Headwind (2001)

by John J. Nance

  The President turned to survey the room, counting noses one by one.

  “Where’s Langley?”

  “The Director is on his way here from New York, and I didn’t press Langley to send the Deputy Director,” Rollins answered.

  “We need them in on this as soon as possible.” He looked at Jack Rollins and shook his head as he gestured to the television. “Obviously, with CNN providing the pictures we don’t need the National Reconnaissance Office.”

  “Different world, isn’t it?” Rollins agreed.

  “What are the Italians saying?” the President asked, turning to single out Assistant Secretary of State Rudy Baker, who was by the couch folding a cell phone.

  “Sir, they’ve sent a formal request to our ambassador asking for our permission to let the Italian Carabinieri gain access to that flight line for the purpose of serving the warrant and making their arrest. Interestingly enough, the Italian government is pretending that they do not have the legal right under the lease to enter the flight line. They have to know better, so they’re buying us time. They obviously don’t want this party in their back yard.”

  “Some party,” the President growled. “So we’re not going to screw up relations with Rome by plucking Harris out of there?” he asked.

  “No, sir. Not substantively.”

  “Is the Secretary of State up to speed?”

  “Yes, sir,” Baker replied. “He’s airborne over some godforsaken corner of Australia right now, but I briefed him fully and he concurs that they’re purposefully giving us a window to get Harris out of Italy. That doesn’t mean Rome won’t scream and cry and rattle our cage in public for a while, but it will have no impact on keeping the base.”

  “That would worry me if the Status of Forces Agreement for that base were in trouble,” the President said.

  “We do not want to lose that base, Mr. President,” General Davidsen confirmed. “I’m relaying that for the Joint Chiefs, sir.”

  The President nodded as Diane Beecher sounded an alarm from behind his desk where she’d been watching the TV screen. “Someone’s moving a vehicle through that gate!”

  The President turned to the screen as he gave a “wait” gesture to the general. “That looks like a single car. A staff car, maybe?”

  “Could be, sir,” Beecher said. “The other vehicles in that line are still sitting there.”

  “What are my options, Jack?” The President asked the Chief of Staff.

  “One, you give the word, and we pull him out right here, right now. Two, we stall while we arm-twist the Italians to ignore their treaty obligations and let him leave on some chartered aircraft, since there’s no civilian airline service there. Three, we do absolutely nothing right now, leave him to be arrested without apparent American intervention, and then use Justice and State to try our best to help quash that warrant and get him released through the normal legal process under the treaty. Four, we do nothing at all now or later and let it take whatever legal course it will.”

  “Option four is nonsense, Jack.”

  “You asked for all options, and we’ve had this discussion before, sir.”

  “Is there anything to accomplish by stalling and talking?” the President asked, turning to the group. “Anyone?”

  Rudy Baker sighed and shook his head. “No, Mr. President.”

  “That leaves me with two options. To rescue or not to rescue.” President Cavanaugh stood in silence for a moment, his eyes wandering to the far wall before looking at Jack Rollins again. “How do I do this?”

  “What do you mean, sir? Get him out?”

  “Yes. If I’m ready, and I think I am, what do I do?”

  “Just tell me it’s a ‘go,’ Mr. President,” General Davidsen said quickly, gesturing with the phone. “I’ve got Captain Swanson on the line, and the C-17 aircraft commander holding, sir. The second you tell me, we’ll move. President Harris is waiting at the door of the 737 as we speak.”

  “Okay,” the President said, turning to the others, “I think we should do it. Let’s get him out of there.”

  The President turned toward General Davidsen as a voice rang out from the other side of the room.

  “Just a minute, Mr. President.”

  The National Security Advisor, Michael Goldboro, stood suddenly from where he’d been sitting near the fireplace. The President turned, puzzled, before seeing Goldboro, who moved forward slightly, his head cocked. The general turned as well, alarm showing on his face. “We’re out of time, sir,” the general said.

  Once again the President’s right hand went up in a “wait” gesture to the general as his eyes fixed on Michael Goldboro.

  “What is it, Mike?”

  “This would be a mistake, Mr. President,” Goldboro said in a calm tone of voice. There had been a few other murmurs of conversation in the room, but they all ceased as everyone’s attention turned to Goldboro.

  “Explain, please,” the chief executive said.

  “Consider what message we’ll be sending to the world if we whisk President Harris out of harm’s way in a United States Air Force military aircraft. We’re saying that the Treaty Against Torture should be used against an Augusto Pinochet, or perhaps a Saddam Hussein, but it doesn’t apply to American leaders.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” General Davidsen began, but the President cut him off with a quick look.

  “This warrant is ridiculous, Mike,” the President replied. “We’re saving an American President from a bogus warrant and a trap.”

