close the door.
That is all I will ask you to do, Mina, and if you do it, your daughter will live.
Don’t, and she will die.
The letter drops from my fingers, my knees collapsing me onto the loo. Toiletries rattle on the shelf above the sink, and I’m no longer sure if the roaring in my ears is the plane or my own pulse, thrumming without pause between beats.
This is a hijack attempt. There is no other explanation. Someone wants to take control of this plane, and if I let them, everyone on this plane is likely to die. If I don’t…
I can’t even allow myself to think the words. It can’t happen. She’s five years old; she has her whole life ahead of her. She’s done nothing to deserve this.
And the people on this plane have?
There are courses they send us on, to deal with threats on an aircraft. There are code words. Self-defense techniques. Restraint systems. We’re taught to be vigilant, to identify potential terrorists from their mannerisms, their appearance, their behavior.
It all seems so easy, in the classroom. Breaking for lunch, conversation spilling into the corridor: Can you imagine having to actually deal with that? Filling up a salad tray, buying a Diet Coke, asking who’s around on the weekend: It’s Ladies’ Night at the Prince Albert. I remember the role-play scenarios we did, the negotiating we practiced. Comply, but don’t surrender is what we’re told to do. If only it were that simple.
I never thought it would be like this.
I imagined a loaded gun, a knife to a colleague’s throat. I imagined shouts, threats, religious fanatics in pursuit of martyrdom. Us against them. Fast-moving, quick-thinking. I watched Hollywood films with men who pulled guns on glossy-lipped flight attendants, and I wondered how I’d cope, how I’d feel. I imagined the terror, the panic, the loss of control.
I never imagined it would feel so lonely.
Carmel raps on the door. “You okay, Mina?”
“I’m fine. Just coming.” The words sound as false as they feel. I flush the loo and run the tap, staring at myself in the mirror, unable to reconcile the way I look with the way I feel. I am the same person I was at the start of this flight, and yet so far removed. I think of that awful day in September 2001, when the world watched the twin towers fall, watched thousands of people in New York City die before our very eyes.
If one person could have stopped all that, they would have done so in a heartbeat.
I would have done.
And yet.
If you do it, your daughter will live. Don’t, and she will die.
I’m glad it’s so late. If Sophia were still at school or playing with friends, there would be a million ways someone could get to her. But it’s almost ten p.m. at home, and she’ll be tucked up in bed, her dad downstairs watching Netflix. For all Adam’s faults, he’s a good father. He’d put his own life on the line before letting anything happen to Sophia. She’ll be safe with him.
“Is it the letter?” Carmel says as I emerge. Her face is screwed up in concern.
“Letter?” The effort of feigning lightness almost breaks me. “Oh, no, that was someone complaining about the Wi-Fi—like writing a letter is going to fix it! No, I think I’ve got some sort of tummy bug, actually. I really had to dash for the loo just then.”
Erik looks revolted. He backs away, leaving us alone, which is at least one problem solved. Carmel seems to have taken my excuse at face value.
“Poor you. My mum always says flat Coke’s good for dicky tummies. Shall I get you some?”
“Thanks.”
She beams, pleased to be able to help, and I watch as she rifles in the lockers for what she needs. She’s barely into her twenties, newly loved-up with the boyfriend who works in the City. Not a bad bone in her body.
“I’m sorry, Carmel.” My eyes blur, and I blink away the tears that are forming.
She turns to me, perplexed. “Don’t be silly. You can’t help being poorly.” She stirs my drink vigorously, the bubbles rising to the surface and popping. “This’ll help.”
I take it, sipping and telling her it’s great, it’s definitely working, thank goodness. I’m sure I’ll be fine now, and she rolls her eyes at another call bell and says, No rest for the wicked.
No rest for the wicked.
I look through the curtain into the business-class cabin. Paul Talbot looks at me hopefully. His