That wasn't a good omen. There at the German
Austrian border near Salzburg. While we fueled
the car with the last German petrol and had
exchanged some money in Schilling, a big BMW
stopped next to us, with two men and one of
them looked like Heino, the Schlager singer.
But when he got out the car we saw that it
was actually him. He took the wheel from
someone shaped like a muscular bodyguard.
We were on our way to Israel. Driving at night
in order to take the Autoput, the dangerous
Yugoslav highway, during daytime. A friend of
mine, Wolfgang, had asked me if I fancied a
holiday trip. He knew a Palestinian, called
Hassan, with a Peugeot estate, filled with
merchandise, mostly electronics, who went to
the Middle East. He would sell the car and
make enough profit to fly back.
Wolfgang had no driving license and Hassan
needed a co-driver, so they asked me. Before
I had agreed, I wanted to see that Hassan.
Wolfgang had invited him and we watched
a soccer game, listened to reggae music,
smoked a joint ... he seemed okay. Only I
didn't like that baseball cap and dark glasses.
