Laramie, Wyoming
If President Harris couldn’t fly to the United States, Jay Reinhart had concluded, his lawyer would have to fly to him.
And fast.
No other plan made sense. There was only so much he could do by telephone from Wyoming and whatever battles lay ahead would have to be fought in person on the other side of the Atlantic. That meant another nauseating, close encounter with his least favorite activity: plummeting through the sky at insane speeds in an overcrowded aluminum tube otherwise known as a “jetliner.”
Okay, he told himself, I have to fly there. I’ll be okay. I have no choice.
Fear of flying was a phobia he’d tried to hide and conquer all his adult life with only limited success. He’d taken courses, used hypnosis, patches, pills, and platitudes, but ultimately it always came down to the same simple, barely controllable fear of engaging in the unnatural act of being supported by nothing but air.
I will fly to Europe. Or London. Or Paris. I won’t enjoy it, but I’ll do it.
Jay sighed, realizing he’d been drumming an increasingly frantic beat on the kitchen counter with the tip of his pen.
First things first! he cautioned himself. The prime problem was picking a place to send the President, if he could be extricated from Sigonella at all. Italy was not the best place to fight the battle. He didn’t speak Italian and the system was based on Napoleonic Civil Law: significantly different from British and American Common Law, enough to leave the average American lawyer or British solicitor feeling like a fish out of water in most of the Continent’s courtrooms. There were exceptions, of course. There were some British, Irish, Scottish, and even some American lawyers specifically schooled in civil law and admitted to practice in one or more of the European courts. And there were a few superstars of international practice such as Sir William Stuart Campbell. For the rest—even someone as expert in international legal matters as he—not being a member of the local bar meant having to hire the right local firm or local lawyer and possibly struggling to make sense of what he or she was doing.
He understood the law and the myriad variations of European practice, but he had never taken the time to attempt admission. Even in the U.K. he would need a local solicitor and barrister, though he wouldn’t be allowed to speak in open court.
I’ve got the priorities wrong, he decided. I’ve got to figure out how to get myself over there first.
In the few breaks between the vital transatlantic calls he’d been fielding, Jay had tried to find which nonstop flights left from Denver to European destinations. It had been a disjointed effort represented by wildly scribbled notes in the margins of the third legal pad as he raced back and forth to his computer to make the inquiries.
There was only one, a new daily United non-stop to London. All the others made at least one stop somewhere on the East Coast.
“Regardless of where you end up, John, I can get airline connections from London,” he had told the President during the last call, “but I’ll be partially out of contact for up to ten hours.”
“Book only first class for yourself, Jay,” the President had directed, “and only on an airline that has satellite phone service.”
“But . . . that’s thousands of dollars more,” Jay had replied, looking for excuses to stay in coach, which was considerably closer to the tail than any first class cabin. His stomach churned at the prospect of being in the very front of an airplane. Despite the impassioned pleas of an airline pilot friend that he was holding onto a groundless myth, Jay refused to believe a passenger wasn’t safer in the back.
“I’m perfectly okay flying coach.”
“I won’t hear of it,” John Harris had replied. “It’s the cost of doing business. Think about it, Jay. I need you working and communicating all the way across the Atlantic. Only first class.”
“If you insist,” Jay said as he fought the conclusion that he’d just been sentenced to die in a plane crash.
“Okay, let’s talk about what we’re going to do. What’s your strategy?” John Harris asked.
“I wish I had one!” Jay replied. “Right now, I’m still trying to guess how long this little charade about where you are is going to work. I mean, we probably have at least as long as it takes the C-17 to get to Andrews, but what then? That 737 you’re on can’t carry enough fuel to fly nonstop across the Atlantic, so even if we can charter that aircraft and crew and get you out of there, we have to face the prospect of landing you somewhere else outside of U.S. control, and that means we’ve got to expect Campbell will be there, wherever that is, with the warrant and local authorities.”
“Suppose we don’t tell anyone where we’re going to land? Could Campbell move that fast?”
“The pilots have to file a flight plan, John. I promise you Campbell will be informed of the destination as soon as its filed.”
“But, Jay, if they believe that just my staff is on board and I’m gone, who’ll know?”
“The media. They’ll be waiting at Andrews Air Force Base when the aircraft arrives and they won’t see you get off. That’s when the cat will depart the bag at high speed.”
“But . . . let’s suppose they arrange to taxi the aircraft right into one of the Air Force One hangars and out of sight. I mean, I’ve been there, Jay, as President. Those hangars are huge!”
“You’re overlooking something really basic,” Jay said, shifting the phone to his other ear. “Cavanaugh decided he couldn’t pull you out of there because the U.S. couldn’t be seen as an international hypocrite when it comes to enforcing a major treaty.”
“I know. He explained his reasons to me. I can’t fault him.”
“Well, he’s agreed to smokescreen the media for a little while to help us, but that’s probably as much as he can do, since this ruse to fuzz up where you are carries a lot of political risk.”
John Harris sighed. “I know. I was trying to ignore that. He really does need to tell the world he didn’t stiff-arm the warrant.”
