Jay found a small bench just outside the door of the private terminal before punching in the first of several numbers. The reassuring voice of Michael Garrity answered on the third ring.
“This is Jay Reinhart again.”
“Hello! A bit early to have answers for you, Mr. Reinhart, but . . .” Garrity said.
“I need just one,” Jay said, interrupting. “If I bring the President’s plane into Dublin tonight, and if the opposition arrives with their warrant, how quickly could they have the warrant perfected and arrest him?”
“Tomorrow’s St. Patrick’s Day here in the Republic of Ireland, and no one will be working at the Four Courts. Mind you, we don’t get as carried away as you Americans do celebrating, but St. Patrick’s Day is a grand excuse for an official holiday. So, unless your President commits an act heinous enough to attract the Garda’s attention, I’d say he’s a free man until the following day, Thursday. Certainly no one in the judiciary’s going to pay any attention until then.
“Really?”
“It’s the district court that would handle such an Interpol warrant, Mr. Reinhart, and Scotland Yard couldn’t ferret out one of our district judges on a national holiday. Especially not St. Paddy’s Day. They go in hiding, I’m all but convinced.”
“So . . . we could safely get the President a hotel room?”
“I don’t see why not. But wouldn’t he prefer to stay at your American Ambassador’s residence here? It’s really quite large, and I know they have quarters fit for a U.S. president.”
“No,” Jay said. “Better to have no official involvement, I think. Besides, that could be misinterpreted as an attempt at asylum and create a diplomatic mess.”
“Very well, a hotel it shall be. Do you have a credit card number I can use?”
“Ah . . . yes.” Jay struggled to pull out his American Express and read the number and expiration date.
“Very good, Mr. Reinhart. I’ll see what I can do.”
“I’ll call you back, then,” Jay said. “I’m going to change the plan.”
He rang off and dialed the 737’s satellite phone, relieved to get a rapid answer. “Captain Dayton? Good job! Whatever you did out there fooled everyone. Campbell and Byer think you’ve crashed.”
“This is the copilot, Mr. Reinhart . . . and as the old saw goes, rumors of our demise have been greatly exaggerated.”
“They certainly have,” Jay said. “This buys us time, but I’ve got a different plan.”
Jay could hear deep concern and tension on the other end. “Go ahead.”
“First, where are you?”
“Heading up the north sea at barely five hundred feet in an insane attempt to sneak into Scotland.”
“We need to change the destination.”
Alastair looked over at Craig, then back over his shoulder at John Harris, and repeated Jay’s words, adding: “And where would you like us to go now, Mr. Reinhart?”
“Dublin, Ireland. Can you make it?”
“Certainly we can, but how we get there is the question.”
Craig turned to Alastair, mouthing the word, “Where?”
“Now he wants us in Dublin,” Alastair replied, turning back to the receiver. “Look, Mr. Reinhart, Dublin’s a big, controlled airport. We can’t sneak in there. A little airport like Inverness, Scotland, doesn’t have a control tower to worry with us, but Dublin’s impossible. We’d be as subtle as a battleship in a bathtub.”
“I don’t really care how you do it, as long as you’re safe,” Jay said. “The fiction that you’ve crashed was to give you time to get to Scotland and refuel to go on to Iceland or Canada before they could show up with the arrest warrant. But that’s no good now. We can’t have President Harris land anywhere in Great Britain.”
“And no one’s going to come after the President in Ireland?” Alastair asked.
“Not for a few days. Let me speak with the President, please, while you fellows figure out how to do this.”
Alastair handed the phone over his shoulder.
“Yes, Jay?”
“I’ve hired a legal team in Dublin, John. Ireland has ratified the treaty, but tomorrow’s a holiday, so there won’t be any judges around to sign a warrant. Besides, Ireland is a good friend of the U.S., as you know, and they, unlike the British, have no special axe to grind regarding Pinochet, so in my judgment we’re far better off there.”
“I’m in your hands, Jay.”
