by Mark Burnell
The place was still a museum, a perfectly preserved piece of the past. The twine-bound papers and magazines were just where they had always been. So were the discarded packing cases. Petra went over to the empty water-tank and shone her light into it. Proctor’s computer was still there. Then she went back to the front door so that she could count the floorboards forwards before moving the correct distance to the left. She got on to her knees and lifted the board. The plastic pouch containing Proctor’s seven disks was still where it was supposed to be, next to a small blue wash-bag that had originally been the property of Varig Airlines. Petra had placed the bag next to the disks in the week between Christmas and New Year. Inside it was a roll of banknotes containing sterling, dollars, francs and Deutschmarks, as well as the third identity that Cyril Bradfield had created for her.
* * *
Serra’s lap-top was on the table in her sitting room next to the two Sony Walkmans—the one she had been given and the one she had bought. The glare from the screen provided the only light in the room. The files she examined reinforced the unpleasant truth: without the data disk, she had nothing significant. Yet who was to say that what was on the disk would necessarily provide a solution?
Petra placed her face in her hands and took a deep breath.
If that flight fails to leave tomorrow, nearly four thousand people will die.
Those were the words he had used. She turned them over in her mind. What did they constitute? The bluff of a man who knows his fate, or a last-ditch attempt at self-preservation by a man too scared to die? Nearly four thousand people. Why that number, specifically? Perhaps there was no reason. No matter how hard she tried, Petra could not see how these people would die if the aircraft stayed on the ground. Once it was in the air, there might be a way. Once it was in the air, there was no telling what kind of damage could be created. Except that Serra had assured her that the hijack was due to come down in Malta and that the passengers and crew—most of them, anyway—were going to be released. Then again, Khalil had been a lie—apparently—so why shouldn’t Malta be a lie too?
Thinking about the possibilities wasn’t helping. The more she considered them, the more confused she became. So she concentrated on the things she knew. Alexander would never sanction her participation in the hijack. If the hijack was halted, nearly four thousand people might be at risk. If the hijack proceeded, three hundred or more passengers would definitely be at risk. And most importantly of all, Alexander would never believe that Khalil didn’t exist, despite the fact that he was the one who had created Petra Reuter. Coming from her, of all people, he’d find the suggestion absurd, perhaps comic, and, no doubt, painfully predictable.
Unsure of anything any more, she switched off the lap-top and called Frank.
‘Marina?’
‘Mmm.’
‘I’ve been thinking about you all day. Can I come over?’
‘No. I need to get out of here. I’ll come to you.’
* * *
We kiss and he leads me by the hand into his sitting room. He offers me some wine. There is a bottle of Rioja open. I accept gratefully. The wine warms me. He takes hold of my arm to gently steer me towards the sofa and his fingers press into my freshly-sutured knife wound. I flinch—it’s a reflex—and spill some of the wine on to the coffee table and the carpet. Frank isn’t bothered about that, though. He’s looking at me and he’s worried.
‘Are you all right?’
I’m not going to lie so I just stand there.
‘What’s wrong with your arm?’ he asks.
I just shake my head. It’s not that I’m choosing to stay silent. It’s that I can’t speak. Not at this particular moment. He seems to sense this. I am wearing a thick black shirt over a grey vest. His fingers unfasten the shirt’s buttons until it is open. Then he pulls the material to one side and sees the dressing around my left biceps.
‘What happened?’
‘I got cut.’
‘How?’
‘By a knife.’
Naturally, Frank’s eyes widen. ‘Who did it?’
‘Sit down,’ I tell him.
‘Marina…’
‘Sit down.’
He does. Then I sit beside him on the sofa.
I say, ‘Frank, I’ve got something to say to you—actually, I’ve got a lot to say to you—and I want you to hear it all before you say anything in reply. Okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘My name is not Marina Gaudenzi.’ Already, his expression is changing because I’ve dropped my accent. ‘My name is Stephanie Patrick. I’m English and I’m twenty-three years old.’
