Headwind

by John J. Nance

  “Which means,” Craig continued, his words metered, “that this tremendously important and pivotal decision in the evolution of international law—the determination of whether this legal travesty happens or not—turns entirely on what you decide, as historians will undoubtedly note. They’ll probably call it ‘Chadwick’s Decision.’ ”

  “Oh, thank you so very much! You spread guilt quite effectively for a non-Catholic, you know.”

  “We’ve already started this show, Alastair. If we land in Rome, we pulled our little stunt in Athens for nothing.”

  “We? What is this ‘we’ business, Captain, sir? I seem to recall begging you not to take off.”

  “You said, and I quote, ‘Don’t leave without a clearance.’ So we got a clearance.”

  “I’m beginning to see why King George let the bleeding colonies go.”

  “Wasn’t his choice. We whipped Cornwallis.”

  “Yanks!”

  “Brits!”

  They fell silent for nearly a minute as the 737 turned once more on an outbound heading.

  “Oh, bloody hell! All right! I’ll plug in Sigonella if you’ll give me some semi-intelligent reason to give Approach Control.”

  “Thank you, Alastair. But don’t refile for Sigonella. Tell him we want to divert to Naples. We don’t want them figuring this out just yet.”

  “And what’s my reason?” Alastair asked.

  “We can’t tell them. And that’s the truth. We can’t.”

  NINE

  Laramie, Wyoming—Monday—6:50 A.M. Local

  Jay Reinhart squeezed the cell phone between his left ear and shoulder as he waited for Assistant Attorney General Alex McLaughlin to return to the line. He picked up the house phone meanwhile and pressed it to his right ear.

  “Still there?”

  Sherry Lincoln’s voice was a welcome sound. “Right here, Mr. Reinhart.”

  “Still working. Hang on,” he told her, setting the receiver down again by the yellow legal pad, the first two pages of which were already filled with notes.

  “Mr. Reinhart?” McLaughlin said from his Washington office.

  “Yes. Right here.” He readjusted the phone and almost dropped it, catching it with his left hand in time. “Go ahead.”

  “Well, we’re all going to have to move very fast on this. I’m glad President Harris was able to retain you so rapidly.”

  “This is rather a shock,” Jay replied, massaging his forehead.

  “State assures me the arrest will be respectful, and there will be a first-class hotel waiting, but the problem comes tomorrow morning Rome time. Peru’s counsel already has an extradition hearing scheduled for eight A.M. Now, we have no one in Rome from Justice, and even if we did, our role becomes essentially amicus curiae, friend of the court. All we need is the equivalent of a motion for continuance in civil law terms, but, as I say, Justice can only support your argument, we can’t make the motion. Does your firm have someone in Rome who can enter an appearance and do the initial argument for delay?”

  “I . . . don’t have a firm, Mr. McLaughlin.”

  There was stunned silence from the Beltway. “You don’t have a . . . you’re not part of a firm?”

  “No.”

  “You’re a sole practitioner?” McLaughlin asked in amazement.

  “Actually, right now I’m not even practicing. I teach at the University of Wyoming.”

  “I see. The law school?”

  “No. The main university.”

  More silence, and the sounds of a man completely off balance clearing his throat. “Ah, I hate to ask this, Mr. Reinhart, but you are a lawyer, I hope?”

  “Yes. I’m licensed in Texas.”

  “May I . . . may I ask your area of legal expertise?”

  “Calm down, Mr. McLaughlin. I’m an international legal scholar, and a former practitioner. I am current, even though I’ve technically been on the sidelines for a while.”

  “I see.”

  “I do understand this, and I do know as much about what to do as anyone else would at this point.”

  “Mr. Reinhart, forgive me, but this isn’t going to work. President Harris needs the immediate services of a substantial firm with offices all over Europe, where someone can get to him within the hour. I doubt very much even the U.S. Air Force could get you personally from Laramie to Rome in time.”