“I’m doing my best, but I’m more or less having to turn on a dime here as I find out new things.”
“Understood.”
“We’ll get you a hotel room near the Dublin airport so you can rest up. Our barrister thinks it will be the day after tomorrow before Campbell can hope to get the warrant converted. And I’m thinking, John, that we might be able to just buy you a ticket and get you on a direct commercial flight back to New York.”
“I like that idea, Jay. About the hotel . . . we also need rooms for our two pilots and three flight attendants, plus Sherry, me, and my secret service agent.” There was a long pause. “You really think I could just get on Aer Lingus or someone else and fly home?”
“It’s possible, but if not, maybe we can refuel your bird, extend the charter, and make it to Maine. I haven’t talked to the pilots about that, yet. All I know is I can’t bring you down anywhere in the U.K. now.”
“Hold on,” the President said, cradling the phone as he leaned forward. “Craig? Alastair? Can we do this, and if so, how?”
Craig nodded. “I think we’ll keep going the way we started and just skirt around the northern coastline of Scotland, then turn southwest and contact Dublin Center for a clearance into the airport when we’re fifty miles out. We’ve already caused a massive, unnecessary search. If we try to go back into positive control now, we’re liable to draw the RAF out with orders to force us to land.”
John Harris looked at the copilot, who was nodding assent.
“What time do you expect to arrive?” Jay asked.
Harris leaned forward again. “How long to Dublin?”
“Around two hours and twenty minutes flying like this,” Alastair said, and the President repeated the estimate.
“When you land,” Jay said, “if I’m not there, call a Mr. Michael Garrity. He’s our barrister.” Jay passed the number. “I’ll be there as quickly as I can find a flight.”
“Charter a jet, Jay,” John Harris said.
“If I can’t find a commercial flight, I will,” Jay said, “as long as it has a minimum of two engines and all the instruments money can buy.”
“I take it there’s a story there,” the President said.
“I’m not sure you want to know,” Jay replied. “I’ll call you back when I’ve arranged a flight to Dublin.”
Jay disconnected and dialed the Savoy Hotel, arranging to have his bag put in a taxi and sent immediately to Heathrow and the private terminal.
A quick call to Aer Lingus reservations turned up a departure to Dublin in less than an hour from Heathrow. Relieved, he decided against booking a seat under his name and called the hotel back to redirect his bag to the Aer Lingus ticket counter.
“Just in time, sir,” the concierge said. “I have it in my hand and the driver is waiting.”
“How long, do you suppose?”
“This time of evening, thirty minutes, if we’re lucky.”
One of the ramp attendants from the Metro facility agreed to shuttle him to Terminal 4, and Jay slipped into the car quietly, wanting to avoid the possibility of being seen by Stuart Campbell or his people.
“Aer Lingus terminal, please.”
The driver nodded and accelerated away, obscuring Jay’s view of a man in a dark business suit who had been watching from a dark corner of the entryway. As the car carrying Jay disappeared, the man quickly returned to the lobby.
The fact that the taxi carrying his bag actually arrived when and where it was supposed to at the curb of Terminal 4 surprised Jay. He thanked and paid
the driver before racing through security and an interminable series of concourses to board the Dublin flight with ten minutes to spare. The possibility that Campbell already knew his plan flitted across his mind, but it made little difference. Thanks to the holiday, he knew they’d be okay in Dublin until Thursday regardless of when Campbell showed up, as he ultimately would.
The lights of Heathrow were falling away from the climbing jetliner before he realized that for the second time in his life, a takeoff sequence in a commercial jet had failed to scare him. Jay pulled one of the legal pads out of his briefcase and placed it on his lap, his pen at the ready, before remembering that he hadn’t obtained hotel rooms for the crew. Nor had he remembered to alert the Irish customs and immigration officials.
He’d already noticed the lack of in-flight phones on the 737, and he knew the flight crews tried to prohibit the use of cellular phones on the unproven assumption that they could interfere with the aircraft’s navigation system—an absurd premise, according to a knowledgeable friend in telecommunications. But in this case he had no choice.
