Headwind

by John J. Nance

  “The PM talked to Miraflores?”

  “Yes, of course. That’s what governments do.”

  Jay thanked him perfunctorily and ended the call, turning to the Secretary with a quick briefing on Sheffield’s words.

  “I’m a little shocked, Jay, but this is what happens when you put someone like Sheffield and his boss in a corner.”

  “You don’t truly believe those assurances?” Jay fired back, a bitter edge underlying his words as his mind spun between the reality of the approaching 737 and the diminishing time remaining.

  “Of course they don’t mean it,” Byer agreed.

  “Why the contact with Peru? Are you going to tell me that’s pro forma to make such a call?”

  “It’s . . . a bit unusual, and we know Miraflores can’t be trusted.”

  Jay closed his eyes and pushed everything else away from his thinking but the key question: should they land or not?

  “Stop the car, please,” he said suddenly.

  The driver turned from the right front seat. “Beg pardon, sir?”

  “Stop the car, please. I need to get out for a moment.”

  Byer caught the driver’s eye and nodded. “Do it.”

  The car glided to the shoulder of the motorway and Jay pulled the handle.

  “Please wait for me. I need five minutes.”

  The din of traffic along the M-4 motorway to Heathrow was deafening. Jay stood behind the car, punched a number into the phone, and waited.

  “EuroAir, ah, Ten-Ten,” a British voice said on the other end.

  “This is Jay Reinhart. Where are you guys?”

  “Over the English channel, Mr. Reinhart. This is the first officer. We’re on descent.”

  “How far out?”

  “We just crossed the French shoreline.”

  “I need to speak with the President, and then with the captain.”

  “President Harris is still up here on the jump seat with us. Hold on.”

  “Yes, Jay?” Harris asked.

  “I may only have seconds to explain, John, but you can’t land in England.”

  “What? I thought . . .”

  “It’s all changed, sir. Trust me on this. It comes straight from the PM’s office. They think they’ve got a Neville Chamberlain–style peace-in-our-time agreement with Miraflores to treat you fairly, and they’re determined to accelerate the extradition process.”

  “But Jay, the courts won’t let them.”

  “I can’t take that chance, John! I’ve studied the procedure, and there are holes in there the Peruvians could pull you through.”

  There was silence from the other end, and Jay had to stick his finger even deeper in his free ear as he jammed the phone against the other.

  “Are you still there, John?”

  “Yes . . . I’m trying to make sense of this. Where else can we go?”

  “I . . . I have an idea, but first we’ve got to get you clear of England.”

  There was a short laugh from the cockpit of the 737. “Jay, we can’t just hover out here.”

  “I know it! Look, John, give me your agreement, and let me talk to the captain.”

  He could almost make out John Harris sighing.

  “In some ways,” the President said, “I’m so tired of this, I’d like to just get it over with, Jay.”

  “John! Sir! We can’t take the chance they could really get you to Lima. I know what will happen there. I did some research on Miraflores in the air coming here. He wants to hang you, John. And Britain’s being ridiculous placing their trust in him. And . . . and . . .”

  “And because of Campbell’s invoking the name of Barry Reynolds, you’re suddenly not so sure you can win on the merits, right, Jay?”

  The statement was a slap in the face, but John Harris had stabbed the source of Jay’s panic with one rapier thrust, and there was no time to finesse the reply. He caught himself nodding, then reminded himself to speak.

  “Yes.”

  More silence on the other end. An eternity of silence amidst the cacophonous traffic noise all around him and the clock ticking in his head and the presence of no less a personage than the United States Secretary of State waiting in the car behind him, all colluded with the forces of fatigue and hunger and circadian disorientation to make the crucible he was in seem like a scenario personally designed by Dante.

  Finally, Harris spoke. “I’m handing the phone to the captain, Jay. I agree. Do what you think best.”

  There was a pause before the businesslike voice of Craig Dayton filled the line.

