Jay picked up the phone and ran his credit card again before dialing Sherry Lincoln’s GSM phone. She answered on the second ring.
“Go to London, Sherry. Please tell the President. On second thought, let me brief him directly, okay?”
There was a brief delay as she passed the word to John Harris and handed him the phone. His warm and friendly voice betrayed none of the tension or the peril he was in.
“John, I have to warn you of something,” Jay said.
“Go ahead.”
“It’s not likely, but . . . the current government and the current prime minister have not been tested on this issue, and they seem to think quite differently from their predecessors.”
“Meaning?”
“Well, it’s not impossible that their stance toward rapid compliance with the warrant could dramatically change from that of the Pinochet situation.”
“You mean, uphold sovereign immunity as a bar to the warrant?”
“No, John. I mean they could decide that they have a duty to hear the extradition case immediately with no interference from the Law Lords.”
“But you don’t think so?”
“Highly unlikely, but that’s why I need to get there first.”
“And if not Britain, Jay?”
“I don’t know,” Jay said at the very moment a new possibility flashed across his mind. “I don’t know, but I’m working on alternatives. Don’t leave until I call you from London in about nine hours.”
“I heard you hesitate,” Harris said. “What are you thinking?”
Jay snorted on the other end. “Something . . . an idea . . . completely off the wall and not worthy of discussion right now.”
“In my experience, Jay, those usually turn out to be the best of all.”
TWENTY-SIX
United 958, in Flight—Tuesday
Jay Reinhart awoke with a start in his first-class seat, instantly upset at himself for having slept for the last three hours when he needed to be working. The flight attendants were already moving about the cabin with a fragrant breakfast, their efforts spotlighted occasionally by bright sunlight streaming in the windows and the welcoming smell of rich coffee.
He glanced at the small color TV screen at his seat displaying a map of their progress over the Atlantic and read the time remaining: one hour, ten minutes.
Jay sat up and rubbed his eyes, feeling exceedingly grubby. He got to his feet and headed for the lavatory, surprised at how wobbly his legs felt but determined to at least sponge his way back to social acceptability—an imperfect process which took less than ten minutes as he leaned heavily on a selection of colognes and amenities the airline provided in a small survival kit. He returned to the seat and gratefully accepted a cup of coffee and a sweet roll before pulling out his legal pads and trying to focus on planning the high-speed sequence of events he needed to orchestrate in London. It was a task he kicked himself for not completing hours ago, before the effect of time zones, loss of sleep, and dry cabin air began to muddle his thinking.
The first order of business would be to hire the right solicitor—the right British lawyer—to represent John Harris under Jay’s control.
But which one? He needed a lawyer who could quickly help him determine which magistrate court Campbell’s people had taken the warrant to, what rulings might have already been issued, and specifically what the extradition procedures were in Britain. He also needed to know whether or not Campbell was already in town. And he needed a best guess from an up-to-speed local practitioner on even the most far-out stunt Campbell might try to short-circuit the process and convince the appropriate branches of the British Government to turn Harris over to Peru when the courts had finished with the matter. So he would probably need an international firm.
No, wait. The first order of priority is to call them in Sigonella, he reminded himself, checking his watch. It was 8 A.M. in Italy, 7 A.M. in the U.K. He needed to call before heading for central London, just to make sure nothing had changed.
Next, I need to talk to the government. I’ve got to know how they’re going to react to a request to seize and extradite a former U.S. President.
Another flash of apprehension and doubt rang a warning buzzer in his head, much as the stall warning in the little Cessna had cut through the heart of his confidence on that incredible flight.
Was it only a few hours ago?
Jay forced his mind away from that scene and back to the issue. The fact that Campbell was a highly placed Brit—a Knight of the British Empire and a senior barrister known as a QC, or Queen’s Counsel—meant Jay was at a tremendous disadvantage. Campbell knew everyone. He knew no one. How could he possibly equalize such odds in time to discover what he had to know?
This is all about law, though. Not politics. The courts should be blind to Campbell’s position.
But he knew better. Ultimately the British Secretary of State and the policies of Her Majesty’s government would determine whether or not to extradite.
Indelibly etched images of Parliament, the interior of the House of Commons, and long-dormant memories of past contacts with British officialdom came to mind, as did the reality that he no longer had even one active contact in Her Majesty’s Government.
Whom do I call? How on earth do I penetrate that maze?
He’d tried searching the Internet for names of knowledgeable lawyers among the solicitors listed with London offices, but the search had yielded only three possible names, and since London was in the early hours of morning, there had been no open offices to call.