He gets my family history and discovers what a poisonous child and adolescent I was. He shudders when I tell him about flight NE027 and my involvement with it. After that, he is shocked and then disgusted by the story that follows. I know he is. Of course, he tries to pretend that he isn’t but the truth has a way of making it to the surface. In my story, Keith Proctor comes and goes and is then followed by vagueness. I cannot tell Frank about Alexander, or Magenta House, or Serra, or the ghost called Khalil because I fear that this information may put him at risk. I tell him this and he accepts it. He asks how I got the cut and I refuse to give him details. When he asks what happened to the person who did it to me, I tell him the truth. He nods grimly and, after a reflective pause, says, ‘I had a feeling you’d say that.’
It is after one in the morning by the time I have finished. Three hours have elapsed. Last night is forgotten, rendered meaningless by what I have just told him. We are both exhausted. I don’t ask Frank what he thinks because he hasn’t had time to absorb anything, and any answer he gives me is going to be something diplomatic and I don’t need that now. I’ve never needed that. He says we can talk some more tomorrow and I say that would be good.
Although Frank has had some time to get over the initial shock of my confession, I am surprised at how composed he seems. Surprised and grateful, since I need his support now in a way that I have never needed support from anyone before. I want to be held. I want to be comforted. I want to know that everything is going to be all right.
We make love.
It feels different. Not better, not worse, but different. Perhaps it’s because it’s Stephanie who makes love with Frank tonight, not Petra or Marina. The feeling goes deeper than the name. In a sense, I am losing my virginity. Not physically, but emotionally. As a rebellious teenager, Stephanie had sex, but she never made love with anyone.
Later, in the darkness, I feel wetness on my face. Tears. I can hardly believe it. They do not make me angry which I find surprising. In fact, I can feel my face is smiling.
I am Stephanie. Tomorrow, I will be Petra again. But tonight, lying next to Frank, I am Stephanie and I recognize this feeling that consumes my heart.
Quietly, so quietly that I am sure he cannot hear me, I whisper the forbidden phrase.
‘I love you.’
And I mean it.
5
The Rhythm Section
29
Eighty minutes after leaving Heathrow, flight BA283 was hijacked. The plan Petra had devised to prevent the hijack had been simple enough. She had intended to phone Alexander from Heathrow and tell him that the flight was due to leave the airport around midday and that he should alert the appropriate authorities. She was then to have insisted that no action should be taken until her second call. Naturally, she’d expected he would resist such a proposal but she’d decided to withhold the flight number, thus presenting him with an awkward dilemma. He could either play it her way or he could get the entire airport shut down. But, as she would have pointed out to him, if he chose to close the airport, incoming flights would be diverted and those terrorists who were connecting to BA283 would slip through the net. Indeed, it now seemed likely that all of them were going to connect to the flight and that she, Yousef and Mirqas had been the only three who were supposed to depart from Heathrow. On balance, she’d felt that Alexander would be forced to concede to her.<
br />
The hijack occurred during lunch, when most passengers were confined to their seats by the trays on their lowered tables. Being at the rear of the aircraft, Petra’s cabin was the last to be secured.
It began with a series of shrill cries that came from the forward sections of the 747. Around Petra, initial confusion quickly made way for fear as the pleas and shrieks in front persisted. Faces froze with fright and a deathly hush fell over the passengers until Zyed appeared, clutching an MP5 carbine in one hand and a female flight attendant in the other. A muscular forearm was wrapped around her throat while the muzzle of the weapon was pressed against her right cheek. The sight provoked gasps of astonishment and horror. As the panic spread, the noise level rose; cries of outrage blended with squeals of fear. A few prayed for deliverance while a few more were too stunned to make any noise at all. Mouna appeared at the head of the other aisle and began to shout instructions that Petra couldn’t hear. On the far side, a man in a navy fleece began to rise from his seat. Zyed swung the MP5 carbine at him. The flight attendant screeched at him, begging him to stay down. He paused halfway between sitting and standing, and then sank back into his seat.
