So it’s not an Aston Martin. It’s not even a BMW. But this baby has class, presence, and a whole lot of German engineering, which makes it good enough for me.

So it’s not an Aston Martin. It’s not even a BMW. But this baby has class, presence, and a whole lot of German engineering, which makes it good enough for me. When I get into my Passat GLS, I slip on my spy shades and I’m ready for stunt maneuvers and high-speed car chases–Bond style.

(And okay—so Ohio isn’t Prague. And I’m not a British spy, or even male.)

But what is it about my little silver sedan that is so sexy and smooth that it allows me to fantasize I’m in Europe and that my life is a work of fiction? (A work of fiction in which my clothes never wrinkle even as I’m springing from one moving vehicle to the next?) It’s power, baby. Don’t let that humble VW logo fool you—under the hood is a secret Audi-made turbo engine. All I have to do is tap the gas peddle to get that car to shoot out of the driveway for the start of a new adventure.

I’ll be on the highway, but it feels like the autobahn. 85mph . . . 95mph (by this time, who’s really keeping track?). A spy has special prerogative to dodge semis, pass Cadillacs, and shame PT Cruisers. With the accompanying soundtrack—the Monsoon sound system does the job nicely—spy-driving gets a whole new edge. Take for example, this scenario: I had just driven into town for a mission, when I noticed a problem up ahead. Green and chugging black smoke, a tractor hogged the right side of the road. I was closing in on a long line of cars—this, as you can probably tell, was a rather nasty situation. Gritting my teeth (and turning up the stereo), I floored it, overtaking 7 vehicles and the villainous tractor just as an SUV was headed my way. The rest of the story? Classified.

Q himself couldn’t have done better rigging up the VW sedan with gadgets. The heated side-view mirrors prevent the buildup of moisture, to make veering from the outer lane to the inner one in a single sweep less dangerous. The variable settings on the windshield wipers keep my view free of falling debris, mud, and the random movie extra. Heated seats make sure this tight tush stays cozy, even when encountering the blistering cold of Siber—I mean, the Midwest. Who couldn’t love being a spy with these amenities?

When picking up other special agents, I notice they eye my car appreciatively. I look at them over my shades and say, “Get in.” They obey, unassuming accomplices in my quest to drive fast, look cool, and not get caught. They know not to argue with 007. As M’s favorite, this spy has got the goods, and they know their own American-made cars just don’t measure up. The Passat means business—“international” business.