Headwind (2001)

by John J. Nance

  He turned and left before Jay could reply.

  Aboard EuroAir, Sigonella Naval Air Station, Sicily

  “Mr. President?”

  John Harris stirred in the first-class seat and opened his right eye, focusing instantly on Sherry Lincoln’s face hovering over him.

  “Yes, Sherry?”

  “I hate to wake you.”

  He sat up and stretched. “I’m not sure I was really asleep. What time is it?”

  She sat down next to him. “After three P.M. I just spoke with Jay Reinhart, and he’s waiting for the British Prime Minister’s office to ring him. In a nutshell, he says that based on what the Italian foreign minister told Captain Swanson, we’re safe here until tomorrow, and he’s worried about what the British may decide to do. So he wants us to wait until morning before flying to London.”

  “Oh wonderful! Another night at the Boeing Arms Hotel.”

  She laughed and rolled her eyes. “I know it! And I can’t find a working shower on the entire plane.”

  “Swanson is okay with this?”

  “That’s another reason to wake you, sir,” she replied. “Captain Swanson is coming across the ramp as we speak. He called ten minutes ago and told us to wake the pilots and stand by. He wouldn’t say why.”

  Craig Dayton met Captain Swanson at the top of the airstairs and escorted him to the President immediately.

  “We’ve got to get you out of here, sir,” Swanson announced. “Apparently, Mr. Campbell has convinced a judge to declare this ramp under exclusive Italian control. There’s nothing to stop them now.”

  “There wasn’t supposed to be a ruling until tomorrow! Why did the judge issue the order early?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. President, but I was told the judge has probably already signed the order, or whatever they do here in Italy. When my commander and the Pentagon get the word, I fully expect I’ll be ordered to stand aside and let them come aboard and arrest you.”

  “Captain,” the President said, “who relayed all this to you?”

  “An assistant to the Italian foreign minister. I’m afraid I’ve forgotten the name, but it’s back in my office.”

  “That’s okay,” Harris said, rubbing his chin in thought, then looking squarely at Glen Swanson. “You feel the call was authentic?”

  “Yes, sir. He seemed to know everything I would expect him to know in that position. He knew about my earlier call from Mr. Anselmo.”

  “All right.”

  “And I know he was calling from Rome because of the operator.”

  “How long do we have?” Harris asked.

  “I don’t know, but I would expect them to move rapidly. Having to leave empty-handed yesterday was an affront to the local Carabinieri commander.”

  Craig Dayton had been standing behind Swanson and taking in every word.

  “We can go, then?” Craig asked, turning and gesturing to the President. “If you’re ready, that is, sir.”

  “You can depart anytime,” Swanson said. “We did fuel the airplane, right?”

  Craig nodded. “Yes. Late last night. But, Captain, I need to know whether I’m going to have problems getting an air traffic control clearance to London. I mean, the clearance will come from Euro Control, which is in Brussels, but Rome Control could ask them to block us.”

  “I doubt that will happen,” Swanson said, “but I wouldn’t advise you to wait and test Rome’s resolve. And there’s another reason I think you need to go immediately. This is Sicily, and . . . quite frankly, Rome is only marginally in control here. When the Carabinieri are thwarted at something, the results can be unpredictable.”

  “I don’t understand,” the President said.

  “Remember, sir, that we’re still subject to their jurisdiction. I’d just rather get you out of here as soon as possible.”

  Craig looked at John Harris, Sherry Lincoln, and Matt Ward, then back at the President.

  “Mr. President?” he asked, waiting for the response.

  John Harris sat deeply in thought, his chin resting on his hands. After a few moments he took a deep breath and looked up at Craig. “Okay, I’m ready. Even if Jay’s concerns are right about London, I’d rather take a chance on them than stay in Italy. The one loose end is getting another plane chartered to take the veterans and their families back to Rome.”

  “I’ll handle that, sir,” Swanson said.

  The President turned to Swanson. “Captain, if you think it’s safe to do so, I want to walk into the terminal and talk to General Glueck and his group.”

  “I’ll make sure we seal the doors, sir. It will be safe.” He raised his handheld radio and gave the appropriate orders before escorting the President into the terminal and placing the PA microphone in his hand.

  Folks, may I have your attention?

  John Harris’s voice carried through the large passenger lounge as he stood by one of the doors to the ramp and held the microphone. Most of the forty-four members of the group had been picking through a buffet table set up at the far end of the terminal. They turned now and moved toward the President as he waited for them to gather.

  I wanted to come in personally and talk to you. I have decided to head for London and battle this fraudulent Peruvian legal action from there. I know you all volunteered to come with me, but that’s not necessary now, thanks to what you’ve already accomplished.

