mantra, and this time, it’s not only Sophia I’m thinking of.
When Missouri reappears in the aisle, we snap to attention, the sight of the plastic and wires in her hand enough to make us comply.
“I want you in economy. Get rid of that water.” She turns toward the cabin, claps her hands again in that disconcertingly prim way before shouting the order again. “Everyone at the back of the plane. Move!” She shouts the last word, provoking a panicked scramble to get from business class across the bar to economy.
“Change of plan,” I hear Missouri say to Zambezi as we pass. “I want them farther from the action.”
In the bar area, they divide us roughly into two groups, herding us into either side of economy. I’m pushed toward the right-hand aisle, along with Cesca and Rowan and the two journalists. The Middle Eastern man from seat 6J is in front of us, but he isn’t moving. Every muscle is tense, and as we file past, I catch the acrid scent of stale sweat. At the back of the plane, I can see the remaining on-duty crew, huddled together on the floor. The door leading to the relief bunks is still closed. Have they realized what’s happening and stayed hidden?
“Sit down. Now!”
We drop down between the rows of economy passengers, and the sudden lack of space makes me feel as if I can’t breathe. I’m at the front of the aisle, Cesca behind me, then Rowan, Derek Trespass, and finally Alice Davanti.
“Hands on your heads.”
Hundreds of pairs of elbows snap to attention. Lachlan is screaming again, the loud wails of a hungry baby. Elsewhere in the cabin, muted sobbing spreads like fire.
The long-legged Yangtze is still in the bar area. He gives a mock bow as Missouri approaches, his heels clicking together. “Yangtze, reporting for duty.”
She doesn’t miss a beat. “You took your time.”
“I figured you had it all under control.”
Missouri’s face twitches, as though she’s trying to decide whether to be flattered or annoyed, and the odd exchange between the two hijackers in the front galley suddenly makes sense.
A woman, huh?
No shit.
“They don’t know each other,” I say to Cesca. “They’re meeting for the first time.”
The Middle Eastern man is still standing, his eyes darting around the cabin. I’m trying to make eye contact with him, trying to convey that he’s putting us all in danger, when Missouri hisses at him.
“For fuck’s sake, Ganges, pull yourself together.”
Ganges?
The man nods, planting himself firmly in the center of the space, his eyes fixed on the far end of the cabin. A chill runs through me as I think of how I ignored my suspicions, how I felt guilty for them.
Missouri repeats her instruction to a man standing on the opposite side of the cabin. “Niger, hold the aisle.”
Ganges. Niger.
Rivers, I realize, finally making the connection. Missouri is the ringleader, standing in the bar with the blond Zambezi and the long-legged Yangtze. Ganges is the young man whose feet are inches from my knees. Average height and slightly built, Ganges has the soft, unhealthy skin of someone unaccustomed to exercise. He wears gray, wire-framed glasses, and his black hair stands on end, as though he has just run his fingers through it. He shifts from one position to another, his hands fiddling with his pockets, his buttons, his collar. He scratches his neck, chews his lip, glances across the aisle and back toward the two hijackers at the rear of the cabin. Perhaps feeling my eyes on him, he looks down. I try a smile, and he flushes, snapping his eyes away and resuming his nervous fidgeting. Across the aisle is the man Missouri referred to as Niger. I only caught a glimpse of him before we were made to sit on the floor.
I turn and whisper to the others, “I’ve counted six of them, including the one flying the plane.”
“Do you think there are more?” Derek says. He’s younger than I thought, I realize, his hair prematurely thin and worry lines scoring his brow.
“Everyone else has their hands on their heads.” Rowan kneels up, looking back along the aisle. All the passengers are sitting down, either in their seats or on the floor, and there’s an eerie quiet. He looks back toward the hijackers and shudders. “To think that they were sitting among us for all that time, and we never knew.”
“Some of us knew…” Alice Davanti glances in my direction, but no one takes up the baton. We have to come