertrand swallowed.

“On the actual day of the collection, sir, two tablets may be administered.”

“I double the dosage?”

“Yes, sir. The level of tolerance will have built by then.”

“And the results?”