  We’re arranging another charter flight to get you to Rome this evening, but I want to tell you again how deeply I appreciate your loyalty to the office I once held, to your country, and by association, to me personally. Your decision to forgo that flight back to Rome and stand with me here has made a critical difference, and I’m more than humbled that you would massively impact this marvelous once-in-a-lifetime tour of yours to stand with me in an hour of need.

  There was an immediate murmur of approval followed by applause, which John Harris waved down gently.

  Please . . . let me finish. I know that . . . there was considerable concern that the White House was abandoning me, but that’s not so. President Cavanaugh had a difficult decision to make, and he made it for the good of our nation, and I applaud him for that. It would have been easier to fly off with that C-17, but he felt that both the United States, and this particular former President, would be viewed as cynically evading an international process we, ourselves, helped to create. He’s right.

  Harris spotted General Glueck and nodded to him.

  Before I leave here, I want to shake the hand of each and every one of you, and I especially want to thank General Glueck for leading this heartwarming show of support. I want you to know that this is not just me personally you’ve been defending, but the ability of every former president to travel the world without fear of arrest on trumped-up charges. And . . . being a veteran myself from a slightly younger generation, I want you to know how much I honor your service and sacrifices, and that goes equally for all you twenty-two men and our one female Marine veteran, Virginia MacCabe, over there, plus the spouses and lovers who’ve stood by you, and the three children and one grandchild who’ve come along on this trip.

  He replaced the microphone to applause as General Glueck approached. “You’re certain you don’t need us to come along, sir? I’ve polled everyone. We’re ready.”

  John Harris put a hand on the general’s shoulder. “No, I’ll be fine from here.”

  “Go home, Mr. President, as fast as possible. Please.”

  Harris nodded. “I want to, believe me.” He shook Glueck’s hand and turned to the others, greeting each in turn and hugging several of the older vets before turning to the Navy commander who escorted him through the door and onto the ramp.

  “Thank you so very much, Captain,” John Harris said, shaking his hand. “I’d better get moving.”

  “Yes, sir, but I think we’ve got things under control. It could be a premonition, but for some reason I predict we’re going to have a little maintenance problem with the outside phone lines into the base. Too bad, too,
because we just won’t be able to receive any phone calls from Rome until it’s fixed.”

  “Why, that could take hours,” Harris said, smiling.

  “Yes, sir, it sure could,” Swanson replied.

  “Thank you, Captain,” John Harris said. The naval officer turned and started up the aisle before stopping and turning around.

  “Ah, Mr. President. A personal note?”

  “Yes?”

  “When you left office like you did . . . honoring your dedication to the idea of a six-year term . . . it made me feel ashamed, because . . .”

  “I’m truly sorry to have disappointed you, Captain,” Harris replied, interrupting him.

  Swanson’s eyebrows shot up in alarm as he raised his hand in a stop gesture. “No, no! Not ashamed of you, sir. I was ashamed of me . . . because I didn’t vote for you. Your refusal to run again was the most inspiring thing I ever saw a President do.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  London, England—Tuesday—2:45 P.M.

  In normal circumstances, the plush surroundings of the multi-room hotel suite provided by the Deputy Prime Minister’s office would have riveted Jay Reinhart’s attention for at least an hour. His love of antiques and fine furniture usually dictated a happy search for the pedigree of each piece in a well-furnished room. Instead, fatigue and the surreal nature of the mission had already numbed him to the luxurious surroundings.

  Jay dropped his roll-on bag in the entryway and went to the bedroom to plop down on the king-size bed in deep thought.

  So now what, Kemosabe?

  Sherry Lincoln had called him when he was in the car on the way to the hotel to report their imminent departure.

  “I’m nervous,” he’d told her, “about bringing the President to London until I’m sure what this government is thinking, but I agree you’d better get out of there.”

  “We’re starting engines now,” Sherry said, falling silent for a few seconds as the whine of jet engines rose in the background. “Can you tell me exactly what you’re afraid of, Jay?”

  “Well . . .” he began, gauging how much of the swirling doubt to share with her. “I’m not afraid that London would send him to Lima as fast as Italy might have done, but . . . there’s a lot of discretion in the British extradition process and it scares me. If this government for some reason decided they wanted or needed to extradite him, they might just succeed. I just don’t know their attitude, and I can’t risk guessing.”

  “You sound tired, Jay,” she said suddenly. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m . . . ah . . .” he started to reply.

  “I know it’s presumptuous of me to ask,” she continued, “since we’ve never met.” Her voice was exceptionally soothing, and he found himself almost forgetting that she’d just asked a question.

  “What? Oh, no, Sherry. That’s not presumptuous at all. I mean, I appreciate your asking.”

  “So, what is the answer?” she prompted.

  “Ah, the answer is ‘no,’ I can’t be tired, because I’ve only been up about twenty-eight hours now. I’m just marginally incoherent,” he insisted.