Zyed and Mouna waited for the din to diminish before Mouna repeated her two instructions; no one was to leave their seat, everyone was to do as they were told. Providing these rules were obeyed, she assured them, no one would be hurt. The flight attendant reinforced the message in a high-pitched voice that trembled with fear. Shock began to subdue the passengers into silence; soon, an occasional whimper aside, nobody was making a sound.
Later, Mouna, who was carrying a Beretta 40-calibre pistol, began a slow trawl down both aisles, scanning the passengers. Petra was sitting near the back in seat 45K. As the number of unchecked faces decreased, she saw something close to panic in Mouna’s expression. Where was Yousef? Where was Mirqas? Mouna’s eyes met Petra’s eyes. Not a flicker was exchanged. Her failed search complete, she returned to the front of the cabin, whispered something to Zyed and then vanished from view.
Ten minutes later, the aircraft began a broad turn to the left.
* * *
Petra had never planned to board the flight. She had intended to check in for it because she needed to be beyond passport control when she made her second call, but that was as close as she had expected to get to the aircraft itself. Her visit to Cyril Bradfield, for instance, had been entirely precautionary. An insurance policy against something unforeseen. When she’d kissed Frank goodbye and told him that she was already looking forward to that evening, she’d meant it. In her mind, she had been sure that, one way or the other, it would all be over by the end of the day. After all, if her plan worked perfectly, nobody would be hurt and all the terrorists would be apprehended. And if it only worked partially, at least the aircraft would never leave the ground and its three hundred and eighteen passengers, sixteen cabin crew and three flight crew would be spared.
That was how it should have been. This was how Petra had intended it to be. But by the time she reached Heathrow Airport, she knew that was not how it was going to be.
If that flight fails to leave tomorrow, nearly four thousand people will die.
Petra knew about liars and lying. She was a professional. As Stephanie, and then Lisa, and now as Petra—or as Elizabeth Shepherd, Marina Gaudenzi or Susan Branch—deceit was entirely natural to her. She understood it and recognized it in others, saw how and why they used it, and the different ways in which they used it. Dishonesty had kept her alive. It had protected her. She regarded it not in terms of right or wrong, but in terms of practical choice.
In her heart, she knew that Marc Serra had not been lying. It was pure instinct and, once she’d submitted to it, her conviction strengthened and she saw that she had known it all along, and that she had tried to resist it because she didn’t want to believe it.
Petra had understood Serra. She understood men like him and she had understood him in particular. His claim was made out of a genuine desire for her to know what was going to happen so that when it did, Petra would know that she’d had advance warning of it and might have prevented it. Serra had known he was going to die so it hadn’t been some feeble attempt to buy clemency. On the contrary, it was a last stand, a moment of bittersweet defiance. That was to be his legacy to her. And that was the kind of man Serra had been. The challenge made, he’d died assuming victory.
Where was the evidence to support her theory? There was none. And supposing she was wrong? After all, nobody in their right mind was going to risk three hundred and eighteen passengers, a cabin crew, a flight crew and a Boeing 747 to allow Petra to pursue an instinct based purely upon her self-professed understanding of liars and lying. She accepted that, which was why the only course of action left open to her was to deny them the chance to make that decision.
* * *
Four and a half hours after the aircraft had been seized, the British Airways 747–400 began its descent for Malta. The initial eruption of panic now over, fear lingered in the crushing silence that surrounded Petra. Although she could no longer hear the anxiety of the passengers, she could see it in the faces drained of colour, in the unblinking eyes, in the white knuckles of hands that clutched arm-rests too tightly. Too scared for coherent thought—almost too scared to breathe—they existed on the narrow border between enforced self-control and hysterical breakdown. For her own part, Petra existed in the numbness she knew so well, and was content with the divorce of body and mind.
