Headwind (2001)

by John J. Nance

  “That’s a serious threat?”

  “Yeah, it is. I haven’t heard from them, whether the flight’s on or not, but we have to use the North Atlantic Track System to make it direct, and they could refuse us the clearance just like that, and for no apparent reason.”

  Alastair was nodding as Craig continued.

  “It’d be as easy as intimidating the average FAA inspector with a call from a U.S. senator. One call from Mr. Campbell to the right people, and we’d never get off the ground.”

  London, England

  Secretary of State Joseph Byer hung up the telephone and sat back with his arms behind his head as an aide sat in a nearby chair with a questioning look. Byer ignored him for well over a minute, carefully marking the time necessary to reinforce the reality that he was the head wolf, as he was fond of describing himself.

  “Wondering what the President wanted this time, Andrew?” he asked at last, his eyes carefully focused on the opposite wall.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “He wanted to know why, if we’d determined that Harris and Reinhart are in Dublin, weren’t we in Dublin, too, holding their hands.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Know why?”

  “No, sir. I mean, I think I do, but I didn’t hear what you told him.”

  “I told him that Harris’s lawyer insists on running the show, and Harris insists on letting him, so we’ll just wait until Harris gets himself arrested and then we’ll fly over and offer to help pick up the pieces. And if they don’t want our help, so be it. We’ll just monitor the situation. Let Harris twist in the wind awhile.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Meantime, get the others in here. We’ve got some official channels to engage in Ireland.”

  “You’re not fond of Harris, are you, sir?”

  “Has nothing to do with politics, Andrew. I heard about the allegations Mr. Campbell made in that hearing, that Harris knowingly approved torture and murder. I’m deeply worried there could really be such a tape.”

  “And if there is?”

  Byer lowered his arms and turned to look at his aide. “If there is, John Harris is in far more trouble than even he knows, and he’s going to drag us into a terrible debacle. The harm he could do to American foreign policy cannot be overstated.”

  Dun Laoghaire, Ireland—South Dublin

  Mr. Justice Gerald O’Connell had slapped his tiny electronic alarm clock across the room for the offense of waking a High Court judge before he was ready to regain consciousness.

  That was thirty minutes before he admitted to himself that the hour of ten o’clock was not a respectable time to be in bed alone, even on a holiday.

  The judge rolled to a sitting position and sampled his mood, finding it unusually sour. Sleeping alone was an agony and an ecstasy. With his wife on holiday in the States, he could hog the bed and the covers, but the unavailability of feminine comfort was an irritant. Mrs. Justice O’Connell—Elizabeth by given name—was still lovely and sexy and desirable and, dammit, he wanted her right now. And where was she? Instead of tending to her womanly duties, she was gallivanting halfway around the globe with her loony sister.

  I’ll hold her in contempt, I will! he thought, thankful she couldn’t read such thoughts from afar. She didn’t need red hair to be fearsome when angered, and his demands sometimes infuriated her.

  “So you want me now, do you, Your Lordship?” she’d screamed at him one morning several months before, pulling her gown off and standing in all her glory before the large bedroom window for the neighbors to see. “Take me, damn you! Right here, right now! Or would you rather do it in your courtroom on the bench?”

  He rubbed his eyes and remembered the equally irritating fact that he was the standby judge for this holiday, available to any rotten barrister or incompetent progenitor of Irish law who couldn’t handle the tide of crime and punishment without a bewigged jurist to bless the process.

  “Dammit!” he muttered aloud, just to hear the protest echo off the walls.

  He almost dared the phone to ring as he boiled a couple of eggs and burned some toast for breakfast in the downstairs kitchen, and ring it did.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Justice O’Connell?”

  “Who else do you think would be answering his phone on a holiday?”

  “I’m sorry, Judge. I thought you were the standby . . .”

  “Yes, I am, dammit. Who’s this?”

  “Patrick Nolan, sir, of the firm of McCullogh, Malone, and Bourke. I’m afraid we have an urgent matter involving a former U.S. President, and we’ve exhausted all possibilities of securing a district judge.”

  He snorted. “That figures. They’re all slacking. A U.S. President? Is this a joke?”

  “No, My Lord, it isn’t.” Nolan explained the basics of the case as O’Connell sat down at his kitchen table.

  “So the application is for issuance of an arrest warrant based on the Interpol warrant, is that correct?”

  “Yes, My Lord.”

  “So where are the Garda? Such a warrant has to be presented by them, not by a private firm.”

  “It will be, My Lord. I’m merely assisting them.”

  “Will the application be opposed by Mr. Harris’s counsel?”

  “We’re certain it will be, and we’re ready to notify them when you’re ready to receive us, Judge.”

  “Why on earth would you think I have jurisdiction of a case like this? It’s just a warrant!”

