“No,” Jay said, shaking his head. “I came in by commercial. From London, you say?”
“Yes, sir. The big fellow and the pilots left a few minutes ago with the people who came to meet them, and I thought they might have just left you behind or something. Sorry.”
A ripple of apprehension shot through Jay’s middle and caused him to shudder internally.
“Big fellow? Do you have his name?”
The clerk pawed through his shirt pocket for a business card. “I didn’t get the man’s name, but here’s the pilot’s information, if that helps. Jean-Paul somebody.”
He smiled and handed over the card. “I’ll need that back, you know. For our front counter.”
Jay looked at the card, his shoulders slumping.
“What is it, Jay?” Michael Garrity asked.
“How in hell . . .” Jay mumbled to himself.
“What?” Michael asked, moving to his side and trying to make out the name on the card.
“William Stuart Campbell,” Jay said. “He’s already here. The man’s either clairvoyant, or he’s a one-man CIA.”
The Shelbourne Hotel, St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin, Ireland
Stuart Campbell felt the weight of his fatigue as the limo sped through the night from the Dublin Airport to his hotel in the heart of the city, but there was too much to be done to succumb to it, and, as leader, he had to set the pace—and the example—for the entire team.
He forced himself to keep a running conversation going with each of the three staff members who’d been waiting for him. With so much to do, their full attention would be vital through the night, and their loyalty would have to be rapidly earned.
Only his firm’s Dublin partner had ever met Stuart Campbell before, and Stuart was acutely aware of the halo over his own head, an aura of respect and assumed infallibility that made it difficult for subordinates to speak up and point out mistakes. He was used to building effective teams, though seldom under such time pressure. Establishing friendly, personal bonds with employees and adversaries alike was a practiced technique—one of the many superior habits that had made him consistently successful in negotiations.
Especially with his adversaries.
A familiar building passed the limo’s windows and Stuart diverted his attention outside for a few moments as he aligned his memory with a map of Dublin.
The advice of a long-dead mentor—one of the best-known barristers in England through the postwar years—rang through his mind again in a voice he periodically heard in his head, and missed in life.
“Stuart,” Sir Henry Delacorte had told him in the infancy of Stuart’s practice, “it’s hard to say no to a man you really like. Build a bridge to those you deal with, make them like you, and they’ll come to you on every discretionary issue in spite of themselves. But never make the mistake of crossing that bridge yourself!”
William Stuart Campbell, the senior lawyer, was unequaled in the art of calculated manipulation, knowing how to gain and use the advantage of an opponent’s trust while never letting himself be swayed by such affinities.
But William Stuart Campbell, the man, had always been in minor turmoil over the technique, and that was good, he thought—especially for a man who genuinely liked people. The quiet, internal discomfort never stayed him from the task of influencing someone to do his bidding, but his inner reservations provided a small saving grace—a continuously renewable personal penance for the cynical use of his fellow man. Maintaining that small level of discomfort with his own methods had become a lifeline tied to the anchor of his humanity.
“Are we ready to dive into this thing?” Campbell asked, when he and the three men and two women on his team had reached the opulent old hotel and pulled up chairs around the conference table in the Presidential Suite, informally known as the Princess Grace Room.
There were bobbing heads all around.
“Very well. First, where do we find a district judge?”
“Probably not possible tonight or tomorrow,” one of the women answered, explaining the traditional holiday disappearance of most jurists. “But we’ll also have to involve the Garda. In fact, they’ll have to formally present the Interpol warrant in court or to whatever judge we can find.”
“Do we have a list of all the judges?” Stuart asked. “With addresses and telephones and the like?”
“Yes,” she answered.
“Then let’s start working those telephones and see if someone stayed behind.”
“If,” the woman replied, “we could find one, I think he might be persuaded to sign the warrant at home so we can get on with the arrest, but I can’t guarantee it.”
“We don’t have much time,” Stuart said, leaning back with his hands behind his head and looking at each of them in turn. “Let’s remember at all times that the basic mission here is to arrest President Harris and start the legal process against him. That’s what our client expects, and what he is paying dearly to have happen.”
