Friday March 23, 1984, dawned cold and grey at the Baltic port of Swinoujscie, in northwestern Poland, as the rusting ferry Wilanów, arriving from Copenhagen, spilled vehicles on to the dock, where they formed a queue for customs checks. Near the back of the line was a Mercedes lorry loaded with a charitable shipment of clothes and medicine, driven by a young French tax official named Jacky Challot.
As was usual when he reached the head of the queue, Challot handed out dollars, western chocolate and Marlboro cigarettes to smooth his way through the border. But just as the lorry was about to be waved on, a senior officer spotted something others had missed: the vehicle seemed shorter inside than out.
‘Reactionary propaganda!’
The officer called in a team of specialists, who broke through the wall at the front of the truck’s cargo bay, exposing a secret compartment. As dozens of books began to tumble out, the officer lost his cool.