  “Does the rest of the world know that, sir? Has the legal process under that treaty we signed run its course and made the determination that there is no legal merit to that warrant? I know that’s a rhetorical question, but it’s a vital one.”

  “That legal process, Mike,” the President replied, his hands migrating to his hips, “is what’s flawed here. The fact that Peru could get some alleged Peruvian judge to sign an alleged legal instrument they loosely call a warrant, a thinly disguised death warrant, in fact, which President Miraflores probably wrote himself . . . none of that justifies using a legal structure designed to protect the world against real torturers and murderers.”

  “Mr. President,” Goldboro continued, his voice steady and subdued, his eyes locked on the President, “to the rest of the world, especially the Third World nations, we are, at times, an arrogant bully, and that perception has caused us untold trouble for decades in every matter from economics and trade to our attempts to advance human rights. Most of that misperception comes from being the most powerful and economically dynamic nation on earth. But some of it has been deserved, from the necessary arrogance of the Monroe Doctrine to the unnecessary arrogance of too many CIA adventures in decades past.”

  “Mr. President, we really don’t have time for this debate,” General Davidsen said.

  The President turned sharply to the general. “Bill, that’s enough! I’ll tell you when I’m ready to end the debate, as you call it.”

  Davidsen frowned but nodded immediately. “Yes, sir.”

  The President turned back to the group. “I want to hear every bit of what any of you has to say about this. I realize this has important overtones, even though I’ll tell you I’m still convinced we’ve got to do it. But continue, Mike.”

  “Very well, sir. Look, I want President Harris out of there, too. I have great regard for the man. But if you give General Davidsen over there the green light for this rescue, you’ll be feeding the lurking suspicion in the world that the United States has not changed its ways from the days when we actually did plot the overthrow of governments and the occasional assassination of dangerous foreign leaders, and tried to dictate economics and morality to everyone. I don’t believe we can afford to feed that perception, regardless of whether it’s right or egregiously wrong. Mr. President, you must focus here on the appearance of arrogance as much as the legality of the thing. That appearance, if fed by this rescue, will set us back in more ways than I could tell you in a year o
f briefing papers. The world needs our leadership, but to the extent we appear to be a self-serving bully to whom international laws apply only at our convenience, we seriously diminish our capacity to lead. There is a legal process here that we endorsed, and that process alone must determine whether this warrant has merit, not the fact that we can call in a C-17 and rescue whomever we want.”

  “That process is clearly flawed,” Assistant Attorney General Alex McLaughlin said, “which no one realized at the time of ratification.”

  Michael Goldboro shook his head. “The reality is that using legalistic interpretations to justify what we’re considering is arrogance. If we’re to be the champion of international law, it’s our responsibility to conform to its principles. In our domestic legal system, what do we tell ourselves? If a law is bad, a procedure flawed, work to change the law or procedure, not ignore or disobey it. We must honor international law with the same dedication.”

  “Mr. President,” Jack Rollins said, “there’s additional activity around that gate. I really do think it’s probably now or never.”

  The President turned to General Davidsen. “What’s the status, Bill?”

  “That staff car is in position to intercept President Harris, sir, and the rest of them may move on the ramp at any moment. Jack’s right.”

  The President turned back to Michael Goldboro. “Mike, what changes would fix this, and how would that process be served by leaving Harris to twist in the wind? Quick answer. We don’t have time for a panel discussion.”

  “Modify the treaty with a specific procedure, requiring a preliminary hearing on any warrant to determine quickly and fairly whether it sets up valid charges. Each nation can hold such a hearing in accordance with its own legal system as long as it’s fair. If the evidence is insufficient, the warrant is quashed then and there and the former head of state or whoever is free to leave in a few weeks.”

  “There’s a helicopter with Italian military markings landing in front of the 737,” Diane Beecher said.

  President Cavanaugh nodded. “All right. Then let’s get him out of there, tell the world why, and then put on a full court press to make the case for an addition to the treaty.”

  “From what position of moral authority, Mr. President?” Goldboro shot back. “The moment that C-17 lifts him off Italian soil, we have no moral authority on this issue, and we will not be able to change the treaty. Once again it’ll be the might of the United States of America making right.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. President, may I add something?” General Davidsen said.

  The President nodded, his eyes still fixed on his National Security Advisor.

  “Sir,” Davidsen began, “we have an assumed imperfection in a treaty. He’s suggesting we essentially sacrifice a former Commander in Chief in order to be able to raise the issue that a new procedure is needed. Sir, excuse me, but that’s bullshit!”

  “Okay, Bill,” the President said.

