5I sat in a ladderback chair and my bag dangled from one of the back posts. I’d hung it so the perforations forming a capital H on the pebbled black leather weren’t visible. In Dhaka, nobody paid attention to whether designer goods were counterfeit or authentic.
But Bella might. I didn’t want her to pity me for buying a fake. Or worse, conclude that I’d become a replica smuggler.
I was five inches away from a square metal table mounted on a silvery pedestal. The floor under the chair’s wooden legs was bleached oak. I carefully snugged up to the table.
The rich scent of fresh-baked banana bread floated up from the plate centered before me. My mouth watered in anticipation.
I’d passed on my customary afternoon beverage. The ten-hour time change had screwed up my body clock. A G&T would s
