"What we do have, though, is this," Don went on, patting an instrument that looked like a small hi-fi unit. It bristled with gauges, needles, k.n.o.bs and digital readout displays, and was connected to a computer next to it.

"It's called an HPLC. That's high pressure liquid chromatograph. It can separate the components of the plant, some of which fluoresce. It exposes this fluorescence to a light beam which ... well, you'll see in a minute."

Don took the sample in the alcohol flask and carefully set it in an opening in the machine. He pushed a b.u.t.ton and a shutter snapped closed as the sample disappeared. He twisted a couple of k.n.o.bs, pushed some b.u.t.tons and a pattern flickered into view on the computer screen. It looked like a seismograph-all peaks and valleys.

"There," Don said. "That's the pattern which represents this sample. Now, we superimpose"-he pushed more b.u.t.tons-"the pattern of the plant that the Mecklenburg Inst.i.tute examined."

Everyone crowded closer for a better look.

"As you can see, they're almost identical."

One or two sighs sounded, a blend of relief and approval.

Arthur Appleton rejoined us with a Did-I-miss-anything? look but no one moved to enlighten him.

Don had recovered his usual good spirits and he went through the remaining tests with just enough comments. At last, looking around like a lecturer, he said, "Now, Ko Feng could easily become the most valuable food flavoring ever used by man. So it's important that we establish now"-he spread his hands-"how does it taste?"

He brought over a sealed container and set it on the infrared heater, adjusting the temperature. He removed the lid and looked at us with a half smile.

"Looks like spaghetti," muttered Arthur Appleton.

Karl Eberhard came into the bay, sniffing. "Something burning," he said. "Hasn't triggered the smoke alarms, though ..." A couple of grins must have informed him because he looked at the crucible and the heater and nodded acceptance.

Don was chopping a few of the stamens in a portable blender. He squeezed the b.u.t.ton and the machine whirred. Over the gentle noise, Don said, "The trick is to use only a very tiny quant.i.ty. Many of the spices we use today are like this-you need to use only a minimal amount to generate the maximum taste, use more and it will taste bitter. Saffron, cardamom, ginger, cayenne and the chile spices are all examples."

He shook out a little finely ground powder, separated a microscopic quant.i.ty and sprinkled it carefully into the now steaming spaghetti.

"Pasta is a suitable medium as it's bland and acts only as a means for carrying the taste," he explained. He stirred a few times.

"Most spices and flavorings need to be cooked for some time to generate their taste," I added. "We can investigate that later-right now, we just want to confirm the ident.i.ty of the Ko Feng."

"True," Don agreed. "If this is really Ko Feng and if it is the wondrous spice that myth, legend and history say-then tasting will put the crowning seal of verification on it."

I added a comment. "Testing equipment keeps getting more and more sophisticated but human taste is still amazingly sensitive. The tongue can detect a flavor in a solution of more than a million times its volume."

With all three of the JFK officials back with us now, we must have been a strange sight-seven men all eagerly dipping plastic forks into a bowl of pasta. Some went back for another forkful but Don and I were still moving that first one around in our mouths.

Arthur Appleton was the first to comment.

"Beats anything I've ever tasted," he said, adding hastily, "not that I'm a connoisseur."

Sam Rong and Karl Eberhard looked at each other and nodded enthusiastically. Willard Cartwright was savoring a mouthful. He raised his eyebrows to me questioningly.

"Magnificent," I said. "Not like anything I've ever tasted before. Don, don't you agree?"

"Wonderful," he nodded, his eyes bright. He looked at Cartwright. "I believe we can say that as far as we can determine-this is truly Ko Feng."

Something like a subdued cheer arose. It was also a vast sigh of relief, and the tension that had existed before went down like the temperature when going from a hot kitchen into a walk-in deep-freeze.

Sam Rong clapped Michael Simpson on the back and his smile reached record dimensions. Arthur Appleton pumped Cartwright's hand and told him he was delighted. Cartwright still looked tight-lipped but a hint of a smile was there. Don beamed at Karl Eberhard, who simply nodded his satisfaction and hitched up his military belt as if to say he was glad that job was out of the way and what was the next one.

Cartwright retied the inner sack and then the outer one.

"Our property now," he said to Sam Rong, who beamed and handed him the keys. Cartwright put the sack on to the two-wheeled trolley and took it to the van. He unlocked the back door, rolled it up, carefully set the sack inside the chest and we watched him lock it and then the van.

