NEW YORK, 9:54 A.M. – At the appointed time, wearing a nondescript dark suit, I entered JFK Airport's Terminal 1. I had been told to bring nothing but my passport and a single small bag -- size: no larger than 9 by 14 by 22 inches; color: unspecified.
At exactly 10 a.m., I approached first-class check-in at the Japan Airlines ticket counter. The agent looked up. A foreigner. As instructed, I said the following: "Jupiter."
She sized me up, glanced around. "He's not here yet. Wait over there. I'll tell them you're here."
I waited. Peered over the top of the newspaper. Scanned the crowd. Tried to blend in.
Forty minutes later, the agent beckoned me. "Here he comes."
Was it my imagination, or did she looked a little scared?
It was my imagination.
"How ya doin'," boomed a friendly New Yorker with a harried expression and an armful of papers. "You the courier? Great. I'm Dennis from Jupiter Air. Just hang on a sec and I'll get you all set up."
He disappeared behind the JAL counter, where the Japanese airline agents seemed to know him well, and went into the back. A few minutes later he came out with a Mylar pouch and great handful of those peel-off bar-code strips they strap onto your checked bags. He must have had 40 of them.
"This is yours," he said, holding out the pouch. "Nothing illegal, as you can see."
See what? It's a bunch of papers. They could be murder contracts. Is this paperwork for the Mob?
"These are the claims for the cargo," Dennis said. "You'll turn them over to the Jupiter representative in Tokyo before you get on the Hong Kong flight."
