It was almost dark. I was lying on my back on a comfortable bed. Somebody
was bathing the side of my head with cold water, which felt really good. My
mouth was dry, and I seemed feverishly hot. Even in my muzzy state, I was
confused about a picture of Robert Redford which seemed to be floating a few
inches above my face. There were other pictures, too, but it was too dark to
see them, or perhaps my eyes wouldn’t focus properly.

Pete’s voice beside me broke in gently, “Thank God you’re all right. I
didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t try to get a doctor because they’d have
asked awkward questions.’

He moved sideways, and I realised that I was on the bed in the back of the
lorry cab. I felt a good deal better, and said so. Pete lifted my head and
gave me a swig of water from a bottle. I swallowed eagerly.

“You take off clothes now.’ Another statement. Eyeing his gun, I thought
it better not to disobey. In a few seconds I had stripped, putting all my
clothes on a nearby chair. It was cold. He grinned, or rather leered, at me,
and stepped closer.

“Legs apart, turn round, arms up, hands against wall.’ I did as I was
told, wondering what he was going to do if he suspected me of carrying
drugs. He came nearer and stood behind me, breathing heavily. Then he felt
under my arms, looked at the soles of my feet, and ran his hands up between
my legs. Despite the strange circumstances, I immediately began to feel
randy, though I didn’t like the man at all.

“You are English.’ A statement, not a question.

“Yes,’ I answered quickly, “what’s the matter, what have I done?’

“Come with me, we look for drugs.’ Protesting that I didn’t have any
drugs, I was led off into a back room which was obviously used as a resting
place at night, because it had a wash basin and a hard bed in it.

“We must be getting near the border, mustn’t we?’ I cast about in my dimly
remembered geography lessons for the relationship between the various north
European countries. “Yes, we’ll soon be in Germany, but the German customs
people are very fussy with loads like this. It may take some time at the
border post.’

He was right. He disappeared into the customs office with a sheaf of
documents, including my passport, and left me to my own devices. I couldn’t
leave the border area, of course, so I sat around, stood around, tried to
read all the notices in French and German on the walls, and finally settled
myself as comfortably as possible in a delapidated old armchair in a corner
and fell sound asleep.

I had had a hectic day getting my work completed before flying
out, got to the airport late, and consequently was glad to have got
through the airport hassle and slump into my Club Class seat. The top
deck of the 747 has a small cabin which some airlines use for first
class passengers, but many including BA, use for Business Class; there
are only 20 or 30 seats, which gives you the feeling of being in a
small, but spacious airliner. The top deck is reached via a spiral
staircase and you travel cut off from the masses on the main deck be-
low. This flight, luckily, was fairly empty so I was fortunate that
through the lottery of seat allocations, Lars, as he turned out to be
named, took up the aisle seat corresponding to my window seat and no-
body else got seated either between us or in the row on the other side
of the aisle.