  “The motion for continuance is very simple under Italian law, Mr. McLaughlin,” Jay replied evenly. “I can hire local counsel in Rome from here in half an hour.”

  “Well . . . that may be true, but what’s needed is a network of long-time polished legal contacts and the ability to work with us from experience, and clerical, secretarial, and paralegal support.”

  “I know all that.”

  “Mr. Reinhart, I do not want to demean your expertise, sir, but this is not a job for a sole practitioner.”

  “The President hired me, Mr. McLaughlin. You are speaking to his lead counsel. Let’s get to the substance of this matter so I can make the necessary calls.”

  “Are you familiar with our embassy staff in Rome?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t know the American ambassador?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know our liaison to the World Court at The Hague, or the U.S. ambassador to the United Nations and his staff?”

  “No.”

  “Then how in hell, Mr. Reinhart,” McLaughlin said, his voice hardening and his volume increasing, “can you possibly hope to defend not only President Harris’s right to remain a free man, but also the broader interests of the United States of America in a very critical and immediate matter from the MIDDLE OF FRIGGIN’ WYOMING?”

  “By phone, by fax, by logic, by training, and by virtue of the fact that I am his lawyer! How much time are we going to waste on this debate? The man’s hovering over Rome as we speak, he’s at the mercy of two commercial pilots, and I’ll bet you your limousine privileges there’s a Peruvian jet of some sort sitting at the next gate to their’s at Da Vinci Airport as part of a quiet little plot to whisk him away on arrival while the local police look the other way. I seriously doubt that John Harris would ever make it to the hotel in Rome, let alone that hearing tomorrow. He’ll be over the Atlantic on the way to a show trial in Lima.”

  “How did you know about that plane? Our intelligence sources just told me.”

  “Logic, Mr. Assistant Attorney General. That’s how I’d do it if I were Sir William Stuart Campbell.”

  “You know him?”

  “Yes. Do you?” Jay asked, permitting a little sarcasm into his tone.

  “No. Only by reputation.”

  “Well, sir, I know him all too well. I’m handicapped by distance, but not by experience.”

  “Are you aware of some plot to, as you say, whisk President Harris away?”

  “I’m telling you what they may try. I could be wrong, but I wouldn’t count on it.”

  “That would be a form of kidnapping, not extradition. Italy would never permit that, and Peru could be held accountable!”

  “You want to go argue that with Presidente Miraflores while President Harris is rotting in a Lima prison cell? I’d rather keep him out of their hands.”

  “Well, of course, so would we. Excuse me a second . . .”

  Jay could hear the sound of voices in the background as McLaughlin conferred with someone. He heard the sound of paper being sorted or pages being turned, and a barely disguised grunt of amazement. When the Assistant Attorney General returned to the line, his voice had taken on a coldness Jay recognized immediately.

  “Mr. Reinhart, you say you’re from Texas?”

  “That’s right. And yes, I was, at one time, District Judge Jay Reinhart of Dallas County, and I’ll make this easy for you. The suspension was up last month. Now, for God’s sake, let’s talk about substance and what we’re going to do while I’ve still got an open line to the aircraft, because there’s one major thing you don’t know.”

&nbs
p; “And that would be?”

  “He’s not going to land in Rome, and we’re going to have as much of a diplomatic fight ahead of us as a legal one.”

  “If not Rome, where, in fact, is he going to land? And how do you know?” McLaughlin asked, his tone sarcastic and exasperated.

  “I can’t tell you until he’s safely on the ground. Attorney client privilege.”

  “I see.”

  “And, I’m talking to you on a nonsecure analog cell phone anyone could listen to.”

  “Oh,” McLaughlin replied. “Well, at least that makes sense.”

  “I’m guessing he will land in about forty-five minutes. In the meantime, I need you to be ready to tell me exactly what, if anything, the U.S. military can do for President Harris. I’ll call you back.”

  When Alex McLaughlin had agreed and disconnected, Jay folded the cell phone and sat down on his only kitchen stool, his hands shaking and his mouth cotton-dry.