"We complete doc.u.ments now?" Sam Rong asked.

"Sure," said Appleton. He spread out what looked like the air waybill, the bill of sale and a couple of other doc.u.ments. Simpson took out his customs doc.u.ments and contributed to the paper chase.

"Certificate of authentication," said Appleton and held out a pen for Don and me to sign.

A squawk sounded from the bench. We all looked for the source. It was a timer that Don had been using during the testing. He pushed a b.u.t.ton to silence it. "Sorry. Must have forgotten to shut it off."

Printed forms moved to and fro, some blue, some yellow, some white. Duplicates and triplicates were torn off and distributed. Papers begat more papers. Signatures were applied and dates added. Appleton and Simpson worked smoothly, making it clear that they did this kind of thing every day.

All went well until- "Hold everything!" said Michael Simpson. He was staring at the form in front of him. "This is wrong!"

CHAPTER SIX.

EVERYONE FROZE. THEN WE crowded around the desk where Simpson was tapping his finger on the thick Customs and Excise manual, which listed every conceivable product and gave its commodity code. Alongside the manual, the receiving doc.u.ments were opened at a page where the code number was ringed in red.

"They're different," Simpson said. "See, we're cla.s.sifying Ko Feng as 'Spice, Oriental, Code 174.67,' but on your receiving doc.u.ment, you've got the code as 176.47."

"Clerical error," said Arthur Appleton dismissively. A voice shouted his name from the Chicago Museum bay and he excused himself and walked off. Simpson went into a discussion with Cartwright and Sam Rong. They found another minor discrepancy which prompted further debate but the points were finally resolved to everyone's relief.

Papers packed, hands shaken, farewells said, we prepared to leave. Don had told me that we had to go to the New York and Asian Bank in Manhattan, which had provided the financing and was handling the escrow. Cartwright climbed into the driver's seat of the van, telling us he didn't trust anyone else to drive, not even a professional. The vehicle had been modified so that it had an extra row of seats. Sam Rong sat with Cartwright, and Don and I sat behind.

Love it or hate it, people say about New York. Its detractors say that Peter Minuit was robbed when he paid $24 for it but that's unfair. Most-and especially European visitors-think it's a fabulous city and so do I. But one facet of it appeals to n.o.body, and that's the traffic. We crawled along the Long Island Expressway through the Queens Midtown Tunnel, then out into the creeping ma.s.s of cars, buses and trucks that edged through green lights and stood at red lights, fuming with impatience and the occasional faulty exhaust.

Noise always seems louder in New York but there is that indefinable crackle of excitement that is almost tangible. Cartwright's driving was expert and we made reasonable time down toward the financial district. Cartwright glanced anxiously in his rearview mirror every time we stopped at a light or signal but finally we turned into a ramp on the Avenue of the Americas. We went down a darkened tunnel where a guard stopped us. He had been alerted by phone that we were approaching and he promptly raised the barrier and directed us ahead.

We went down another ramp and emerged into an area that was little more than a concrete box, not a lot larger than the van. Two bank guards appeared and stood guard by the van while we went inside.

The conference room was lined with mahogany panels and portraits of former bank presidents, all Asians. Amber ceiling lights cast a mellow glow, which was reflected in the shiny top of the large table. Five of the bank staff were present, but the one who did all the talking was Ben Thuy, a wiry little man with a commanding presence.

"We have everything prepared for you," he said. He didn't even have to snap his fingers before an aide came forward with a folder. Cartwright and Sam Rong produced their doc.u.ments and they had a great time, shuffling and signing.

Ben Thuy looked at Don and me. "You gentlemen have examined this Ko Feng," he said, eyeing us intently. "You are satisfied that it is genuine."

"We have no way of establishing with utter certainty that this is Ko Feng," said Don. He had told me how he had rehea.r.s.ed various ways of saying this. "No one has seen or smelled or tasted any for at least five hundred years. But we have conducted as many meaningful tests as we can conceive and to the best of our expertise and experience, we can say that it has pa.s.sed all of these."

Ben Thuy picked up a sheet of paper and studied it. "You are both considered as experts, I see. You have wide knowledge in this field."

I wondered what the paper said and who had written it but Don nodded, so I did too. I put on what I supposed was an expert look.