Patrick Nolan, the firm’s partner in Dublin, was nodding. “When you put us on standby, Stuart, I didn’t expect this affair would end up here.”
“Nor did I,” Stuart replied. “I did think it possible that Harris might find a way to wiggle out of the net in Athens, but I did not expect him to get away from Italy.”
“But, weren’t you going to snatch him away right there in Rome?” Nolan asked.
“You mean put him on that jet we chartered to Lisbon?” Stuart replied.
Nolan nodded, watching the senior partner smile and shake his head no.
“That was never a serious possibility, that jet. It was window dressing for President Miraflores. The Italians weren’t about to let me do it, and I wasn’t about to let it happen, either. Too many damaging consequences in terms of my friendships in official Italy. But then an unexpected opportunity presented itself to more or less herd Harris to London, and I am rather surprised that it didn’t work.”
“Why didn’t it?” Nolan asked.
“Because John Harris is a very intelligent man, Paddy. He’s somehow gathered a cadre of dedicated people around him,” he laughed and shook his head, “including a planeload of geriatric American war veterans who were going to fight me personally if necessary, probably hand-to-hand. Their devotion to Harris was quite impressive.”
There were puzzled expressions around the room, and Stuart waved them away. “When this job is all done and we’re all up in the hills closing down Johnnie Fox’s pub one evening, I’ll tell you the story.” He sat forward and put his large hands on the table. “Okay. Down to business, and I need the clear thinking of each and every one of you. There’s no rank in this room, understood? We’re a team, and we need to think like a team, because John Harris will be on the ground here momentarily and the clock is ticking. You can say anything to me without fear of breaching protocol.” He paused and smiled for effect. “Well, almost anything!”
Stuart could see them visibly relax as they laughed.
“Now, Harris has every reason to simply refuel here in Dublin and get back in the air, but he doesn’t have the range on that jet to make it to the States in one jump. That means if they try to fly on, he’s got to stop for fuel in either Iceland or Canada, and we’ve got people in both locales ready to move. Of course, I’d rather not test the Canadians’ resolve, considering they’ve got to sleep with the thirty-thousand-pound gorilla to the south, and the gorilla wants John Harris home free.”
“Sir William,” one of the women said.
“Stuart,” he corrected.
“Yes, sir . . . ah, Stuart. I was going to say, there’s no way we’re going to get a warrant issued in time if they just refuel and go on.”
“I understand, Orla. But his pilots are tired, and I don’t think they’re going to want to take him anywhere until they’ve had some rest. And, Mr. Reinhart will hire a local solicitor who will tell him the same thing you’ve just told me regarding the impossibility of finding a district judge quickly. Harris will calcu
late quite correctly that we’re incapable of clapping the cuffs on him until sometime tomorrow, and therefore he has a few hours of grace. So here’s the challenge: how many ways can John Harris leave Ireland other than on that jet, and how do we prevent it without doing something illegal?”
Patrick Nolan looked at the others and pulled a legal pad closer to him to consult his notes before meeting Stuart’s gaze. “Well, I’m fairly certain he can’t escape by rail.”
There was more laughter around the table as Patrick continued. “We know they’ve made reservations at a hotel, which means, Stuart, that you’re right about their wanting rest. But our big worry is the commercial airlines.”
Stuart nodded knowingly. “I thought of that. He could simply nick a ticket on Aer Lingus and fly to New York direct.”
“As early as seven in the morning,” one of the men agreed. “But, no one has booked a reservation for him on any airline with direct service to the States, at least as of two hours ago. That doesn’t mean they won’t try.”
“I know the chairman of Aer Lingus personally,” Stuart replied. “Perhaps a call from me concerning the legal and political liability they could be playing with if they provided passage for Harris would be worthwhile. But I’ll need the phone numbers quickly.”
Notes were scribbled around the table as Nolan raised a finger. “There’s one more airline with direct Stateside service, Stuart.”
“You mean Delta?”
Patrick nodded.
“They have an Irish manager, do they not?”
Glances were exchanged around the table before Patrick looked back. “I . . . would guess so.”
“And they need the government’s sanction to fly airplanes in Ireland. Certificates and licenses. If the government were white-hot angry with them for something, it could make their lives fairly difficult, I would think.”
