Free Spiced to Death by Peter King

little black mustache. Energetic and resplendent in a white suit, he received me politely but with a reserve that hinted I wasn’t going to learn very much.
    “I know about the Ko Feng, of course,” he told me. “In our business, it’s today’s topic of conversation.” He shrugged. “Tomorrow, who knows?”
    “Do you see any place for it in your cooking?”
    “I suppose any chef would want to try it. It is not just a spice—it is history.”
    “Have you been offered any?”
    He pondered the question for a minute. Early diners were already in place. A dish of pan-fried squid, golden and with a bowl of garlic dipping sauce, went by on a waiter’s arm. Sword-fish kebabs with rice dotted with currants and flecks of spinach swished past. Bottles of Turkish beer clanked on another tray.
    “I wouldn’t say ‘offered.’”
    “What would you say?” I countered and he smiled suavely.
    “A commodity like a spice that has been lost for centuries requires a different marketing approach from a trailer load of potatoes. Anyone possessing it might not even know precisely how he intended to market it—but how could any man decline such an opportunity?”
    His speech was carefully metered. The thoughts behind the words were, I felt, significant. He was telling me something. His English was flawless and wherever he had learned it, I would bet it was a tough environment. I thought he could handle a frontal assault.
    “Who do you think stole the Ko Feng?”
    He didn’t bat an eyelid. He said nothing for a few seconds but I wasn’t hopeful that he was going to reel off a list of suspects.
    “I don’t know.”
    “Care to make a guess?”
    He smiled. “Slander can be expensive. We are sue-happy in New York and we have spread the habit all over the country. I wouldn’t want to risk a lawsuit.”
    “So you might suggest a name if you weren’t afraid of legal action?”
    “We must talk again.” He was being politely dismissive. “You should come and eat at the Topkapi Castle.”
    “I’d like that. Here’s my card. Call me if you hear anything that might help me get the Ko Feng back.”
    He took it. I added quickly, “After you’ve told the police, naturally.”
    He nodded and watched me leave.
    I was some distance away when I heard a call from behind.
    I turned to see a man approaching me at a brisk pace and waving an imperious hand. He was a military-looking character with a small mustache and an erect bearing, and he was wearing a Nehru-type jacket that I hadn’t seen since the Margaret Thatcher era.
    “Caught a little of your conversation back there,” he said in a voice that must have served well on a parade ground. “Name’s Nelson Keyhoe—I’m Keyhoe Chemicals, we’re in the Fortune 500.”
    “Congratulations,” I said. “That’s a nice place to be.”
    “Been there for the past five years and one way we stay there is by keeping up with trends and developments.”
    “What sort of chemicals?” I asked.
    “Our current product list has about eight thousand of them on it—so we’re in a great many markets,” he said proudly.
    “And what’s your connection with food?”
    “We make additives, coloring agents, sugar substitutes …”
    “Flavor enhancers?” I asked.
    He nodded. “Yes, we make those too.”
    I pondered my next question for a split second, then I decided that, what the heck, I hadn’t been getting very far anyway—so what if I upset somebody?
    “It must have been a relief to you when the Ko Feng was stolen,” I said in a chatty tone.
    He frowned. “Why do you say that?”
    “It would take away a lot of your business, wouldn’t it? Ko Feng is probably many times more effective than any of the flavor enhancers that you produce.”
    “We’re accustomed to competition from all directions,” he said. His face suggested that if he’d had me in his battalion, I’d have been locked up by now and with no likelihood of release.
    “On the other hand, you might welcome Ko