  God Almighty! I just beat up an Assistant Attorney General of the United States!

  He sat for a few seconds, trying to think through the next moves, and the people he would need to talk with, if not command: the State Department, the White House, perhaps the Chief of Staff and the sitting President, the government of Italy, maybe officials of other nations as well, not to mention the entire infrastructure of the international and European legal community.

  And here he sat in the middle of “friggin’ ” Wyoming, as McLaughlin had said, with a single line, a cell phone, and no staff.

  Jay realized his stomach felt queasy. McLaughlin was right. There’s no way I can pull this off!

  He picked up the receiver to the house phone, wondering if the connection to the 737 was still good. “Ah, Ms. Lincoln? Are you still there?”

  “This is John Harris, Jay. Where are we?”

  “John, I’m sorry. I’m ethically bound to step aside. I can’t do this.”

  TEN

  EuroAir 42, in Flight, Holding South of Rome, Italy—Monday—2:50 P.M.

  “EuroAir Forty-Two, your requested clearance is denied. Your destination must be Rome, sir.”

  Craig Dayton turned to Alastair Chadwick with his eyebrows raised.

  “What the heck does that mean?”

  Alastair was shaking his head. “I’ve never been refused a clearance before and told where to land. At least not in civilian flying.”

  Craig toggled the transmitter. “Rome Approach, do you understand that we are not asking, we’re telling you we want a clearance to Naples?”

  “Disapproved, Forty-Two. Those are my instructions. You will be cleared from holding to the approach at Da Vinci Airport as soon as you request it.”

  “And if we request clearance direct to Malta instead?”

  “Ah . . . stand by, Forty-Two.”

  There was a brief pause before another voice—clearly a supervisor—came on the channel. “Forty-Two, the Italian Air Force central command is instructing you to land immediately at Da Vinci Airport. Are you ready for your approach?”

  “Check our squawk, Rome!” Craig snapped. “Then see if you want to tell me what to do.” He reached over the center console to the transponder control head and changed the numbers to 7500, the international code for hijacking.

  “The alarms will be going off down there now for certain,” Alastair said. “We haven’t just crossed the Rubicon, we’ve burned the bridge behind us.”

  He could see Craig gritting his teeth in anger and shaking his head. “I can’t believe their arrogance!”

  The first controller’s voice returned to their headsets, far more cautious than before.

  “EuroAir Forty-Two, we have received your seventy-five hundred squawk. What is your request?”

  “Direct Malta,” Craig said, releasing the transmitter button and turning to Alastair. “That’ll take us right over the top of Catania and Sigonella.”

  Alastair nodded as the controller replied.

  “Roger, Forty-Two. You are cleared present position direct Malta. Climb and maintain flight level two eight zero.”

  “Departing holding and departing one zero thousand for flight level two eight zero,” Craig replied. “Initial GPS heading is two one four degrees.”

  Leonardo Da Vinci International Airport, Rome, Italy

  The apparent frenzy of activity at the arrival gate just ahead had caught Stuart Campbell’s attention as he approached the departure lounge. An overabundance of grim-faced police officers were milling around and talking urgently into their two-way radios, occasionally glancing out at the empty spot on the ramp which should have held the Boeing 737 designated as EuroAir’s Flight 42.

  Campbell found the airport manager in a huddle with two members of the Carabinieri.

  “Gentlemen? Is something happening I’m not aware of?”

  “They were in a holding pattern,” the airport manager began, “but now they are refusing to land.”

  “What, precisely, do you mean, ‘refusing to land’?” Campbell asked.

  One of the officers lowered his radio and spoke a few words directly into the manager’s ear.

  “What?” the manager replied, his eyes wide.

  “Si,” the officer responded.

  “What is it?” Campbell asked.

  The manager was shaking his head. “Now the captain is requesting to fly to Malta.”

  “You’ve got to be joking,” Campbell said with a disbelieving smile. “That’s not going to solve his problem!”