  “No, sir. With all due respect, let me finish. If the Italians want this problem off their shores, and they most obviously do, then they’ll find a way to send him to Lima if we leave him there, and then we’re into a monstrous propaganda problem and maybe even the spectacle of a U.S. President facing a firing squad or climbing a gallows. It’s absurd to knuckle under to the possibility that some Third World nations will take this as an example of arrogance.”

  “Alex?” the President said, looking at McLaughlin, then turning to Baker, “and Rudy . . . do you two think we can put enough diplomatic pressure on Italy to keep them from shipping John Harris out of the country before we can get full judicial process on the merits of the warrant?”

  “I don’t understand the question, sir,” Alex McLaughlin replied.

  “Nor do I,” Rudy Baker said.

  “Okay, quickly. The main danger here is that Harris gets whisked away to Lima. I agree that must not happen.”

  Alex McLaughlin was shaking his head. “It’s very unlikely the Italians will foster that, but they can’t control their judiciary any more than we control ours.”

  “From State’s point of view,” Baker added, “the Italians are trying to help us right now. God only knows what kind of political pressures they may face in the next few hours, days, or weeks. You want certainty? Getting Harris on that C-17 right now is the closest version of it you’re going to get.”

  The President turned and paced to one end of his desk in absolute silence as General Davidsen held the telephone receiver and watched him for the slightest sign of a “go” gesture. Taking a deep breath, Jake Cavanaugh turned toward his Chief of Staff and shrugged.

  “The hell of this office is dealing with the reality that so often doing the right thing will yield the wrong result, while doing the wrong thing is even worse.”

  “Sir?” Jack Rollins prompted.

  “Mike’s wrong to discount the role of perceived power and occasional arrogance in keeping us strong. It’s still a vital tool of American foreign policy in a dangerous world. But he’s right about our responsibilities. The way to tame a dangerous world is through respectable leadership.” He shook his head. “I can’t do this.”

  “Sir?” General Davidsen said, his mouth dropping open.

  The President took another deep breath and turned toward the general.

  “Get that C-17 off the ground immediately. Without President Harris. Rudy? Have our ambassador relay this decision to the Italians with my personal request for rapid negotiation on how we may cooperate to protect both due process and our former chief executive. I’ll want to talk to them within the hour, and I’d like the Italian ambassador here as fast as possible. Diane? Stay a few minutes along with Jack so we can figure out what to say when this hits the media. Who has the connection to President Harris? I’ll tell him personally.”

  “Line four, sir,” Jack Rollins prompted.

  “Mr. President,” General Davidsen began, “are you sure? I mean, before we let that C-17 go . . .”

  President Cavanaugh turned to look him in the eye as he placed his hand on the general’s shoulder.

  “Yes, Bill. I’m sure.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Sigonella Naval Air Station, Commander’s Office—Monday—6:20 P.M.

  The frustration of not being able to access the same live broadcast of the Sigonella flight line that half the world could see had driven Stuart Campbell to keep his staff in Brussels on the phone line from their conference room, where the projected TV image filled a wall. One of his partners narrated the scene as it unfolded, describing everyone moving on or around the ramp area in the picture.

  “If a mosquito moves down there, I want to know,” Campbell had demanded, listening carefully as his partner described the movements of people around the Boeing.

  Without warning the C-17 had started engines and taxied away, leaving Stuart Campbell in a sudden quandary over whether John Harris might have somehow slipped aboard.

  “Did you see anyone walk from one to the other?”

  “Well, yes, as I said. Two mechanics, and several uniformed officers, and one or two others. But always as many came out as went in the C-17.”

  “Were you taping it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Play it back, and look very closely. See if Harris could have changed clothes with one of them and slipped out that way.”

  Several minutes passed.

  “Ah, Stuart, I hate to tell you this, but looking at the tape? There’s a man walking between two Navy officers and trying to stay invisible, but I can see him in the shot.”

  “Does it look like Harris?”

  “He’s about the same height, and he’s wearing a suit coat, although the pants look like Navy uniform.”

  “Good Lord!” Stuart Campbell said.

  “They walked directly from the 737 to the Air Force jet, but . . . only the two uniforms left. I’m afraid that’s him.”

  “But it might not be.”

  “Maybe not, but whoever I’m looking at, at least no one dre
ssed like that left the C-17, and the others were trying to conceal him.”

  “Damn him!” Campbell said, letting his mind race over the problem as his eyes fell across the note pad he’d been using. “I honestly thought that kind of escape was beneath him.”

  The name of one Jay Reinhart was inscribed on it with a number in the States. “All right, thank you. I’ll ring you back shortly.” He toggled the phone and dialed through the local system to a direct U.S. long-distance operator and passed the number. The response from the other end was immediate.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Mr. Reinhart?”

  “Yes. Who is this?”