The thought of John Harris sitting in the aircraft in Sigonella interposed itself. Had something happened during the night? He knew it was partially to divert his mind from the Herculean problems ahead, but he couldn’t resist yanking up the phone. He swiped his American Express card and punched in the number of Sherry Lincoln’s GSM cell phone, the sound of her voice like music on the other end when she answered. She reassured him that nothing had changed. Jay promised to make regular progress calls from London and rang off, then opened his laptop and connected it to the satellite phone again, establishing the link with the Internet just as the Boeing 777 began descent over Ireland for the landing in London. Jay was still on-line and searching frantically for legal contacts as the big jet steadied onto final approach over the English countryside. One of the flight attendants appeared at his side, standing in mock disgust with her hands on her hips to order the laptop turned off.
“Otherwise we’ll explode immediately,” she said, “and it will all be your fault, and I’ll never speak to you again.”
“Really? I mean, the explode part?”
“No, that’s just a wind up, as the British call a good leg pulling. But that’s the kind of nonsense this industry teaches us flight attendants, since all of us are supposed to be bubble brains. Actually, the only way that laptop of yours could be dangerous is if you physically bashed one of the pilots with it, which is probably a bad idea, by the way. They get very testy when attacked with computers.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Jay said, pushing a smile through his fatigue.
“But, you’ve really got to turn it off now, sir, or I’ll have to kill you.”
“Done. Are you sure you don’t work for Southwest? You’ve got a Southwest Airlines sense of humor.”
“I would, but I’m allergic to peanuts.”
Jay hardly noticed the landing and wondered absently if the close encounter near Denver could have permanently scared him out of his fear of flying—an oxymoronic concept to say the least.
Probably not. I’m just too numb and too tired to care.
The trip through British immigration and customs in Heathrow’s Terminal 3 was a rapid blur and within fifteen minutes he was in the baggage claim atrium resisting the urge to head immediately for central London. There was little point, since he had no specific place to go as yet.
Cash! Jay reminded himself. He located a cash machine a few steps away and waited in a brief line be
fore swiping his main cash card and punching in his PIN number.
“The card you have used is not supported by this service,” the screen announced.
Jay fumbled through his wallet for another credit card and pulled out a little-used VISA.
“Incorrect PIN. Reenter the correct PIN,” the machine proclaimed in bold type.
He tried again, trying to remember the number he thought he’d memorized.
Again the machine refused.
He pulled out his American Express card.
“Your account is not set up for this service.”
Jay opened his wallet and counted the remaining American bills: $50. Hardly enough for a taxi, let alone all he needed to do.
He looked at his watch, reading just after 9 A.M. and feeling the time already slipping away. There was a money exchange window nearby and he converted the $50 to pounds, taking some in change, which he to used to feed a pay phone to call the three solicitors he’d researched in flight.
“I’m terribly sorry, sir, Mr. Thompkins does not accept international cases.”
“So sorry, Mr. Reinhart, but international law isn’t my specialty. Frankly, I don’t have a recommendation for you.”
“Mr. Blighstone is out of the country this week.”
Jay opened a London phone book and riffled through the yellow pages for solicitors, writing down the numbers of several other firms before calling them one by one and finding only one firm with any promising experience.
“But Mr. Smythe won’t be in until ten this morning.”
“That’s okay,” Jay replied. “Give me your address and I’ll be there at ten. I’m going to need to use someone’s office and phone as well.”
Jay wrote the address down and headed for the exit, stopping at a GSM cellular phone concession he’d spotted in the terminal. He filled out the paperwork quickly and used one of his credit cards to rent a phone, then headed to a ticket booth for the new high-speed Heathrow Express train, relieved to see familiar credit card logos adorning the counter.
Thank God! Jay thought. American Express!
He bought a round-trip ticket and arrived less than 20 minutes later in Paddington Station where he transferred to the underground, emerging at Holborne into a light, cold rain. Jay buttoned his topcoat and began walking resolutely toward where the solicitor’s office was supposed to be.
The address, he’d been told, was less than two blocks from the Old Bailey, as the central criminal courts of London were called. But after dashing back and forth several times and wasting a half hour, he finally stopped a policeman for directions. Jay’s dark hair was matted with rain and his pants legs soaked as he unfolded the piece of paper once more to show the officer the address he was struggling to find.
“Oh, there’s the problem, sir,” the police officer said with irritating cheerfulness. “Around the back of that street on the left. Just go down here, make a left again at the Viaduct Pub, and you can’t miss it.”
“That’s the one by the small restaurant that’s making me ravenous with all the good smells?” Jay asked.