"So to the best of your professional ability, you verify that the spice is truly Ko Feng." He eyed us sharply as he said it.

"I do," Don said.

"I do," I said.

One of Ben Thuy's staff murmured something in an Asian language and slid a sheet of paper across the smooth desktop. It was a statement of authenticity. Don and I read it a couple of times, then signed it.

Ben Thuy beamed. Cartwright produced his check and Sam Rong brought out the bill of sale. A few more signatures and it was all over. Ben Thuy leaned forward.

"This must be very exciting for you," he said to Cartwright.

"Very" he agreed. Weariness showed in his face. Now that it was all over, he was probably feeling down after the tension.

"It is exciting for me too," said Ben Thuy. "You see, I was born not too far from the region where the Ko Feng was found."

Sam Rong arched his spa.r.s.e eyebrows. "I did not know this."

"Oh, yes. And so-it is from a personal viewpoint that I ask this-can I see this Celestial Spice?"

Sam Rong looked at Cartwright. "Is now property of Mr. Cartwright. I do not object."

Cartwright hesitated but the five eager faces across the table were hard to resist. Ben Thuy faced him, eye to eye. Cartwright grimaced but managed to turn it into a smile.

"Of course."

Papers were loaded into briefcases and we went back to the underground parking area. The two guards stiffened-Ben Thuy was evidently a martinet for discipline and efficiency.

Cartwright unlocked the back door of the van and slid it open. There was a low gasp of awe from a couple of Ben Thuy's aides at the impressive sight of the teak case. Cartwright unfastened the padlock and lifted the lid with a proud flourish. Ben Thuy craned his neck to stare inside and his aides squeezed closer. Ben Thuy turned to look at Cartwright, who had a frozen expression on his face.

Don and I took a step forward.

The case was empty. The Ko Feng was gone.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

BEN THUY MUST HAVE carried a lot of clout in New York City. It couldn't have been more than three minutes before two uniformed policemen came in, evidently called while on patrol in the neighborhood. It took them no time at all to decide that they were out of their depth and one of them promptly called the Wall Street precinct.

We all sat at the big conference table. The lights didn't look so mellow anymore. They were menacing and sinister. I was stunned and Don looked the same. Cartwright was haggard and even Sam Rong's smile had gone. Ben Thuy moved as if he were wrapped in a thundercloud, furious that such a thing could happen under his roof. His aides walked softly and quietly, fearing his wrath. The two guards had the air of men about to walk down Death Row.

A few miserable attempts at conversation died at birth. An uneasy silence still prevailed when a tough-looking black man came into the room. He wore a dark suit that didn't fit very well. He had a clumsy way of moving that suggested it would not be a good idea to get in his way. His small black mustache had bristles rather than hairs and his face was in a grimace which changed all the time-and never for the better. It looked as though we were in for a rough ride.

"Lieutenant Gaines," he said in a dry, gritty voice. "Detective, Unusual Crimes Unit. All I got so far is a report about a missing sack of stuff." He looked around the table and turned to Don who was nearest. "You first-who are you?"

Gaines didn't take notes but his frequent and unexpected interruptions showed that he had an alert and intelligent mind. Listening to our stories, I thought them weak and unconvincing. I could only wonder uneasily what Lieutenant Gaines was thinking.

When we had all finished outlining, he started on Don again.

"Spice Warehouse? Spices-you mean that's all you sell?"

"We sell spices and herbs," Don said.

"And this spice-this what do you call it? Ko Fang?"

"Ko Feng."

"Whatever ... that's all that was in this sack?"

"That's right."

"All that's missing is just this sack of stuff? The one sack?"

"It's a very rare spice. It's been lost for centuries."

"And now it's lost again ..."

Don was tight-lipped but I thought his self-control was admirable as he told the detective about the background of Ko Feng.

"So all you did was see if you thought this Ko Fang was the real McCoy?"

"I was hired to authenticate it," Don said stiffly.

Gaines turned to Cartwright. "And you're the guy who bought this stuff, right?"

"Yes."

"This stuff worth a million dollars," he repeated, determined to get it right.

"Round figures," grunted Cartwright, not willing to debate a million or two.

The detective's attention moved to Sam Rong.

"And you-you're the guy who sold it?"

Sam wasn't smiling anymore but he was amiable. When that interrogation was finished, the detective's face contorted in a series of chewing motions. Some of them looked like they might be skepticism.

He directed his attention to me.