A Wolf on the Fold

She said something to the woman serving there and they both laughed, then she, the pilot came away from the counter carrying a cup and saucer. Without any hesitation and much to Hiram's perplexity and disbelief she went straight to Candor's table, ignoring several unoccupied tables further in and sat down opposite him. She was tall, fair and moved with confidence and grace. She wore a white bandanna restraining her hair and a white blouse, while matching jacket and slacks set off her figure. Her shoes were sensible flat heeled footwear, light and comfortable looking. Hiram thought at first that she must be acquainted with the man he was sure was Candor. Had he made a mistake about the man's identity? but could see by the surprise on Candor's face that he had no foreknowledge of her, but when she spoke to him his face changed, a look of relief Hiram wondered. As the woman spoke to the assassin he wished he could hear their conversation. She was speaking earnestly to him and Candor now seemed more relaxed than he was before she entered the restaurant. Hiram, frustrated, looked again at the plane which had just arrived, obviously taxied in by the woman who was now seated and holding Candor's complete attention. On impulse he got up, picked up the duffel bag and walked past the pair, through the reception lounge and out of the exit. He circled round the building and back to the aircraft park. The bowser driver's assistant was just replacing the hoses on the vehicle and Hiram waited until the man got in the cab and saw the driver and the tanker had been driven away. He looked around for the ground crew man but he was not in evidence, so taking his chance as no-one else seemed to be about, Hiram moved up to the fuselage door. He looked first towards the restaurant but realized that as Candor and the woman's table was on the opposite side of the room to where he himself had sat, they would not be able to see him. Also, as the area was poorly lit he decided to investigate the interior of the aircraft if the door was unlocked. He tried the door handle which he could just reach, standing on a wooden block, put there by one of the ground crew for the pilot to gain an easier access into the fuselage, or descent from it. Hiram, almost hoping he wouldn't be able to gain entrance, but with a feeling of some trepidation felt the door handle move and the door become free. His heart thumping he took a last look around and put the duffle bag inside. He pulled himself up into the fuselage through the modified access, though he did not know that the door modification had been to allow the placing inside of quite large containers, the small portion of the door through which he had entered as a personal access. He took another look over his shoulder and then pulled the small access door closed behind him. He listened for a minute, wondering if someone would arrive and challenge him. Had he done something stupid? they perhaps wanting to know what he was doing and maybe sending for someone in authority, perhaps even the police. But there was nothing, not a sound. suddenly it came to him there might be someone in the aircraft's flight cabin and he froze, straining to hear any sound from that area with his hand on the door handle and ready to make a quick exit. Again he relaxed somewhat searching the duffel bag for the torch he had brought with from Israel. By its light he examined the interior of the machine. Several wooden crates were lashed to ring bolts screwed into sockets in the aircraft's floor. There were no seats in the passenger area at all and he crept cautiously up to the pilot's cabin. He listened again but could only hear the beat of his own heart, so, gingerly he opened the partition door. There were just two seats, both empty and a conglomeration of instruments in front of him and controls around the front area which meant nothing to him. He closed the cabin door, returned to the rear of the fuselage and examined a wooden crate. It seemed innocuous enough, some had labels with names he didn't recognize. One did have the name of a French motor car manufacturer stencilled on it in black paint together with a string of numbers and a warning that a fine would be imposed by the manufacturer if it was returned damaged. He couldn't help smiling at the incongruity of it all, regardless of his tense nerves. He turned his attention to the very back of the passenger area and saw a door there. He squeezed past the crates and had just opened the door to look inside when he heard voices and the sound of the fuselage access door being opened. Beads of perspiration started from his forehead. His hands felt sticky and he was sure that whoever was opening that door would hear his heart pounding in his chest. He tried not to panic. He quickly stepped inside the compartment, carefully closing the door behind him and listened. He had switched off the torch and was standing perfectly still in the inky blackness. The voices ceased and he heard the sound of the fuselage door being closed and then the nerve racking sound of footsteps. He swallowed with difficulty and the spectre of fear covered him with his cloak as he waited for the moment of discovery. A male voice asked, 'What's behind that door?'