  Stuart Campbell pulled out his GSM phone and punched in a number as he walked slowly toward the floor-to-ceiling window of the terminal lounge. Outside, at the adjacent gate, he could see the captain and first officer sitting in the cockpit of the Boeing 727 he’d chartered to fly John Harris to Portugal. He saw the captain suddenly reach for his ringing cell phone.

  “Yes?”

  “Captain Perez? Stuart Campbell, here. Have you been monitoring the frequency?”

  “Yes, sir. Forty-Two is in holding and asking for a clearance to Malta. What do you want us to do?”

  “Get airborne and, wherever he decides to go, you file for the same location. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir. Will you be coming with us, Mr. Campbell?” the captain asked.

  “Let me think about that. Stand by.”

  Stuart Campbell mentally reviewed the options. The Italian warrant based on the Interpol warrant would be good anywhere in Italy and could be faxed to the Maltese authorities. But what if EuroAir’s captain decided once again to head somewhere else, such as Morocco or Spain? He’d have to scramble to get to wherever they went, and coordinating the capture would be even more difficult if he was sitting in the cabin of an airplane.

  He was having to think three moves ahead, precisely like a game of chess. He smiled to himself and shook his head. So my choices are, move the king’s knight to king three, or leave the knight in place.

  And he was the knight to the Peruvian president’s king.

  He raised the phone back to his ear. “No, Captain, I’ll stay here. Check in with me when you’re on the ground, wherever that might be.”

  EuroAir 42, in Flight

  President John Harris sat in silence for a second with the phone pressed to his ear as he revisited his decision and concluded he was right. Sighing, he straightened in the seat.

  “Jay, I want you to listen to me very closely.”

  The disillusionment in the voice from Laramie was painfully obvious.

  “Yes, sir. I’m listening.”

  “My best strength has always been my judgment of character and capability. I think my presidency was successful, and if so, the reason was that I appointed the best people.”

  “Thank God I wasn’t on that list. I would have destroyed your record.”

  “No, Jay, you wouldn’t have. Quite the contrary. You would have done a superlative job, and we both know the error in judgment which got you in such trouble was an affair of the heart, not some act of greed or ambition.”

&
nbsp; There was a short laugh on the other end. “Definitely not ambition.”

  “No, and if Karen’s case hadn’t come before your court before I announced my appointments, you would have been the President’s lawyer, and perhaps later, attorney general.”

  “You’re far too gracious, sir.”

  “No, as I say, I’m an extraordinary judge of character, and yours hasn’t changed.”

  “Mr. President . . . John . . . it makes no difference now. I can’t . . .”

  “That’s enough,” Harris interrupted. “Now listen. We both understand that this is a very serious situation both for me personally, and for our country, and for every other ex-president who ever leaves home. Believe me, I do not want to fall into the hands of the Peruvians, or under the control of this warrant. I am not handing you this assignment with the expectation that you’ll fail. But, I also have no illusions about the difficulty ahead of you, or the extreme mismatch between what kind of staff support you don’t have, and what some of the major international firms could provide. So why do I insist you handle it? I have two things going for me on this decision, Jay. First, I will trust my life to the international legal abilities I saw in a young lawyer named Jay Reinhart, whom I hired many years ago; and second, my gut tells me the only way to beat Campbell and Miraflores at their game is to adhere to the doctrines of Sun Tsu.”

  “The . . . Chinese philosopher?”

  “I’m not sure how much of a philosopher he was, except on the doctrine of warfare, but the man was millenniums ahead of his time when he asked why anyone would fight an enemy on the enemy’s terms. To hire a major firm would be to do exactly what our friend Campbell expects. We’ll do just the opposite.”

  “Sir . . .”

  “You’ve fulfilled your ethical duty to warn me of the potential consequences of hiring you, Jay. For the record, I hereby accept that risk and waive that concern. Now, that’s the last I’m going to hear about it. You get your tail in gear and get me the hell out of this mess. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”