The scanner operator stopped the belt to look long and hard at the cleanly sawed oak timber. The outlines of a drawer were clear in the ghostly blue X-ray.

The inspector, whose name tag said “Davison,” backed the belt up and ran the oak timber through again. He stared some more, then touched a button at his elbow.

From the corner of his eye, Faroe saw two more blue shirts converge on the scanner.

“This yours, sir?” the scanner asked calmly.

“Yes.”

A hand touched Faroe’s elbow as a neutral voice said, “Come with me, please.”

One of the converging inspectors stood close enough to block Faroe’s route back to Mexico. The other barred his path to the United States. Both men had their free hand on the butt of a service pistol.

“Sure,” Faroe said to the inspector at his elbow. “You want me to carry the box?”

“That’s okay. We’ll take care of it.”

A supervisory inspector grabbed the parcel off the belt and led the way. Faroe fell in behind, careful to keep his hands in plain sight. Obviously the official X-ray had found one of the compartments. The only real question was, had it found the other one as well?

The sign on the door said “Secondary Inspection.” Inside was an interrogation room, a government-issue table, and two battered, straight-backed chairs. The two escorts followed Faroe to the door and made sure he went through. Then they turned and went back to their former posts.

The supervisor, whose badge said “Jervis,” put the box on the table and faced Faroe coolly. “You look pretty calm for somebody in a lot of trouble.”

During his career, Faroe had made a study of ports of entry; he knew the game. Customs inspectors read body language for a living. Faroe’s expression, neck pulse, eyes, hands, and posture didn’t give the inspector anything to work with.