Tariq looked over his shoulder. A customs inspector had come out of his office. An older man with gray hair, clipped mustache, and rigid posture, his uniform just so. One of those. He held a clipboard in one hand and a pen in the other. Evidently, he did not care for racehorses.
“I have the papers here, sir,” said TNT, his smile more dazzling than ever.
“We’ll need to weigh the vehicle,” said the inspector.
“It was weighed in Doha. It’s all right here.”
The inspector examined the paperwork before handing it back. “Please drive it onto the scales. It will only take a minute.”
“Must we?” said Tariq. “I’d love to get back to my horse. It was a difficult flight for her.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I knew you’d understand.”
The inspector removed his glasses and cleaned them with a handkerchief. “The scales. Now.”
Tariq climbed into the Bugatti. The hangar was busy, cargo vehicles entering and exiting, some driving quickly, others moving at a snail’s pace. He kept the car in first gear, feathering the accelerator, holding the car in check. With care and precision, he drove it to the south side of the hangar, where the customs officials maintained their offices. He felt a bead of sweat pop on his forehead.
The inspector directed the vehicle onto an industrial scale set into the floor. He wore a name tag on his uniform.LeClerc.Of course it was.
“Four thousand five hundred forty-three pounds,” said Inspector LeClerc, inking the number onto his forms.
“May I go now?” asked Tariq. “We’re headed to the track. Longchamp. The big race is Sunday ... in case you’d like to come. We have a lovely box.”
The inspector perked up. “Champagne?”
“From our own estate,” said Tariq. “Domaine du Roi. As much as you’d like. We’ll make sure you have a case to take home.”
LeClerc was unmoved. “I thought you Muslims didn’t drink.”
“We don’t,” said Tariq. “The estate was an investment.”
“No thank you,” said LeClerc. “I’ll be in church Sunday.”
“If you reconsider . . .”
“Too much,” said Inspector LeClerc, reading from his clipboard.
“Pardon me?”
“Four thousand five hundred thirty pounds,” said LeClerc. “Your vehicle weighs thirteen pounds more than when it was weighed in Doha.”
“It must be an error,” said Tariq. “Thirteen pounds. It’s nothing.”
“Are you attempting to smuggle narcotics into the country, Mr. Al-Sabah?”
“What?” The question felt like a slap in the face. “No. Of course not.”
“Is your vehicle carrying cocaine, fentanyl, or methamphetamine?”
This was too much. The impudence. Tariq had never touched a drug in his life. “It is not,” he stated.
It was difficult to keep his emotions in check. If they were in Qatar, he could have the man thrown in jail for such comments. But they weren’t in Qatar, he reminded himself. They were in France. In this hangar, Inspector LeClerc was emir.
“Please drive the vehicle to the inspection bay.”
Tariq got back into the car. His palms were clammy, his shirt damp, clinging to his back. He was sweating for real now.
