T
HE MAIN LONDON OFFICE
of ICD—Intercontinental Deliveries—is off St. Mary Axe in the City. A century ago, there was a dank, overcrowded cluster of houses around the courtyard site. They included a boardinghouse for sailors, a brothel, and a public house that sold gin at twopence a glass. But that was a century ago, before City land values rose to their present heights. ICD’s head office was now on the fifteenth floor of an elegant temple of steel and glass.

From this office, true to the company name, five continents were linked. An expanding fleet of planes, trucks, vans, and motorcycles insured that urgent parcels and documents were delivered promptly by uniformed courier all over the world.

In the summer of 1993, a new employee was hired to adorn ICD’s recently redecorated reception area. The position was advertised in
The Times.
The successful candidate was a twin-set-and-pearls girl named Susannah. She had a diploma in flower arranging from a Swiss finishing school, a generous dress allowance from her businessman father, and an accent like the finest cut-glass.

Had Susannah’s assets been purely decorative, subsequent events might have turned out very differently. But she proved to be intelligent, and a fast, efficient worker with good word-processing skills. More important still, Susannah had an excellent memory. Unlike most witnesses, her recall of events was unwavering and sharp.

This was to prove important, for it was Susannah, early in January the following year, who took delivery of the four identical parcels, and Susannah—returning to the office after the extended Christmas and New Year break—who at nine-thirty in the morning took their sender’s odd and crucial first call.

It was a Tuesday morning. It was threatening snow outside, and the City was still quiet. Susannah expected business to be slack. The New Year’s celebrations had fallen on a weekend, so the previous day, a Monday, had been a holiday too. An extra day’s escape from office tedium. Susannah yawned and stretched. She was not complaining; the long weekend had given her an extra morning on the ski slopes at Gstaad.

She made herself some coffee, greeted a few late arrivals who worked backstage in accounts, arranged the fresh flowers she always had on her desk, and in a desultory way flicked through the pages of the December
Vogue.

Her mind was still on the ski slopes, and a certain stockbroker she had met who took the worst of the black runs with fearless skill. He had been at Eton with her elder brothers, and a fellow guest at her chalet. She wondered whether, as promised, he would call her to arrange lunch. When the telephone rang at one-thirty, she felt a sense of pleased anticipation—but it was not her stockbroker. A woman’s voice. Business, then. Susannah checked her watch, and logged the call.

Most ICD deliveries were requested by female secretaries, so there was nothing unusual about this call initially—except the caller’s voice, which was low-pitched, English, harmonious, with an accent very similar to Susannah’s own. Susannah would have denied fiercely that she was a snob had anyone ever accused her of such a thing, but she was certainly aware, as is everyone English, of the subtle telltale modulations of accent. She responded at once to the fact that her caller was one of her own peer group—and this was to prove useful. There was, however, something odd about the caller’s manner. It was exceptionally hesitant, even vague.

“I wonder,” said the voice, as if this were the most unlikely request to make to a courier company, “if you could possibly arrange hand delivery of four parcels?”

“Of course,” Susannah said. “The destination of the parcels?”

“One must go to Paris,” said the voice, “and one to New York—”

“City or state?” Susannah interrupted.

“Oh, city. Yes. Manhattan. Then one is within London, and the fourth must go to Venice….” The voice sounded apologetic, doubtful, as if Venice were a village in Tibet, or some Arctic Circle settlement. There was a breathy pause. “Will that be possible?”

“Absolutely. No problem.”

“How wonderful.” The voice sounded greatly relieved. “How clever. The thing is…the four parcels must be delivered tomorrow morning, without fail.”

Susannah’s manner became a little less warm. She began to suspect that this female caller was putting her on. “I can guarantee that,” she replied crisply. “Providing we take delivery before four this afternoon.”

“Oh, they’ll definitely be with you this morning.”

“Would you like me to arrange pickup?”

“Pickup?” There was a hesitation, then a low laugh. “No. That won’t be necessary. I’ll bring them over to your office myself. They’ll be with you by eleven. …”

By now Susannah found the woman’s approach distinctly odd. Urgency mixed with such vagueness was unusual. The woman sounded spaced out, or perhaps under some terrible pressure. Susannah began to run down the details on her checklist, at which point—or so she would later claim—the woman became evasive.

“Size of parcels?” Susannah said.

“I’m sorry?”

“Size. You see, if they’re especially large or heavy, I need to make special arrangements.”

“Oh, they’re not
large.
” The woman sounded reproachful. “They’re light. Quite light. Not heavy at all…”

“Contents?”

“I don’t understand. …”

“We need to attach customs declaration forms for the three going abroad,” Susannah explained. “Because of narcotics regulations, mainly. So I need an indication as to contents.”

“Oh, I
see.
” The voice sounded amused. “Well, I’m not sending cocaine, and I don’t
think
I’d use a courier company if I were. …Still, I do see the problem. Contents…yes. Could you put ‘gifts’?”

“I’d need to be more specific, I’m afraid. …”

“Of course. Birthday gifts?”

Susannah set her lips. “More specific still. Confectionary. Books. Toys—something like that.”

“Oh, that’s easy, then. Birthday gifts—articles of clothing. Put that, please.”

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