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He tried to look as if he were casually glancing around the baggage claim area. He thought that a couple of people were paying him unusual attention, one a Latino by the exit looking up from his cell phone, but finally told himself he had to be imagining things. He then noticed in t

he ceiling the black plastic semicircles—ones half the size of a baseball—that he knew concealed security cameras.

Those I’m not imagining.

Three bags later, his suitcase showed up.

Okay. Almost home free . . .

He dragged it from the carousel, then turned it onto its wheels. He forced back his sudden desire to sprint madly for the door.

That bastard Jack was right—I did just zip right on through.

No wonder so many drugs make it here.

He pulled out his telephone, found the 215-555-3582 number, and texted: “PHL.”

That was both the airport code and the code that he had the suitcase in hand and awaited direction as to what to do with the coke.

Then, as directed, he went to get a taxicab.

—

As John Garvey came closer to the exit doors that were already open, he saw parked at the curb a white Chevrolet Tahoe with Drug Enforcement Administration markings. On the window of the back door was: WARNING! DO NOT APPROACH. K-9 INSIDE.

Easy does it. Those guys are always here with their dogs.

You’re just noticing it now because you’re looking for cops.

John Garvey stopped, then felt a firm hand grip his left bicep.

“Excuse me, sir.” It was a man’s voice, a deep, authoritative one. “Can I ask you a question?”

Garvey whipped his head around.

When he saw that the man was a uniformed Philadelphia policeman, his heart beat so hard he thought it might burst out of his chest.

“Of course, Officer,” Garvey said, and then saw the patch on the sleeve of his blue shirt: PHILADELPHIA POLICE AIRPORT UNIT.

“Is this your suitcase, sir?”

Damn! I grabbed the wrong black one!

He glanced at it and recognized his luggage tag.

Then he blurted: “It’s not mine!”

The policeman turned his head to read the luggage tag.

“Then if you’re not John A. Garvey, why . . .”

“No, I mean . . . I mean . . .” Garvey started shaking visibly, then quietly said: “The packages . . . they’re not mine.”

“Yes, sir. Would you mind if we take a look inside your suitcase?”

—

Twenty minutes later, as John Garvey sat in a battered aluminum chair in a secure room near the baggage claim area, staring at his open suitcase on the steel table, the Philadelphia policeman sauntered in with another uniformed officer on his heels. The second man, wearing a jacket reading DRUG ENFORCEMENT ADMINISTRATION, was stocky and had an inquisitive look on his face. He stopped at the door and said nothing.