“The very same. They pipe it out over the doorstep for that purpose, you know.”
A shiny brass plaque on the masonry exterior proclaimed the name of the firm, and the office was on the second floor. The building had been old when Queen Victoria reigned, but the interior reflected the sort of modern affluence he’d hoped to locate, one which bespoke connections and capabilities he could draw on rapidly.
Jay glanced at his watch as the receptionist called the appropriate secretary. It was almost exactly 10 A.M.
“He’s not in yet, Mr. Reinhart, but we have an office space you may use until Mr. Smythe arrives.” A conservatively attired young woman with an indulgent smile appeared and escorted him to a small cubicle by the firm’s library.
“These are all local calls, I trust?” she asked.
“Yes, but I’ll compensate any expense.”
“Of course, Mr. Reinhart, but you understand, I’m sure, that we would need Mr. Smythe’s approval before . . .”
“Before you consider me a client? Yes. I’m an American lawyer. I understand the protocols.”
“Very well, sir.”
“Mr. Smythe does have contacts in the government associated with foreign affairs and treaty compliance and such?”
“Yes. Certainly. He used to be an MP.”
“Good.”
“Member of Parliament,” she explained.
“I understand. That’s excellent. Oh, one thing I forgot to ask,” Jay said. “I need to be certain there’s no conflict of interest. Your firm doesn’t in any way have a correspondent relationship with Sir William Stuart Campbell of Brussels, does it?”
The woman’s expression changed from a pleasant, conservative smile to a broad grin.
“Is this a test, then?” she questioned.
“I beg your pardon?” Jay asked, thoroughly alarmed.
Her smile diminished. “Mr. Reinhart, we handle all of Sir William’s business interests in London. In fact, he owns this building.”
“I . . . thought he had his own firm.”
“Indeed, he does. That’s why we handle the commercial affairs for his business interests. Is this a problem?”
The rain had intensified slightly when Jay regained the street, intent on finding a London taxi to get him to the firm Smythe’s office had given him as a referral to a Geoffrey Wallace. The address was halfway across the center of London, and he stopped in a dry doorway to call them on the GSM phone, a process which ate up another fifteen minutes before Wallace came on the line and listened to his abbreviated plea after promising he had no connections with Stuart Campbell.
“Fascinating, Mr. Reinhart. And it was shaping up to be a boring day.”
“Can you help?”
“I don’t see why not. I haven’t had an American President as a client for at least the last few decades that I can recall.”
“Great. Here’s what I need you to do before I even get there.”
Jay passed along string of questions, including the problem of finding someone in government.
“Can’t help you greatly there,” the solicitor said. “But I do know a chap in the foreign office who might be a start. You could see him while I work on these other items.”
“How do I get there?”
“It’s just by St. James Park on St. George’s Street
,” he said. “Just by Parliament. Take a taxi, mind you. The driver will know how to find it.”
Jay passed the number of his rented GSM phone and rang off with a promise that the man in the foreign office would be called to pave the way.
As he disconnected, Jay realized he’d been leaning against an ATM machine. He pulled a scrap of paper from the recesses of his coat pocket and rechecked the PIN number he’d suddenly remembered on the train from Heathrow. He inserted his Master Card and keyed in the numbers and required choices, relieved to hear the sound of £20 notes being counted out by the machine.
The ride to a nondescript government building took nearly thirty minutes through the metallic molasses of London traffic. Jay entered the massive government structure acutely aware of his less than stellar appearance. A labyrinth of halls and corridors, stairways and doors unfolded ahead of him as he tried to carry his belongings with the unperturbed air of one who always arrives at professional meetings with his suitcase. There were wheels on the bottom of the bag, but he refused to let himself use them. Carrying the damn thing was bad enough, he thought, but rolling it would utterly violate what Linda had dubbed “the guy code.”
He followed a shapely secretary into an inner office, her image sparking memories of how sexy Linda always looked when she walked.
Jay shook his head to expunge the thought, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand.
“Geoffrey Wallace told me you were coming,” the deputy minister who handled treaty affairs told Jay when he’d introduced himself and sat down. “But I’m afraid I can’t h
elp you directly. We are aware of the Pinochet matter, of course, but I am personally not connected with the Secretary of State’s Office, the Law Lords, or any official position regarding the hypothetical question you’re raising.”
“Who is?”
“May I offer you some tea or coffee, by the way?”
“That’s okay, I’m fine,” Jay lied, suppressing a growing desperation for coffee. “If not yourself, who would be able to help me?”
Headwind (2001) Page 22