“I’ve been flipping through the channels, John. The negative publicity and second-guessing has already started, and Cavanaugh’s likely to get a double backlash. I doubt we can rely on the White House for anything else until this actually lands in a courtroom. I mean, it’s true that many Americans are going to be outraged that he left you there, but when the media finds the White House pulled a half-truth deception, they’ll howl that the President personally orchestrated it specifically to help you escape international justice. And, his opposition will scream that he didn’t have the guts to do the job right by using the Air Force. Either way he loses whatever value he might have gained by leaving you there. And just watch. As soon as everyone knows you’re still in Sigonella or anywhere else in Europe, Campbell will race there with the warrant. I’m sure he’s got every country covered.”
“I’m sure you’re right, Jay,” Harris replied, falling silent for a while. “You know,” the President began, his voice betraying fatigue, “I wonder if the right thing to do . . . the best thing . . . wouldn’t be to just pick the best place and surrender. After all, this is a borderless process, and I do support the basic idea of the treaty.”
“Well . . .”
“When Campbell called here in the plane, he said to me that the act of running from this warrant is beneath my dignity. Jay, he may well be right.”
“I don’t know, John. If I could be sure . . .”
“Maybe we’d be best off figuring out which country would never accelerate the extradition process, and just accept the arrest there. I am scared of this thing, Jay. It scares me because there’s always an outside chance some judge will go temporarily insane and grant Campbell’s request, and you know if they ever get me to Lima, I won’t get out for a long, long time, if ever.”
Jay closed his eyes and tried to think it through. “John, surrendering is too big a risk. And you’re not being a hypocrite to avoid an illicit warrant. We do know it’s illicit, right? I mean, I hate to ask . . .”
“Of course,” Harris replied quietly. “Of course it is.”
“Well, then you know Campbell. Hell, John, he wrote that treaty, and I’ll give you even money he’s already constructed a detailed plan on how to accelerate the extradition process in a half dozen countries, if not all of them. The man is famous for thinking way ahead of the game. That’s what frightens me the most. You could end up trapped somewhere for a year, and still be sent to Lima!”
“Only if a judge ruled the warrant valid, and I don’t think that would ever happen in a properly constituted common law system. Think about it, Jay. Think about whether I should just surrender or not. Get yourself on a plane moving in this direction, but think about it, because . . . I’m not sure trying to run from this is the right thing.”
“I will.”
“And consider the U.K. Maybe I should go there and surrender. They were careful with Pinochet, even if they were only temporarily ready to pack him off to Spain a year later. After all, the English system is the mother of our system—absent the sanctimonious wigs, of course.”
“I always liked those wigs, John. They lend dignity to a process that’s often anything but dignified.”
There was another long sigh from Sigonella. “Well, that’s the operative word, isn’t it?”
“Sir?”
“Dignity. I do not want to do something undignified, Jay, no matter how frightened I might be. Even out of office, an American President carries the dignity of the office with him, and I’m trying hard not to forget that.”
TWENTY
Sigonella Naval Air Station, Sicily, AMC Passenger Terminal—
Monday—7:45 P.M.
For the past hour, Edwin Glueck had been quietly moving among the milling passengers in the Air Mobility Command passenger lounge, talking quietly one by one to the male members of his tour group.
Twenty years had gone by since he’d retired as a U.S. Army brigadier general, but his mind and his instincts were still sharp—even at the age of seventy-nine.
His wife of twenty-six years, Joanie, was in a far corner of the terminal talking to the tour director to keep her distracted. Ed glanced in her direction, pleased at her image. She was still attractive and even shapely at sixty-nine, and the sight of her now momentarily ignited other desires, threatening to divert him from the mission.
Joanie saw him looking and smiled back, nodding just enough to let him know she had things under control. She was exceptionally aware of what was going on around her, he thought. Before they’d left the aircraft, no one else had noticed as he strolled the aisle and momentarily glanced through the curtains separating coach and first class. No one but Joanie, that is. She’d known instantly that something was up.
“I shouldn’t ask what you’re up to, should I?” she’d said in a whisper after the captain announced the delay was over and they’d be leaving the 737.
“No,” he’d replied. “But I’ll tell you anyway. President Harris didn’t leave. He’s still on this aircraft.”
She knew that tone of certainty and respected it. He wasn’t always right, of course, but when he focused on a problem, the General—as his grandchildren called him—could be trusted to be on target the majority of the time.
“Did you see him?”
“No.”
“Then how can you be sure?” she countered.
“Trust me.”
“Always.”
When they were filing out, the General had pretended to stumble as he passed the forward galley, his foot deftly flipping up the bottom of the galley curtain as he bent over and braced himself against the forward bulkhead for a second before straightening up. The fleeting view beneath the curtain had revealed what he expected: two pair of men’s shoes in a crew section of an aircraft carrying three female flight attendants.
Two men hiding in the galley. If it’s not the pilots . . .
He stepped onto the top platform of the airstairs and reached down to adjust his pant leg in order to glance back toward the cockpit.
Both pilots were inside, clearly identifiable by their uniform shirts.