The calls had to be made.
The flight was half full, and he waited until the flight attendants had wheeled their service cart past him before arranging a blanket against the sidewall of his window seat to hide the GSM phone he was leaning against after punching in Michael Garrity’s number once more. There was a form of digital static before Garrity answered.
“I hate to bother you again, Mr. Garrity,” Jay said.
“For heaven’s sake, man, call me Michael!” Garrity replied. “The only person in the world who calls me ‘Mister Garrity’ is my wife, and then only when she’s angry with me.”
“I’m sorry, Michael.”
“So am I,” Garrity said, chuckling. “Seems to happen a lot lately.”
“Look, I need to impose on you to get hotel rooms for the folks on that plane, not just the President, and alert customs and immigration.” He passed the basic information.
“I’ll take care of it, Jay, provided your credit card lasts,” Garrity said cheerfully.
“Okay. I’ll be on the ground in an hour.”
“I’ll be there,” Michael Garrity said.
Metro Business Aviation Terminal, Heathrow Airport, London, England
Stuart Campbell had changed his location, appropriating a small conference room as their makeshift command post, and Henri Renoux sat down in one of the swivel chairs, watching him carefully. Background music from recessed ceiling speakers—a Vivaldi concerto—accompanied the elegant decor, and Henri realized the lights had been turned down to half strength, giving the well-appointed room a rich and palatial feel.
Campbell’s elbow was placed firmly on the arm of his chair, the bulk of his body balancing easily against the leather of the seat back, his hand supporting his chin and his eyes focused on the wall before him.
“Stuart?” Henri asked tentatively.
“Yes?” Campbell said slowly without turning.
“I think you were right. An intermittent radar target was tracked by London Center for about forty miles heading to the northeast, but then it disappeared in a poor radar coverage area.”
“Very well,” Stuart said passively, his mind deeply occupied with other thoughts. “Anything more?”
“Yes,” Henri responded, drumming his fingers silently on the table. “I think we know where they’re heading.”
“Dublin, I should think,” Stuart said, turning suddenly to look at his associate. “I am right?”
Henri was nodding and smiling. “How’d you know?”
“It’s what I would do, Henri. Who better to run to if you’re a beleaguered U.S. President than the country that loves Americans best? I would think less of our good Mr. Reinhart if he’d headed anywhere else.”
“He took a flight to Dublin. That’s how we knew.”
“I suspected that would be the case, and we’ll follow in the Lear in the next fifteen minutes,” Stuart said, resuming his contemplative posture, his eyes once again staring at a spot on the off-white wall. “Do you know what our esteemed Prime Minister wants to do, Henri?”
“No, sir.”
“You’re aware I talked with him at length a while ago?”
“I knew he was calling.”
Stuart shook his head slightly, almost imperceptibly. “I thought I knew his mind. I knew he was disgusted with Tony Blair’s tepid, timid prosecution of the Pinochet debacle. That’s why I alerted him from Sicily, to push him a bit, incite him a bit. I knew he’d help smooth the way in pursuit of John Harris.”
“I know.”
“But I had no idea how virulent he is on this subject. He really wants to ship Harris to Lima, Henri. Can you fancy that?”
“You mean, while the courts . . .”
“No, no. Nothing illegal. He can’t rip it away from the judicial process, of course, but he had the Home Secretary and the Secretary of State, the police . . . everyone he could control or influence ready to push the timetable for extradition to its absolute minimum.”
“A moot point now, of course,” Henri offered. “But you’re surprised, Stuart?”
Campbell leaned back to look at Henri. “In fact, I’m stunned. I honestly did not expect that.”
“We came very close, then?” Henri asked.
“To what?” Stuart asked, almost absently.
“To succeeding. For our clients.”
“Oh. Miraflores the bloodthirsty,” Stuart said with a snort, turning back to the wall and leaning back even more. “Yes, I suppose we did. We also put John Harris on a fast track to Lima.”
“And this worries you?”
