A first class suite on Emirates, and she still feels cramped. There’s nothing good to watch, and her martini has too much vermouth in it. She squirms, fidgets, and finally goes to the washroom, just for something to do.
Door locked, she takes out her compact and uses the laser to cut the vent bolts. The guy in 4B isn’t civvie and he’s made her; she needs an upper hand. Into the crawlspace she slithers, heading for cargo, shedding her travel clothes like dry skin.
She’s stuck somewhere over economy when she realizes the extra vermouth was a slow-acting poison.