Quiet afternoon, a single craft ran its engines. Citation X as sleek as an Indy car. Porters hurried to fill the hold with a dolly-ful of Vuitton luggage as a well-fed, sunglassed family of four boarded. Thirtyish mother, fiftyish father, two kids under ten. Everyone in suede.

The luxury terminal backing the runways was nestled in greenery. So were the three other luxury depots we’d passed. The hangars sat at the north end of the airport, monumental toy chests.

The bomb squad was waiting at Hangar 13A when Milo and I arrived. Familiar faces from the search at Helga’s house and her workshop, all the tech toys in place, ready for a replay.

New dog today, a beautifully groomed flat-coated retriever named Sinead who stood patiently at her handler’s side, emitting the confidence that comes from good looks and serious talent.

Milo said, “Okay to pet her, Mitch?”

The handler said, “Sure.”

A big hand stroked the dog’s head. Sinead purred like a cat. “She’s a solo act?”

Mitch said, “She’s the only one we can trust because she won’t get distracted by jet fuel and such.”

“Good nose, huh?”

“The best,” said Mitch. “We already did the outside perimeter. Clean. Let’s go inside.”

Sinead was in and out within seconds. The bomb squad followed up with a detailed search, declared the hangar safe, motioned us in.

The interior was smaller than the house on Borodi, but not by much, with twenty-foot ceilings, a carpeted floor, and cedar paneling. At the center sat a navy-blue Gulfstream 5. Numbers on the tail conformed to Sranil’s international designation. One of three planes registered to the island, all belonging to the royal family. A gold-painted crest on the door showcased the Sranilese flag: palm fronds, a crown, three stars in a single horizontal row.

Behind the jet were stacks of wooden crates piled ten feet high. Milo had officers lower a few to the ground, began prying them open.

Mikimoto pearls in the first. Thousands of them in velvet-lined boxes. The next three contained plastic-wrapped fur coats with an emphasis on sable. Crate number four was devoted to a four-foot-wide Tiffany chandelier: hollyhocks in a riot of color and luminosity.

Five and six: gold ingots. Onward to platinum jewelry. Tapestries. Paintings, mostly of the sweet-domestic-scene variety. Old Master etchings, more gold, bags of loose-cut diamonds.

One of the cops said, “We get a finder’s fee?”

Milo put down his crowbar, walked to the opposite end of the hangar where, blocked by the jet’s mammoth body, a fleet of cars sat under navy-blue covers. Same royal insignia on each.

Removing the cloths revealed a red Ferrari Enzo, a black Bugatti Veyron, a lime-green Lamborghini convertible, a silver Rolls-Royce Phantom limousine. Behind the limo, a white Prius.

“Oh, man,” said the same cop. “I shoulda been born in Saudi Arabia.”

“Sranil,” said another.