isobel avens

The money kept getting better, and soon the phone calls (never from Alexander himself, of course) became stranger. Live mice, to be delivered across the border in under 45 minutes (“Fucking brilliant mad dash, that one”). Boxes stinking so badly of sulphur that he had to pull the van over to retch out the window. Cases and cases of rubber-corked test tubes, each containing what looked like thousands of eggs suspended in gel. “Whatever you do,” said the nervous man with the watery red eyes who met Choe under a freeway overpass for the transfer, “Don’t dump them near water.” He had an American accent.