Author's note: the passengers, some conversations, and the experiences Barbara encounters are based on my corporate travels across the years, maybe exaggerated for dramatic effect, but largely not (although in one scene, it was an employee, not me, retrieving an article). Fortunately, these occurred on many different flights, not on one adventure. And no, I have never been to Azerbaijan.

Plane en route to Azerbaijan

Barbara wondered if murdering a nun was worse than murdering any other passenger. And there were several to choose from. First, would be the woman sitting in the seat in front with long black hair that she kept flicking and draping over the seat, her locks falling over Barbara's small entertainment screen. After asking the woman twice to remove her hair from what she considered was her space, Barbara had given up. After all, she really wanted to sleep.

However, sleeping was impossible. Seated behind her was a man whose snoring screeched on his intake and sounded like an industrial strength vacuum cleaner with insufficient suck as he breathed out through his floppy mouth. But that had rhythm and Barbara's brain had begun to ignore it, but she couldn't ignore his intermittent cries of 'help me', or 'not the dog'. She decided to read.

The airline's inflight magazine was in English. This pleasant surprise soon passed to dismay as the cabin lights went out midway through a story on ritual bathing traditions around the world. It was almost midday, but heavy obsidian clouds obscured any sunlight trying to penetrate them. She tried her seat light in the console above her head, but no light came on, and there were no others in the cabin, only the dull light from the rows of emergency lights on the floor and above the overhead lockers. So, reading, sleep, or watching the only movie being broadcast, which seemed to be about two wrestlers with oiled bodies and trashy girlfriends, were all off the activity list. That left thinking, something she wanted to avoid at all costs as she knew African geography and lords of the realm would feature. Or she could talk to the nun.

"Go to Baku often?"

The nun looked at her in the dim light as if she were an alien. "I live there."

"Oh, right. Nice place?"

The nun nodded. "I live near Yanar Dăg."

"Uh-huh. Sounds pleasant."

"The Burning Mountain."

"Oh, okay. But it's not actually on fire?"

The nun frowned and leant towards her. "Yes. It is. It has burned for thousands of years."

"Oh. Like a coal seam on fire?"

"Cleaner," the nun said as she leant back. "Natural gas."

"O-kaaay," Barbara had no idea what to say.

The nun in her seat and scrutinised Barbara. "Are you a Christian?"

Barbara flinched at the directness of the question. "Umm, I'm not really a believer."

"Why not?"

Barbara did not want to explain that she had seen too much of man's inhumanity, so she shrugged.

"My order is one of proselytising missionaries."

"Uh-huh." Barbara had no idea what that meant. Where was Tommy when she needed him?

"We convert heathens."

Barbara's mind raced with images of nuns from B-grade horror movies—raised crosses, fiery eyes, haggard faces with teeth dripping blood. "Excellent work," she said, faking a smile. "I should really try to get some sleep."

"Your sleep will be eternal if you don't accept our Saviour."

"Mmm. Something to think about." Barbara turned to the window and closed her eyes tightly.

Heathrow Terminal 5

Tommy strode down the ramp towards the plane.

"Good morning, Mr Lynley," the male steward greeted him with a typically Australian drawl beneath the well-rehearsed neutral tone. "Welcome onboard. Seat 3A on the left."

"Thank you."

Tommy lifted his holdall into the overhead bin then looked at his seat. Positioned next to the window, a high wall made it very private. There was a wide console beside the seat with blue mood lighting and storage for headphones, glasses, drinks and books. A selection of reading material was held into a recess by a metal clip, and there were an array of points for charging all the electronic devices modern travellers carried. The maroon leather seat felt comfortable. It was not richly padded, but as he nestled into it, he found it supportive and cosy and, to his relief, had plenty of space for his long legs under the seat in front. A removable tablet in the console had a demonstration video of the seats functions. Tommy pressed the massage option, and felt the seat inflate, with the air moving up and down his spine.

A stewardess approached, her smile as broad as Bondi Beach. "May I take your jacket?"

Tommy smiled as he handed it to the stewardess. "Thank you."

A second stewardess arrived with a silver tray of drinks. "Champagne, orange juice, still or sparkling water or would you prefer something from the bar?"

Tommy gave her his best smile as he reached for a champagne. "Thank you."

"Lunch will be served an hour after takeoff. If you'd like to select your meal, chef will prepare it to your taste."

"Excellent, thank you."

Tommy adjusted his watch to Perth time, eight hours ahead. He would have a meal while watching a movie, then try to get some sleep. After picking up the console, he chose a comedy. Then he opened the menu. They had an broad selection of fruity and dry wines, mostly from Australia and New Zealand, and a choice of seared barramundi, riverine beef fillet with green beans and rosemary roasted potatoes or sesame baked eggplant with stir-fried vegetables. He chose his wine, the fish and a dessert of triple chocolate mousse and settled back. The next 17 hours to Perth would be pleasant.