  “Yes, Mr. Reinhart?”

  “Captain, in a nutshell, here’s the situation. If you land here, they’ll not only arrest him at planeside, there’s a very good chance they’ll have him on the way to Lima within a few days or weeks. I was wrong to trust the Brits on this. I misread the whole thing.”

  “So, what do you want us to do, Mr. Reinhart?” Dayton asked evenly.

  “Go somewhere else. You can’t land in London.”

  “You realize how hard it was to get an arrival slot for Heathrow on short notice?”

  “Can’t be helped,” Jay replied.

  “Would it be begging the question to ask where you want us to go?” Dayton replied, instantly adding, “And I’m not trying to be facetious. We’re almost into British airspace and we’re under positive IFR control.”

  “I . . . don’t know the terms, Captain. But can’t you change the type of flight plan you’re using and just fly wherever you want?”

  “Not without the whole world knowing exactly where we are. We’re too big a plane to just disappear . . . and we’re running out of time. I mean, I can divert to probably any airport in the U.K., or go to Holland or Denmark, but I don’t have enough fuel to make Iceland or Greenland, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Forget the Continent. That would be an entirely new set of legal horror stories.”

  “Okay.”

  Jay could hear an exchange of radio messages in the background.

  “What was that?”

  “They were just clearing us on down to ten thousand feet with radar vectors for London.”

  “Could you fly up to Scotland?”

  “Yes, but Scotland is in the United Kingdom, and I’m sure whoever’s waiting for us at Heathrow will find a charter jet and get there almost as fast as we can.”

  Jay licked his lips and closed his eyes, thinking as fast as he could. The Irish Republic was a possibility he’d thought of earlier and had been loath to mention because there had been no time to research Ireland’s feelings concerning the Treaty Against Torture. But he couldn’t risk just having John Harris pop up in Dublin without knowing whether or not doing so would constitute jumping from the proverbial frying pan of the U.K. into a legal fire in Ireland.

  What do we do?

  “Mr. Reinhart, I may have an idea, but it’s kind of risky,” Dayton said, interrupting his thoughts.

  “Tell me!” Jay replied, wondering what “risky” meant.

  But there was no answer on the other end, and Jay realized the connection had been dropped.

  “Damn!” He punched the number in again, but it rang uselessly.

  THIRTY-TWO

  London, England—Tuesday—5:50 P.M.

  Jay returned to the back seat of the car and closed the door.

  “On to the airport, sir?” the driver asked.

  The Secretary of State nodded and the driver pulled smoothly into traffic.

  “Is there anything in your call we should know about?” Secretary Byer asked.

  “Yes, sir. But this isn’t the moment to discuss it.”

  Byer sighed and nodded. “Very well.” He sat back in silence and focused his attention outside in thought until they pulled up to the executive jet facility ten minutes later.

  “If you gentlemen will wait for me, I’ve a couple of calls to make,” Jay said, slipping out as quickly as possible and entering the plush but diminutive terminal. There were glassed-in
waiting lounges on both sides of the hall, each liberally equipped with phones, and Jay inserted himself in one to dial Geoffrey Wallace’s number.

  The sound of a phone receiver being fumbled from its cradle and bumped across furniture reached his ears, along with a hoarse greeting.

  “Yes? Wallace here.”

  “Geoffrey, Jay Reinhart. Where does Ireland stand on this issue?”

  “I beg your pardon? You mean, where do they stand on President Harris and the warrant?”

  “Where would they stand if he came to town with this warrant in hot pursuit?”

  There was a short laugh on the other end. “Well, you know the Irish.”

  “No, actually I don’t. I should. My grandmother was an Irish immigrant from Galway, but I’ve never been there.”

  “Well, they’re a great people, but basically rebellious as hell, even to their own institutions at times. It’s very hard to predict what they’ll do at any given moment.”

  “But they’re a nation of laws and a party to the treaty, right?”