  Carefully and quickly, Patrick Nolan laid out his argument. “Bottom line, My Lord, in the absence of a District Court and the presence of an emergency, you may assert jurisdiction, if you so desire.”

  “Well, I may hear it, but get it out of your head that you’re coming to my house today.”

  “Begging your pardon, Judge, but there is a distinct danger of flight.”

  “From Ireland?”

  “Yes.”

  O’Connell thought it over for a few seconds. “You say this man is a former President of the United States. I do recognize the name.”

  “Yes, Judge.”

  “Is there some serious worry that he’s going to go forth and reoffend somewhere?”

  “No, Judge, but we might lose jurisdiction over him.”

  “What? You said the alleged crimes were committed in Peru, isn’t that correct?”

  “Yes, My Lord.”

  “Peru, as in South America, llamas, and halfway around the bleeding globe?”

  “Yes, My Lord.”

  “And, this is still the Republic of Ireland, like it was when I went to bed last night, correct?”

  “Ah . . . yes, My Lord.”

  “Then WHY IN BLOODY HELL ARE YOU WORRIED?”

  “Well . . .”

  “I mean, has he threatened to torture anyone here, other than me, that is?”

  “No, Judge, of course not, but . . .”

  “Tomorrow morning, then, counsel! I’ll hear this case promptly at eleven. No. At ten A.M. You’ll provide notification to Harris’s solicitor?”

  “Yes, My Lord.”

  “Good. Now leave me alone.”

  “Yes, My Lord. Thank you.”

  He replaced the receiver and sat in thought as he munched his toast. Anything involving such a high-ranking personage would draw considerable attention. Media coverage, government officials, diplomatic corps, and a thundering herd of interested parties.

  I wonder if there’s any substance to this? he mused, suppressing his long-held antipathy for the posturing of the American government on so many issues.

  This could be bloody interesting!

  FORTY

  Dublin, Ireland—Wednesday—11:00 A.M.

  The appointment to meet at the solicitor’s office at eleven had been made with an awareness that the entire issue would be moot if John Harris was already on his way to New York. Now, with the hopes of a commercial escape dashed, Jay was determined to keep the appointment on time. If they had to fight, being as prepared as pos
sible was vital.

  He and Sherry Lincoln had spent the hours before the appointment trying to charter a smaller transoceanic business jet to carry the President to New York, but the effort had failed. No one could react on such short notice to a new customer. The only alternative, Sherry was told, involved deadheading a long-range Gulfstream in from Chicago at incredible cost, but even then, the earliest wheels-up time out of Dublin would be late Thursday morning.

  “I’m out of tricks,” Jay told John Harris at a quarter past ten. “We either get the damn thing quashed here, or fly you out on the 737.”

  “The crew’s still willing?” the President asked.

  Jay nodded. “I talked to them fifteen minutes ago. They’re rested and can leave whenever we decide to. It’s risky, of course. They might have to turn around if the headwinds are too strong, and there’s always the chance they might have to divert to Iceland or Canada, which then opens up an entirely new series of challenges.”

  John Harris was silent for nearly a minute before shaking his head and sighing. “No, Jay, I want to wait right here, I think. I like your man Garrity, and from what he was saying . . . and the fact that I would really rather attack this head-on than run . . . perhaps I should simply send those fellows back to Frankfurt. I’ll get plenty of protection here.”

  “We don’t know that, John! We don’t even have a court or a judge yet.”

  “Nonetheless, I know what did and did not happen in the Oval, and I trust the Irish judge to sort it out and give me an adequate opportunity to prove that the tape is a fake.”

  Jay stood and stared at the President for a few uncomfortable seconds as John Harris sat on the side of his bed, keeping his eyes on the carpet.

  “John, it’s your money, but I want to keep those guys on standby until we know what’s happening.”

  Harris nodded slowly. “Very well. But my intention is not to use them.”

  The offices of Seamus Dunham of Dunham and McBride, the firm of solicitors Jay had retained on Michael Garrity’s recommendation, were in a working-class neighborhood in a nondescript building several miles from the heart of town.

  Michael Garrity was waiting as Jay, Sherry, and the President assembled in the small, somewhat shabby conference room and Matt Ward stood guard in the hallway.

  When the introductions were complete, Garrity outlined the case against John Harris once more, with emphasis on the alleged existence of the video. He was surprised to hear that Campbell had agreed to deliver a copy to Jay by evening.

  Seamus Dunham took over discussion of the strategy when a phone call pulled Garrity away. The barrister returned several minutes later, ashen-faced and exceptionally quiet. He slipped into a chair at the end of the table, saying nothing, but noticed by them all.

  “Michael?” Seamus Dunham queried. “Are you ill?”

  Garrity glanced up and tried to smile.

  “That’s a good word for it, I think.”

