Martin handed me the printouts. I asked to see pictures of the cargo crates, which were non-descript, refrigerated cases. The units plugged into the plane’s power to refrigerate the contents, and were all locked. Next, I checked the bills of lading, which were also pretty sanitized of any real clue of what was inside. Any kind of chemical, dangerous item, or perishable that would have red-flagged customs was omitted from the description.
“You got a blank client contract?”
Martin shrugged, then nodded, calling up a pdf file.
“Print it, please.”
I started skimming each page as it came off the printer. While I didn’t have the legal training, contracts were helpfully labeled by section, and I finally found what I wanted, the language about dangerous cargo. Quite clearly, the company wouldn’t transport anything that might be considered dangerous with regards to risk of explosion, toxic exposure, or other kind of hazardous material, nor would they transport living cargo. And that left only the most probable thing a bunch of snobby rich people could want from Europe.
“We’re all done,” I told Martin. “Thanks.”
Nikki opened the office door, looking decidedly unhappy.
Nikki and I got back in the car, where she finally let it out. “Foie gras,” she seethed. “Caviar, unpasteurized milk and cheese, and other rare and exotic foods.”
“Yeah, afraid so,” I said. “It’s been a real wild goose chase. Or maybe duck.”
Despite how bad the joke was, Nikki’s lips quirked, fighting the smile. “That was terrible, Matthew.”
“I know, but sometimes that’s all we’re left with after chasing a lead. How about some dinner?”
“Yes, but we shall not be having French.”
“Fine by me.”