Plane en route to Azerbaijan

Barbara woke from her fitful sleep with a jerk. The seatbelt indicator lit up and a constant chime told people to tighten their belts and hold on. The plane veered to the left, then up before it seemed to fall. Outside, the menacing clouds were lit by lightning. As the pilot's message was lost in the noise of lightning cracking around the plane, the nun grabbed her arm and dug her nails into Barbara's sleeve.

"Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen."

Barbara groaned. "It's okay. We'll be fine." She wished she felt that confident.

"Hail Mary, full of grace…" the nun continued her prayer with increasing speed. "Hay may foo grar."

The nuns words blurred, but he tone and intensity, not to mention her grip, intensified with every rumble of thunder and flash of blinding light. Barbara had never considered herself a nervous flyer, but did the nun know something she didn't?

As the plane continued to corkscrew through the sky, Barbara wished she was at Howenstowe, no matter how emotionally draining that may have been.

Heydar Aliyev International Airport

As they exited the plane into the terminal, the man ahead of Barbara fell to his knees and kissed the carpet. Unhygienic as that was, Barbara was tempted to do the same. The flight from Hell was over, but she would bear the scars for days. She rubbed her wrist where she was sure she would have indentations from the elderly nun's gnarly fingers.

Barbara checked the screen above the walkway. Her next flight left in three hours. As she followed the crowd up to the line forming in front of the security gate, she was pleased that she only had hand luggage.

The line moved slowly. When it was her turn, she dutifully placed her bag into one of the blue plastic trays. She tucked her passport into her coat pocket, then placed it into another one and watched until it entered the scanner. She then went through the body scanner. It beeped, and Barbara closed her eyes as three large men with short-cropped hair and flat-backed heads approached her. One pointed at her to go behind a scan to the left.

She followed a female officer, distinguished from her male colleagues only by her long skirt, behind the screen. The woman grunted and held up her arms. Barbara adopted the same pose and tried not to grimace as the woman ran her hands roughly over her body, invading curves that Barbara wished she would leave alone.

"Go," the woman said, "free."

Barbara smiled and then returned to the queue to collect her bag and coat. The conveyor was delayed as the operator had found something in one of the passengers' bags. Her bag, followed by her coat exited the scanner just as she reached the line. Pulling on her coat, she felt for her passport. It was gone. Adrenalin shot through her veins like hot ice, simultaneously burning and freezing. She turned to one of the operators. "Excuse me, my passport has disappeared."

"Where was it?" the man asked in heavily accented English.

"My pocket," Barbara said, pointing.

The man put up his hand. "I check."

Barbara checked all her pockets. They were empty. She shifted from foot to foot as she for the man to return.

"No passport."

"No. No, it was in my pocket," she protested. "I put my coat in the tray."

"Maybe someone steal."

The colour drained from her face as images of spending the rest of her life in a dark prison overlooking a burning mountain. "No. I saw my coat go in and come out, no one touched it. It must be inside the scanner."

The man frowned. "Was passport secured or loose?"

"Umm, I ticked it into my pocket like this." She demonstrated.

The man grunted something in Azerbaijani, and Barbara knew it wasn't complimentary from the tone. The man went and spoke to the operator. They chatted with a degree of animation and gesticulations that added to her anxiety. The men closed the line and moved passengers to the spare scanner. Taking a torch, the operator peered behind the curtain.

"It's caught in the belt. I call technician"

Barbara sighed with relief. "Thank you. I'm sorry."

Five minutes later, the man came back. "Technician come five hours. You wait."

"No. No, my next flight leaves in two and a half hours. I must get it now."

The man shook his head. "Space too small. I cannot reach."

Barbara looked at the barrel-chested man. He reminded Barbara of the huge rugby props that Tommy had taken her to see. She looked around. None of the officials were small enough to fit through the opening.

"I'll do it."

"No."

"Please. If I miss my flight, I won't arrive in Sydney for New Year."

"Family?"

Barbara shook her head. "A new start. My… the man I love has a new woman, and so I am running away."

The man frowned. Barbara winced. Why did I say that?"

"Heartbreak is bad. My wife… she died this year."

"I'm very sorry."

The man nodded and wiped a tear from his eye. "My son lives in Australia. He teaches at a university in Melbourne. Australia is a good place to find happiness." He handed Barbara his torch. "Keep low. I will hold your feet. Passport is on the left, about halfway."

"Oh, thank you."

Barbara took the torch and climbed up onto the conveyor. To fit, she had to lie flat and crawl through the hole. Two hands clamped around her feet as her head pushed past the heavy plastic curtain. In the confined space, her torch blinked off the metal surfaces. It was like being inside a monochrome kaleidoscope. Her eyes took a few seconds to adjust. Then she saw a flash of gold— the crest on the front of her burgundy passport. She wriggled over and tugged. It was stuck. Grunting, she put the torch down and pulled with two hands. There was a ripping noise, then it came free.

I hope that wasn't the biosecurity page.