"Let's just leave it open, then
," said Petra.
"Can't fly all the way to Kabul with the door open."
What did it mean, his telling her their destination? Did it mean that he trusted her a little? Or that it didn't matter what she knew, since he had decided she was going to die?
Then it occurred to her that if he wanted her dead, she would die. It was that simple. So why worry about it? If he wanted to kill her by pushing her out the door, how was that different from a bullet in the brain? Dead was dead. And if he didn't plan to kill her, the door needed to be closed, and having him serve as anchor was the second-best plan.
"Isn't there somebody in the crew who can do this?" she asked.
"There's just the pilot," said Achilles. "Can you land a plane?"
She shook her head.
"So he stays in the cockpit, and we close the door."
"I don't mean to be a nag," said Petra, "but opening the door was a really stupid thing to do."
He grinned at her.
Holding tight to his wrist, she slid along the wall toward the door. It was only partially open, the kind of door that worked by sliding up. So she didn't have to reach very far out of the plane. Still, the cold wind snatched at her arm and made it very hard to get a grip on the door handle to pull it down into place. And even when she got it down into position, she simply didn't have the strength to overcome the wind resistance and pull it snug.
Achilles saw this, and now that the door wasn't open enough for anyone to fall out and the wind could no longer suck anybody out, he let go of her and of the bulkhead and joined her in pulling at the handle.
If I push instead of pulling, thought Petra, the wind will help me, and maybe we'll both get sucked right out.
Do it, she told herself. Do it. Kill him. Even if you die doing it, it's worth it. This is Hitler, Stalin, Genghis, Attila all rolled into one.
But it might not work. He might not get sucked out. She might die alone, pointlessly. No, she would have to find a way to destroy him later, when she could be sure it would work.
At another level, she knew that she simply wasn't ready to die. No matter how convenient it might be for the rest of humanity, no matter how richly Achilles deserved to die, she would not be his executioner, not now, not if she had to give her own life to kill him. If that made her a selfish coward, so be it.
They pulled and pulled and finally, with a whoosh, the door passed the threshold of wind resistance and locked nicely into place. Achilles pulled the lever that locked it.
"Traveling with you is always such an adventure," said Petra.
"No need to shout," said Achilles. "I can hear you just fine."
"Why can't you just run with the bulls at Pamplona, like any normal self-destructive person?" asked Petra.
He ignored her gibe. "I must value you more than I thought." He said it as if it took him rather by surprise.
"You mean you still have a spark of humility? You might actually need someone else?"
Again he ignored her words. "You look better without blood all over your face."
"But I'll never be as pretty as you."
"Here's my rule about guns," said Achilles. "When people are getting shot, always stand behind the shooter. It's a lot less messy there."
"Unless people are shooting back."
Achilles laughed. "Pet, I never use a gun when someone might shoot back."
"And you're so well-mannered, you always open a door for a lady."
His smile faded. "Sometimes I get these impulses," he said. "But they're not irresistible."