There was silence for a few seconds before Stuart Campbell sighed and nodded.
“Profoundly.”
THIRTY-FIVE
Dublin International Airport, Ireland—Tuesday—8:40 P.M.
Michael Garrity waited just outside the customs area holding a small sign with “REINHART” in bold letters. Shorter than Jay had anticipated, he wore a full head of silver hair like a Roman emperor, swept forward and partly cropped, his face deeply lined, and a huge mouth that bisected his entire face and turned up at each end in a perpetual smile.
They shook hands and Garrity pointed to the front drive, where a van was waiting to take them to the flight line.
“It’s good to meet you,” he said in a deep rumble of a voice.
“Are they here yet?” Jay asked.
Garrity pushed open the terminal door and moved toward a passenger van parked by the curb, its flanks carrying the name and logo of Parc Aviation. “No, and as of ten minutes ago, I’d say Dublin Air Traffic Control had just about labeled me a crank for calling three times. They had yet to hear from a EuroAir Ten-Ten.”
Jay looked alarmed.
“I wouldn’t worry,” Garrity said quickly, climbing into the van.
The driver introduced himself and pointed toward a distant exit. “I’ll take you out to the ramp to wait for them.”
“Your company handles the private jets here?” Jay asked.
“Yes, if they’re not too big. We had to get permission to handle your flight, though, since it’s a 737.”
Jay pulled out his GSM phone and punched a series of numbers into the keypad.
He let the line ring until a woman’s voice gently intoned the obvious fact that the party wasn’t answering. He punched it off and sighed as Michael spoke.
“By the way, Jay, I rousted one of my secretaries out of bed and she’s found the hotel rooms, transportation, and a slightly irritated Immigration inspector who’ll meet the airplane.”
“Just Immigration?”
“They won’t need customs since your people are arriving from another European Union country.”
“Oh. Of course. I forgot about that, and I was so busy trying to get on my flight, I forgot to ask.”
They passed through several security gates wrapped in their own thoughts before Michael Garrity broke the silence. “You told me on the phone that y
ou had an Irish grandmother, Jay. And you’ve never been to Ireland?”
“No, I’m sorry to say.”
“Well, we’ve got a bit of work to do tomorrow to get ready for this thing, and your adversary Stuart Campbell will bear close watching, but you must let me show you our fair city at some point.”
Jay smiled and shook his head. “I . . . doubt we’ll have time for that, Michael.”
“Oh, at least a few of the sights the tourists would normally see. You’ve heard of Molly Malone?”
“Who?”
He sang a few bars of the song, and Jay raised his hand with a laugh. “Oh, yeah. The pretty female fishmonger who died of a fever . . . or ‘favor,’ as we were taught the song in the States.”
“ ‘Favor’ ’tis a bastardized Irish pronunciation of fever,” Michael laughed.
“I figured.”
“We’ve a lovely statue of her in the town center. We call her ‘The Dish with the Fish.’ ”
“The Dish . . .”
“Also known as the ‘Tart with the Cart.’ The statue’s not too far from the Four Courts, our rather historic courthouse, where I toil away on most days, and where this matter will be fought.”
The van pulled onto the flight line and the driver moved to the edge of a taxiway to wait. Garrity pulled out his cell phone and dialed Dublin Air Traffic Control once again.
“Yes, it’s me, the pest. Has he now? Excellent. What time would that be?” Garrity nodded. “Fifteen minutes? Thank you.” He replaced the receiver and turned to Jay. “You heard, then?”
Jay smiled and exhaled. “Yeah. Fifteen minutes. That’s a relief.”
“Where did you gentlemen come in from?” the driver asked.
“London,” Jay replied absently, his mind already focused on the next step.
“Oh. You’re the second group. If you’re looking for the others, by the way, they just left.”
Jay looked at him more in irritation than curiosity. “What?”
“The Lear Thirty-five. It came in from London about thirty minutes ago and they mentioned they were expecting some others. I just thought . . . you know, you were part of the same group.”
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