It was just before eight in the evening local time when the aircraft touched down at Luqa Airport, landing on runway three-two, before taxiing to runway zero-nine. The captain instructed the passengers to close all the window blinds as the aircraft rolled to a halt as far from the airport terminal buildings as possible.
It took half an hour to merge the three hundred and eighteen passengers, the First Class and Club World passengers being ushered into the economy cabins, a manoeuvre that left a mere handful of economy seats unoccupied. Petra understood the thinking behind it. With the hijack team reduced by two, concentrating the passengers in one area of the aircraft prevented the terrorists from being spread too thinly.
* * *
‘I am looking for a doctor who speaks French. Je cherche un médecin.’
The terrorist named Markoa was at the front of the cabin, searching for volunteers. He was tall and skinny, all bones and angles. Petra raised her hand slowly. Markoa came down the aisle.
‘You’re a doctor?’
‘Yes.’
‘Bring your things and come with me.’
Petra’s seat was by the window. The two passengers on her left had to move into the aisle to allow her out. She took her bag from the overhead locker and followed Markoa forward. There were two terrorists at the very back of the aircraft, one on either aisle, each commanding a clear line of view up the aisle to the front of the forward economy cabin. They passed another terrorist—Obaid—stationed in the galley between rows thirty-eight and thirty-nine. There were a further two at the front of the forward economy cabin—Fatima and Zyed—standing in front of drawn aisle-curtains. That left Markoa as a roving extra, one upstairs on the flight deck, and the leader himself, Basit. Or rather, Reza Mohammed.
Dressed in a black suit with an open-necked plain white shirt, he was standing in the First Class section, in the nose of the aircraft.
‘Yousef and Mirqas are not here.’
The statement came as a question.
‘They’re dead,’ she told him. ‘The British security services killed both of them.’
She saw a flash of fear in Markoa’s eyes but Reza Mohammed remained calm and focused himself on her. ‘When?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘What happened?’
‘I don’t know. Serra didn’t know either. And he wasn’t going to wait around to find out.’
‘You saw him?’
Petra nodded. ‘He came to London to see me yesterday evening.’
Mohammed was staring at he
r, waiting for the betraying signal that she refused to give him. ‘If the British security services had killed Yousef and Mirqas already, surely he would have kept as far away as possible.’
‘I was the only one he could contact. The rest of you were out of reach.’
She wondered if that was true. It was what Serra had said to her, but what did that count for? Mohammed was inscrutable. ‘What did he say?’
‘That everything should proceed as planned. And that I should assist if necessary. He also gave me his computer.’ As casually as she could, Petra reached into her shoulder bag, pulled out Serra’s lap-top and said, ‘He told me that you had the disk.’
For a moment, Reza Mohammed said nothing and Petra feared she had made a mistake. Then he patted his jacket pocket and said, ‘Yes, I have it.’
‘Could I have a look at it?’
‘There is no need for you to look at it. There is nothing on the disk of any importance. I’ve checked.’
Petra wanted to protest but restrained herself. She forced herself to shrug, as though it made no difference to her.
Reza Mohammed said, ‘Did Serra say what he was going to do?’
‘Only that he was planning to disappear.’
Mohammed nodded. ‘Then he will. What time is it?’
Petra looked at her watch. ‘It’s almost nine-thirty here, eight-thirty Greenwich Mean Time.’
‘And so … three-thirty in New York. I think it’s time to make our demands. You can come.’
They walked back through the lower Club World cabin, up the stairs and through the deserted upper Club World cabin to the flight deck, where Ali was standing in the open doorway, a Ruger 9mm in his right hand. Ali, who was the eldest of the hijack team, had been a pilot for Saudia. He exchanged words with Reza Mohammed and then made way for both of them.
Reza Mohammed told the captain that he wanted to make his demands. Petra glanced at the two co-pilots. The strain was evident in both their faces but they appeared outwardly calm. She looked through the window and saw the brilliant glare from the airport arc lights in the distance. Mohammed took the co-pilot’s headset and waited for a signal from the captain.