None of those who walked to the C-17 looked like him, so he’s still here, and he’s hiding, which means he’s still in serious danger.
The general said nothing as he descended the airstairs and walked toward the terminal, a plan already forming in his mind.
Captain Swanson had just arrived at the passenger terminal when the information came that Peru’s lawyer wasn’t leaving immediately after all.
The reappearance of Stuart Campbell on the ramp and the call from the security officer driving the staff car that had immediately collected him startled the commander of Sigonella NAS.
“You’ve got to be kidding. I’ll be there in five minutes to deal with this personally,” he told the driver, chiding himself for failing to check with the control tower earlier to make sure Campbell’s Learjet had departed with Campbell in it.
Obviously it hadn’t.
Swanson jumped in his staff car and hesitated, thinking the situation through. He lifted the GSM phone connected only to his base’s cellular network and dialed the driver’s number, making sure his ear was pressed tightly to the receiver before issuing a specific set of orders.
“I’d like to go get aboard that EuroAir jet, Captain,” Campbell told him when Swanson had emerged from the staff car.
“Why, Mr. Campbell?” Captain Swanson asked. “I thought your business with us here was concluded. I let you in before because you were with the Italian delegation, and the right of entry they were asserting was based on a treaty. Do you have some official claim to enter my base now?”
“None, whatsoever,” Campbell replied pleasantly. “If President Harris left on that Air Force craft, officially, I have no reason to be here.”
“What do you mean, ‘If’?”
“This is merely a request for your courtesy and cooperation, Captain.”
“I understand it’s a request. But why are you making it?”
“You’re a smart man, Captain, or you wouldn’t be wearing those small eagles on your shoulders. You know we’re dealing with very high-level international legal matters here, and you must know that I have to be certain of every step, and every occurrence.”
“What are you talking about, sir? I’m also a very busy man right now.”
“I need to make certain, Captain, by personal inspection, that Harris is no longer aboard that 737. Plain and simple.”
Swanson worked hard to keep his expression virtually unchanged, but a small muscle was twitching in his cheek. He could feel it, but he couldn’t stop it. “I see,” he said, as evenly as possible.
“Is there a problem with that request, Captain?” Campbell asked in an overly solicitous tone of voice.
“Yes, sir. There is a problem. My superiors are not happy about my granting you and the Italians immediate access to this base to begin with, and I’m going to have to relay your request through channels.”
“I know your theater commander personally, Captain. Would you like me to call him?”
“I’m quite capable of working through my own chain of command, Mr. Campbell,” Swanson snapped, regretting the sharp response instantly. “Look, get in and we’ll go back to my office and you can remain there while I make a call. Provided the aircraft is still here by the time I get approval, I’ll be happy to take you out there personally.”
Stuart Campbell smiled and cocked his head. “Captain, delay tactics raise suspicion. Especially my suspicion. If the President is truly gone, just let me get aboard and see for myself. Then I’ll leave you alone.”
“Sir, I told you . . .”
“Captain Swanson,” Campbell interrupted, “you and I both know you have full authority to make that decision by yourself, which means you could say ‘Yes’ or ‘No,’ just like that. You’ve parked my aircraft and that chartered airliner as far down the ramp as you could to keep us under tight control, and that’s fine. But now, the fact that you’re willing to play an ‘I�
��ve-got-to-get-approval’ game means that you don’t want to make the decision yourself, which, in turn, means that there’s much more at stake here than just being criticized for making the wrong call. So what could be so serious that you need to stall? The fact that you and Washington have been pretending that President Harris is gone, when, in fact, he’s still here. Otherwise, you’d just take me out there.”
“That’s absurd, Mr. Campbell. That kind of convoluted pseudo-reasoning leads to ridiculous conclusions.”
“Captain, there is no legitimate need to get official approval from anyone, and that tells me that I probably need to call the Italian Foreign Ministry back out here.”
“Very well, let’s stop talking about this and go, Mr. Campbell,” Swanson said suddenly, turning toward his car.
Campbell looked surprised, letting a broad smile slowly dominate his face. “Excellent! To the aircraft, then?”
“NO, sir!” Swanson replied in exasperation, turning back to him. “As I said, we’re going to my office at NAS-One.”
Stuart Campbell maneuvered himself around to look the naval officer in the eye. “Captain, on your honor as an American field grade officer, is President Harris on that C-17 or not?”
“I can’t . . .”
“NO!” Campbell barked, causing Swanson to flinch. “You’re making a representation by your actions. I’m asking for a straightforward statement from you, on your honor, on behalf of the Department of the Navy, on behalf of the American Government, and on the record. Is he on that C-17, or is he still somewhere on this base? If you tell me he’s gone, I’ll leave, based on the honor of your word alone.”
“Sir . . .” Swanson began, hesitating just long enough to register the fleeting internal conflict Campbell was waiting for, “President Harris’s status is classified military information. I am not at liberty to divulge that to you or anyone else.”
Stuart Campbell nodded slowly, his eyes carefully noting Swanson’s slightly accelerated breathing.
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