They were pulled aside.
The female officer gestured them over while another opened the rear door.
Questions floated faintly through the night air, carried on the cold breeze.
“Purpose of travel?”
“Business in Zurich.”
“Duration of stay?”
“Three days.”
“Open the trunk, please.”
The sound of gloves snapping echoed sharply.
Flashlights cut through the darkness, sweeping across luggage, bags, the interior of the car.
A German Shepherd moved in slow, practiced circles around the vehicle—sniffing, pausing, circling again.
Its handler watched closely.
Then—the dog sat.
Clear.
The couple was waved through moments later, relief visible even from a distance as their car rolled forward and disappeared into the night.
My turn.
I exhaled once—slow, controlled—before inching the Fiat forward.
The red line approached.
I stopped.
Engine idling. Window lowered. Breathing even.
Face neutral. Eyes forward.
I could feel it—the weight of being watched. Measured. Assessed.
Two officers approached.
One younger. One older.
Both composed.
Both trained.
“Passport and registration, please.”
I reached for the glove box, fingers steady despite the tension coiling in my stomach.
I handed over the forged Italian passport and the vehicle documents—everything carefully arranged, everything stolen and repurposed.
The younger officer flipped open the passport.