  “Well, you can collapse in a minute,” she said, “but right now I need to give you the number for this plane’s satellite phone, since the GSM phones we’ve been using won’t work in the air. This is the one the cockpit crew will answer.”

  Jay grabbed a notepad from the bed behind him and took the number down. “I can reach you in flight on this?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Sherry replied. “By the way, our estimated arrival time at Heathrow is five-thirty P.M. your time. It’s an hour later here in Italy. Are you going to meet us there? Or what do you suggest we do on arrival?”

  “I’ll call you in flight with instructions.”

  “And what if we don’t hear from you?”

  “Then . . . tell the President it’s his choice, but if no one stops you, refuel immediately and go on to Iceland, refuel there, and head as fast as possible for Maine. But, Sherry, you can depend on my being there.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that. I’ll be looking forward to meeting you in person.”

  “Me, too. You, I mean.” He replaced the receiver and sat quietly for a moment, balancing the need to hear from the Deputy Prime Minister’s office with the need to call the solicitor he’d hired, Geoffrey Wallace, to find out what he’d discovered. Wallace had yet to phone him back.

  Jay punched in the number to Wallace’s office.

  “He’s out at the moment,” Wallace’s secretary said. “But I’m sure he’ll be calling you, Mr. Reinhart.”

  He thanked her and disconnected just as the room phone rang.

  “Mr. Reinhart? Would you hold please for Ambassador Jamison?”

  “I’m sorry, who?”

  “Ambassador Richard Jamison, sir. American Ambassador to Great Britain.”

  “Oh. Of course,” Jay replied, trying to pull up a mental image of Jamison, whose picture he’d seen quite often on television over the years.

  Why is he calling me? Jay wondered as a small shadow of guilt crept into the periphery of his thoughts. Should I have called him as John Harris’s attorney?

  “Mr. Reinhart. We haven’t met, but I wanted to thank you personally for what you’ve been doing for President Harris.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Ambassador. I’m his lawyer, after all.”

  “I understand. Can you tell me when he’ll be arriving in London? I’ve been briefed by Washington to expect him sometime this evening.”

  “Actually,” Jay began, caution slowing his response, “I’m not certain yet. Is . . . that why you’re calling?”

  “Well, there are two main reasons,” the ambassador said, his voice crisp and tinged by a hint of New England.

  “First, we need to compare notes on what you intend to do, and second, I need to let you know that the team from Washington should be here in about two hours.”

  “What team?”

  “The Secretary of State, several representatives of the Justice Department, and a handful of others. President Cavanaugh dispatched them a while ago to help you prepare President Harris’s defense when he lands here. I assumed you knew?”

  “No, sir, I didn’t. I mean, I welcome their assistance more than you know, but I knew nothing about it. Did you say two hours?”

  “Less than that now, actually. They’re coming into Heathrow, to the private facility there. If you’d like, I’ll swing by in an embassy car and pick you up.”

  “That would be appreciated.”

  “About the British. I’m aware of your trip to see Tony Sheffield this afternoon.”

  “How do you know that, sir, if I may ask?”

  “I’m your friendly local ambassador. When an American lawyer comes calling on the British government regarding the fate of an American President on British soil, the Foreign Office feels somewhat constrained to bring me into the loop.”

  The shadow of guilt Jay had felt became a cloud. This was, after all, a matter affecting two great nations, and he’d treated it as a private problem.

  “I apologize for not calling you, Mr. Ambassador.”

  “Not a problem. May I call you Jay?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. And I go by Richard. Now, look. Neither Sheffield nor the PM is going to call me first. They’ll call you, if that’s what they promised. So, if you’ll take down my personal number, I’d appreciate a call as soon as you learn anything of substance.”

  He passed the number and Jay quickly wrote it down.

  “In your opinion, Mr. Ambass . . . Richard, what can we expect the British to do about this?” Jay asked.

  “Frankly, I don’t know, Jay. I can tell you this government has been critical of the way the Pinochet case was handled by the Home Office.”

  “In other words, they think the Blair government should have supported Pinochet’s assertion that he couldn’t be arrested or extradited because of sovereign immunity?”

  “No. The opposite. Some members of this
PM’s administration seem to think Pinochet should have been shipped to Spain within twenty-four hours of his arrest, though that’s not really legally possible.”

  Jay felt momentarily disoriented. “They . . . support rapid extradition?”

  “I wouldn’t say they support it as a matter of general policy, or that they’re prepared to bypass normal legal process, Jay. But I would warn you that there are voices in this PM’s ear telling him that Britain doesn’t have the right to delay extradition as a matter of political decision. In other words, one of the reasons President Cavanaugh scrambled our Secretary of State over here is to try to convince the PM that Britain must not interfere with their courts in any direction.”