  “Oh, yes. Of course. They have our basic legal system, as you know. But in typical fashion, they signed the treaty over a decade ago and didn’t ratify it until just last year.”

  “They ratified? I thought they hadn’t.”

  “Only took them twelve years to get around to it. But yes, they’re fully aboard now.”

  A flurry of activity in the largest waiting salon down the hall caught Jay’s peripheral vision and he glanced over in time to see Secretary Byer in animated discussion with his aide, as the other officials milled around.

  Jay turned his attention back to the phone. “Do you know any practitioners in Ireland?” he asked.

  “I may know someone, but I’ll have to look for his number and call you back.”

  “Let me hold, Geoffrey. While you get the number.”

  “Oh. Well . . . very well.” Jay could hear the rustle of what sounded like bedcovers being moved in the background and an unhappy female voice.

  “I’m sorry if I caught you at a bad moment,” Jay offered, slightly amused.

  Geoffrey was still holding the phone to his ear and chuckled. “Oh, it was anything but a bad moment, I can assure you! I just hated to end it. I’d thought you were through with me for the day. Hang on. I’ll be right back.” Wallace put the phone down, returning three minutes later.

  “All right, Jay. There was a seminar in Edinburgh several years ago on international subjects which I attended, and the chap whose name I’ve got here spoke very eloquently on this very treaty. I recall talking with him afterwards. Smart, funny fellow, though I don’t know how good he might be.”

  “Irish solicitor?”

  “A barrister.”

  “So he’s in Dublin?”

  “Yes. Interesting, too. He apparently doesn’t drink. Not even Guinness, or so he claimed. I offered him a pint, but . . .”

  “Geoffrey,” Jay interjected, “I’m sorry, but I’m in a rush.”

  “Of course. So am I . . . let’s see.” He passed the numbers in Dublin. “What else can I do for you, Jay? Would you . . . like me to call him for you?”

  “No. I’ll call from here.”

  “Good. That first one is a home number, I’m fairly certain.”

  “Geoffrey, ah, if you hear anything in the next few hours regarding President Harris, do not necessarily believe it, okay?”

  “I love a good mystery, Jay. Can’t you let me in on it?”

  “I can’t even tell you there’s anything to let you in on.”

  “Oh, right. Got it.”

  Jay ended the call and dialed the barrister’s home number in Dublin. He looked around at the salon at the end of the hall while waiting for the phone to ring, startled at the sudden burst of activity among the group of American officials. Secretary Byer was barking an order to an aide and pulling out a portable phone as another group entered, headed by Stuart Campbell.

  “Michael Garrity here,” a male voice answered, bringing Jay’s attention back to the line.

  “Mr. Garrity, you’re a barrister, correct?”

  “There have been scandalous allegations to that effect, but few around Dublin pay them any mind. And who might you be, sir?”

  Jay introduced himself and quickly explained the situation as he kept an eye on the increasing intensity of conversations in the lobby. Byer’s people were watching Campbell’s team without making contact.

  “So, an American lawyer representing an American ex-President. This sounds intriguing from the beginning. How may I help you, Mr. Reinhart?”

  Jay smiled in spite of himself at the cultured Irish accent riding a warm baritone wave of sound echoing with overtones of friendliness.

  “I need some very quick advice,” Jay said, “and then I may need to retain you. In the meantime, can we proceed under attorney-client privilege?”

  “Well,” Garrity said, clipping the word just a bit, “technically you’ll need to hire me through a solicitor before I can take instructions from you here in Ireland, but that can be arranged later. There’s nothing wrong with my advising you straightaway by phone. As far as the protection of client privilege? Done! Ask away.”

  Jay glanced around in search of Secretary of State Byer, who was now sitting on a lavishly upholstered couch, then turned back to the task of outlining the situation for Garrity, including the British position and the need to take the President to or through a country that wasn’t hell-for-leather determined to send him to Peru. “Would I be smart or crazy to bring him to Dublin, Mr. Garrity?”

