“I’m clean,” Faroe said, “therefore I’m calm. You saw yourself that the box was empty.”

Jervis pointed at the parcel, looked at Faroe’s passport, and said, “You want to think about that before you get yourself in any more trouble, Mr. Faroe?”

“Nothing to think about. I’m clean.”

“Empty your pockets on this table. Then stand over there and lean against the wall, hands up and flat, legs spread. Got that?”

Faroe could have argued but didn’t bother. Jervis was paid for an eight-hour shift. He could spend it on Faroe or he could share the wealth with the next hundred people in line.

“Yeah, I get it.” Faroe emptied his pockets, assumed the position, and waited while he was thoroughly, professionally patted down. “Relax, I’m not carrying.”

“I’m an old man, Mr. Faroe. I got that way by being careful.” Jervis checked for knife sheaths along the calves and ankles before he straightened. “Go back to the table and pick up your pocket stuff.”

Faroe went back to where his keys, change, passport, cash, and package waited. While he filled his pockets again, Jervis ripped through newsprint until he’d exposed the two-foot length of oak. In its own spare way, the wood was beautiful. Jervis shook it hard.

Nothing rattled.

Jervis grunted. “Looked like a hollow log on the scanner. Around here, we don’t like that. You’re in big trouble, mister.”

“Not unless they’ve changed the rules since I wore a blue shirt,” Faroe said. “The box is empty.”

“So it’s a trap. You admit that.”

“It’s just what the declarations form says-a jewelry box. A handsome piece of wood for the wife to put her rings in.”

Jervis eyed him. “You really were a blue shirt? Where? Here?”

“Yeah.” Faroe shrugged. “It’s been years, but I was.”