Hostage by Clare Mackintosh
THIRTY
PASSENGER 1G
What you have to understand is that I neverwanted anyone to get hurt. But as the saying goes: you can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs. Sometimes violence is the only language people understand.
The corkscrew was insurance: a need for a weapon more immediate, more targeted than the threat of a bomb. I slipped it into my pocket on an early visit toadmire the bar, with no real plan for its use, and I was glad of it the moment I saw the crew’s attempt to undermine my plan. The metal pierced the girl’s throat with a pop I found curiously satisfying. The first life I had ever taken. Blood on my hands.
Her death was regrettable, as any death is, but out of everyone on that plane, the cabin crew surely carries the most guilt. Imagine how powerful a statement it would make to the world if airline staff refused to fly? If they demanded lower emissions, renewable energy?
Turkeys don’t vote for Thanksgiving, though, do they?
The girl was a sacrifice, just like the man in 1J, who died in order for Mina to understand the importance of our demands. He flipped open his wallet in the bar, proud of his family, and I caught a glimpse of his frequent flyer card. Not as guilty as the crew, but not so innocent either. He chose to generate 5.8 tons of carbon dioxide by flying from London to Sydney. He chose to destroy fifteen meters of polar ice cap. You reap what you sow.
I crushed Rohypnol in his drink, then dispatched him with an insulin overdose, which caused a rather violent convulsion and rapid coma, swiftly followed by death. Insulin mustn’t be stored in the hold of a plane, you see, due to its need to be kept at a constant temperature. Whether you’re traveling for a single night or six months, your entire supply can be carried in your hand luggage, with nothing more than a doctor’s note to satisfy security. It seems quite extraordinary to think that I had to remove my heeled shoes for an explosives check, yet with little more than a cursory glance, I could waltz through with two months’ worth of insulin and twenty Rohypnol tablets in a packet markedparacetamol.
Humble weapons, perhaps, but far more easily explained away than illicit poisons, and most effective, as you’ve seen. Granted, the Rohypnol administered to Adam Holbrook could have taken effect sooner, but Volga hadn’t considered his size, his strength. No matter—he succumbed eventually.
Ah, Volga… This is all because of her really. Not that she realized that at the time.
We had already begun to target the aviation industry, achieving notable success when we brought Britain’s largest airport to a standstill with nothing but a pair of drones. The press coverage was extraordinary—finally, people were listening—and I knew then that we could achieve something even bigger. Something so big that the powers that be would be forced to take action.
The following summer, I was monitoring the message board when Volga presented me with the perfect vehicle. Literally.
Volga had been with us for some time. She attended marches, seemingly having a nose for wherever disorder was and picking up a criminal record along the way. She was one of those young people who view themselves as indestructible, with a penchant for prescription drugs that enabled me to keep her on a lead.
I know someone who adopted a turtle through WWF for her daughter, she typed, but get this: she’s a fucking flight attendant!
The conversation had centered around the sorts of middle-class armchair activists who demonstrate a noisy fervor for “retro” glass milk bottles yet think nothing of flying halfway around the world to lie by a pool for the weekend.
Hypocrite! Ganges concluded, quite rightly.
She’s flying nonstop to Sydney in December. Can you imagine the footprint?
I could imagine more than a footprint…
I googled the route. The coverage was extensive, the tabloids already speculating at the celebrity guest list likely to be heading to Sydney, keen to see their names linked to such an historic flight.
Tickets had just gone on sale.
I messaged Volga privately, squeezing every last piece of information from her and promising her enough opiates to keep a smile on her face till Christmas. She did not know this woman personally; she knew their Ukrainian au pair. Could she, I wondered, manufacture an introduction? If she could get into the house, she could learn more about the family. I knew that Volga was in her twenties, and I suggested she might consider whether she could pass for younger. Society does not credit young people with enough intelligence to be suspicious, I’ve found, and this apparent innocence can be useful.
The rest, you know. Becca Thompson, seventeen. A-level student (art, history, French). Babysitter. Undercover activist. I was confident she’d be able to hold her nerve, despite her age. She had the element of surprise on her side after all.
In fact, my only concern was that she might go a little too far.