  “Well now, that all depends. I could say that no High Court judge in Dublin would send an American President off to Peru in irons, but I’d be giving you a glib and unsupported opinion. You may not know that we just got around to ratifying the damn thing last year, so we’re bound by the treaty now, and by the European protocols on the same subject. But, having said all that, the chances are very good, I would think, that while the Interpol warrant would be validated and an Irish warrant issued locally, and while your President might be arrested by some very confused Garda . . .”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Garda . . . that’s our police force. They’re guardians of public safety. They hate to be called police, even when they’re dashing about acting out an Irish version of NYPD Blue. Anyway, I think any attempt at extradition would take a very long time and would give you more than ample opportunity to appeal. It’s really a torturous legal process. Frankly, without doing some fast research, I’m not even sure we have an extradition arrangement with Peru.”

  “Does that matter?”

  “Probably not in the least. If Mr. Harris is extraditable under the charges you mentioned, he’d be extraditable under the Treaty Against Torture even if there isn’t a regular agreement with Peru.”

  “How about government attitude?”

  “Essentially that doesn’t matter a great deal. Oh, with some of the jurists it may scratch at the back of their heads, but most of our judiciary are very independent thinkers and our Taoiseach, as we call our Prime Minister, would probably be very careful about stating a position.”

  “Can we control which judge we get?” Jay asked.

  “Can one control the wind? No, not in Ireland, you can’t. You just have to roll the dice. We have quite a gallery of judges. The good, the bad, the statutorily senile, and one or two who can’t seem to sleep in their own bedrooms.”

  “Just like home.”

  “Indeed?”

  “I’m a former judge. It’s a long story.”

  “This becomes even more fascinating by the moment, Mr. Reinhart. Are you of German ancestry, with that name?”

  “Way back on my Dad’s side. Texas German.”

  “My God, what a combination!”

  “Isn’t it.”

  “Like Walter Cronkite,” Garrity said.

  “I . . . yes. But my maternal grandmother was from Galway. Look, Mr. Garrity, one other key question. Does the President actually have t
o be on Irish soil for Peru to perfect their warrant in Ireland?”

  “No. All they need do is tell the judge they expect Mr. Harris to show up someday, and they’ll get their warrant.”

  “Could you think hard about this, sir? Research it as far as you need to right now, and let me call you in a few hours.”

  “Provided you never again in this life call me ‘sir,’ Mr. Reinhart. I’m not a bloody English knight, y’know.”

  “Okay. Deal. We’re on the clock as far as fees go, and if you’ll find a solicitor for me who knows this area and hire him for me, I’d deeply appreciate it.”

  Garrity chuckled. “You have no idea how much I would love to do just that. Our solicitors always hire us, so that would be a brilliant turnabout, but . . . I’m also afraid it would strain my ethics. I can make you a recommendation and even put someone on hold for you, but the actual retaining has to be done by you, I’m sorry to say.”

  Jay listened to the names of two solicitors adept at international practice and picked the first.

  “Ah, a fine choice, that,” Garrity said, as if Jay had chosen a premium wine. “Good man.” Garrity passed the solicitor’s phone number after agreeing to call and alert him to the case.

  “Mr. Garrity, will you need a retainer fee immediately?” Jay asked.

  “That’s an issue we always leave to our instructing solicitors.”

  “Okay. It’s just that I’ll need to transfer funds.”

  “Won’t be possible until Thursday, then, because tomorrow’s St. Patrick’s Day. But that’s all right. The solicitors will find a way to separate you from the appropriate amount of money, and I’m at your service in the meantime, I assure you.”

  Jay disconnected and left the smaller waiting room, feeling unsettled by the discussion of fees. He walked over to the Secretary’s group, where urgent conversations were flying back and forth.

  “Excuse me. What’s going on?” Jay asked.