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I drive for another two hours before I start to get low on fuel. I spot a petrol station just outside Innsbruck and I pull in, already knowing what my plan will be. The traffic has started to get denser and I can see the city from here. As I step out of the car, a huge jumbo jet comes in overhead, ready to land barely a few hundred yards away. I’m right on the edge of the city.
I fill the car with twenty-one euros and fifteen cents’ worth of fuel. It’s enough to blend in and not be noticed or remembered, but it’s also not going to waste what remaining money I’ve got left. And a waste is exactly what it would be, because I don’t intend for that car to ever leave this forecourt.
The pump itself doesn’t seem to take p*****t. Not that I’d be risking using my credit cards, of course, but