  “What’s wrong?” Jay asked from the far corner of the table.

  “That was Stuart Campbell. We have a judge.”

  “How did he know to call here?” Jay asked.

  “Campbell apparently has every phone number in the Western world,” Garrity replied. “It’s the High Court, which I expected. The time is ten A.M. tomorrow morning in the Four Courts complex.”

  “And the judge?” Dunham prompted.

  Garrity drummed his fingers against his chin for a few seconds before answering, his eyes on the opposite wall. “I truly did not know he was on standby this weekend. Never thought about it, not that I could have changed anything . . .”

  “What are you talking about?” Jay asked, a bit too sharply.

  Garrity looked up at Jay. “Only the worst judge we could get for a case like this. Mr. Justice O’Connell.” He watched Seamus Dunham’s jaw drop slightly.

  “Mr. Justice O’Connell,” Michael Garrity continued, “who has no love for the United States, and no tolerance for anyone except God, whom he rather imagines himself to be.”

  “Can’t we . . . recuse him?” Jay asked. “If that’s the appropriate word over here . . . request that he remove himself for being biased against Americans?”

  “Oh, he’s not biased against Americans per se, Jay,” Garrity said. “He’s just institutionally ticked off at the U.S. government for all sorts of things. I’m not so sure he isn’t still angry with JFK for getting shot.”

  “But, John Harris was the U.S. government, so to speak,” Jay said. “That makes it even more important that he stand down.”

  “Jay, Mr. Justice O’Connell has yet to disqualify himself on any case I know about. You might say he’s biased about his impartiality. We could file a challenge, but inevitably it would fail without some particularly outrageously prejudicial statement from him, and he’s much too careful for that.”

  Seamus Dunham was nodding. “That’s a blow, for certain. He’s been a strong proponent of the Treaty Against Torture. He’s even written a few articles. He was furious that Washington tried to sit on the fence in the Pinochet matter.”

  “We can’t forum shop?” Jay asked. “We can’t get another judge?”

  “We don’t do it like that here,” Michael explained. “You’re stuck with what you’ve got, and we’ve got a major problem right out of the starting gate.”

  John Harris leaned forward, catching Michael Garrity’s eyes.

  “What do you expect him to do that you wouldn’t expect another judge to do?”

  Michael began shaking his head sadly. “He’s a tyrant in the courtroom, Mr. President. He’s very hard to predict, and very hard to work with. Anything irritates the man, and he’ll destroy a perfectly good argument or train of thought by bellowing at you for no apparent reason. In other words, his temper and his antics tend to foul up the barrister’s ability to try any case brought before him.”

  “Is he reversed very often by your Supreme Court?” Jay asked.

  Garrity and Dunham both shook their heads no. “Seldom.”

  “Which tells me,” John Harris replied, “that tyrant or not, he knows the law.”

  “It’s not interpreting the law I’m worried about,” Michael Garrity said. “It’s exercising the broad discretion he’ll have in this case.”

  “So what do you recommend?” John Harris asked.

  “I recommend,” Michael began, “that we spend the rest of the afternoon trying to build a body of case law to refute the idea that either an unproven videotape or a single allegation can constitute a reasonable basis for this warrant.”

  “And the prospect for success?” the President asked, his eyes firmly tracking both lawyers.

  Seamus Dunham sighed and looked at Michael Garrity before meeting the President’s gaze.

  “Mr. President, I would strongly advise you to be prepared for anything. What we have here is a stacked deck.”

  The Shelbourne Hotel, St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin, Ireland

  Stuart Campbell excused himself from the beehive of activity in the Presidential Suite and adjourned to his bedroom, taking along the videocassette recorder he needed to make a copy of the tape for Reinhart.

  “No one else is to have access to that taped evidence but me,” Stuart had warned his team. “I have the equipment to make the dub, and I’ll do it myself.”

  It was 4:30 A.M. by his bedroom clock when he opened his briefcase and removed a small item in bubble wrap. He laid it on the bed, pulled a tiny digital video camera free of the wrapping, and removed a tiny tape cassette. He turned on the camera and inserted the tape, settling on the edge of the bed and watching the black screen suddenly come alive with black-and-white images of the back of a man’s suit coat. The man disappeared out of the frame behind a desk. Then the camera-bearing individual apparently sat on a couch and readjusted himself and the focus of the camera to a recognizable image: the familiar interior of the best-known office on earth.

  The sound quality was poor but serviceable, and as Campbell had done with the fi
rst copy of the tape in Lima, he watched it from beginning to end, making absolutely certain that the words he had heard spoken were precisely as he recalled.

  At the tape’s end, it appeared that Reynolds had turned off the camera just as he departed the Oval Office, leaving as the last image a bouncing shot of a long hallway outside the eastern entrance with a uniformed officer visible, standing by a mirror to one side.