Spiced to Death Read Free Page B

forty kilograms?”
    “About that.”
    Peggy was doing quick sums on the tablecloth with a fork.
    “That’s two to three million dollars,” she said softly.
    We sat silent for a moment, all of us awestruck at the thought of such wealth in such a simple form. The dessert arrived to end our reverie.
    It was superb. The piquancy of the wild strawberries contrasted perfectly with the smoothness of the mascarpone, which is one of the newer arrivals on the dessert scene though long a popular cheese in Italy.
    Peggy ordered tea, Don and I coffee. Before it came, I had already asked the big question.
    “About tomorrow. How do we go about authenticating a spice that has been unknown for centuries?”
    We sat over coffee discussing it until the waiter came by for the second time to ask if we wanted more coffee or anything further.
    “Big day tomorrow,” Don said, examining the check. “Pick you up about eight o’clock. There’ll be some formalities to go through before the flight gets in at ten forty-five.”
    “I can hardly wait,” I said, and I really meant it.

CHAPTER FIVE
    I T WAS COLD WITH a blustery wind and there was the threat of rain from a gray sky. The yawning expanse of the cargo area at JFK added to the bleak aspect of the morning but I was tingling with anticipation. It was a rare occasion and I was going to enjoy every minute of it.
    At the entrance, we had shown our identification and signed in. The security man assigned to the hangar we were heading for was waiting and he joined us. He was a rugged-looking young man with a determined no-nonsense air about him. His name was Karl Eberhard and he had a slight but unmistakable German accent.
    Don followed his directions and we pulled up in front of a large hangar with BLS 12 painted on the side in red letters. A cargo tow truck stood near it with a flatbed trailer. We walked into the hangar. It was cold and the bare concrete floor made it even colder. Voices echoed several times before becoming lost in the cavernous ceiling.
    Along the length of one wall of the hangar, several bays were separated by partitions. Each bay had desks, chairs, benches, tables. In the first one, half a dozen men sat playing cards. The second had several men and benches and tables that were littered with equipment. Karl Eberhard led us toward this second bay and I noticed that the third bay was empty except for a big black car. Three or four men were talking in the fourth bay and two more bays were empty. A closed pickup truck sat in front of the first bay, a gray van was at the entrance to our bay, and there was a shiny new rental van by the fourth bay.
    Don held out his hand toward one of the men in the bay we entered.
    “Hello, Willard, didn’t expect to see you here. Where’s the boss?”
    “Something vital came up. He can’t make it. He asked me to take care of it. It’s just formalities here anyway.”
    Don took my arm and introduced me. Then to me, he said, “This is Willard Cartwright, Alexander Marvell’s assistant.”
    We shook hands. He was lean and spare, light on his feet and lively in his movements. His face was older than his body, creased and worn, but the faded blue eyes were quick and intelligent. He introduced Don and me to the others.
    Arthur Appleton of FarEast Air Freightlines was balding and shivering in a lightweight suit. “Coldest building in the airport,” he said. “Good for your spice, I guess, but it’s not very friendly to humans.”
    Sam Rong was a Cambodian representing the sellers, who had a series of Asian names which I promptly forgot. He was short and had one of those smooth and unlined faces which was probably twenty years younger than his birth certificate.
    Coming from the first bay was Michael Simpson, who introduced himself as Customs and Excise. He was heavily built, getting close to retirement age. He wheezed as he spoke. “Hear you’re from London. Spent three weeks over there last year—loved it—hope we can go back next