Roger’s old, beaten-up brown leather briefcase with a sewn-on patch of the beaches of France creaked open, rejecting any effort at cooperation. He had to give it an extra tug and the old faithful gave in. A Colt pistol fell onto the ground, followed by a sharp, twelve-inch knife and a pair of his socks. Roger’s jaw dropped. For a moment, his breath caught. His gaze met the cold eyes of the officer. He tried explaining himself, tried telling the man that he’d never seen any of these things, but… he couldn’t get a word out. Truth be told, he couldn’t believe his eyes.
The officer remained quiet, expressionless. He dug into Roger’s briefcase and lifted a black rose.
“Respectu fratris,” the policeman whispered and moved on to Rose’s purse. Inside, there was a flower too. He repeated the odd phrase.
In Harold’s beige, expensive suitcase there were several more suspicious items of a serious criminal. And no rose. A frown grew on the officer’s face.
“Sir, it seems you lack proper identification. We must take you in.”
Harold exploded with rage and anger. Then, once he collected himself, he grabbed his passport and ticket and waved them in the officer’s face.
117