One of the men had already left the table and was pulling out his cell phone as Campbell gestured to him to wait. “Bill, we’ll need the manager’s name, home number, and any personal information you can gather.”
“What can you say to him?” Nolan asked.
Stuart Campbell grinned. “Nothing, Paddy, since you’re going to call him for me.”
“Very well, Stuart, but why me, if I may ask?”
“Well, you’re Irish, the man we want to persuade is Irish, and I’m a bleeding British knight. Who’s got the better chance?”
Patrick nodded. “Understood.”
THIRTY-SIX
On Approach to Dublin International Airport,
Ireland—Tuesday—9:05 P.M.
“Outer marker, altitude checks, no flags,” Alastair reported as Craig Dayton clicked off the Boeing 737’s autopilot and eased the yoke forward to capture the instrument landing system glide path in a steady descent.
“Intercepting glide slope. Flaps twenty-five, landing gear down, Before Landing Checklist,” Craig ordered.
“Roger,” Alastair echoed. “Flaps coming to twenty-five, and. . . landing gear down.” He positioned the landing gear lever to the down position and pulled the laminated checklist into his lap to read through the items, verifying Craig’s response to each one.
“Flaps to go, Craig.”
“Roger. Field in sight, flaps thirty,” Craig reported as the approach lights loomed large four miles ahead of the aircraft.
“Flaps are coming to thirty. Flaps are thirty. Gear and flaps rechecked down, and we’re cleared to land. You’re on speed, marker plus five, ground speed one hundred twenty-four knots.”
The jetliner crossed the threshold of Runway 10 fifty feet above the boundary as Craig flared, stopping the descent with the tires a few inches above the surface before letting the bird gently settle to the concrete with a squeal and a stream of rubber smoke unseen in the darkness.
Craig’s hand shot forward to gather the speed brake handle and try to pull it back before the automatic deployment system did the job, a race he never won, but which provided a human backup to the system.
He grabbed the thrust reverse levers, redirecting the air moving through the jet engines and slowing the big Boeing.
“EuroAir Ten-Ten, exit at Taxiway Bravo, contact ground,” the tower controller said.
“Ten-Ten, roger, and sir, would you please check to make sure Dublin Center relayed to London Center that we’re okay?”
“They already know, Ten-Ten. There’s rather considerable commotion about you tonight.”
“The subtext,” Alastair said as his hands ran through the after-landing sequence, “is: ‘You blokes have a whale of a lot of explaining to do.’ ”
“I’m sure that’s true,” Craig said, completing the runway turnoff while Alastair switched to the ground control frequency and checked in, turning to Craig after releasing the transit button.
“Our esteemed chief pilot will just love our latest trick,” Alastair added.
“Maybe he didn’t hear about it,” Craig said, smiling, his eyes on the taxiway.
“And maybe tomorrow the sun will rise in the west, Captain, sir. This will be the final straw, I have no doubt.”
“Ten-Ten, Dublin Ground. Taxi to the Island, hard stand eighty-three, please. That’s off Taxiway Papa.”
“Why on earth do they call a simple parking spot with a refueling hydrant a ‘hard stand?’ ” Alastair mumbled to himself.
Craig guided the Boeing to a stop and set the parking brake. He could see a set of portable stairs approaching the left front as they ran the shutdown checklist and Jillian unlocked the cockpit door.
“May I open the front door, Craig?”
“If it’s okay with Matt Ward and Sherry,” Craig said.
“It is.”
“Then let’s get the heck out of here.”
Sherry Lincoln stepped into the Irish night at the top of the airstairs and breathed deeply, loving the cool, damp air, and eagerly anticipating the feel of a real bed for the first time in forty-eight hours.
Matt Ward emerged right behind her.
“Beautiful night, huh?” he said.
“Yes. And no sign of police, soldiers, or anything particularly threatening.”
“Not yet, at least,” Matt added, pointing to four men who were walking around the nose of the Boeing toward the foot of the airstairs. Matt bounded down the stairs and stopped the group. Sherry heard the name “Jay” spoken as Craig Dayton and President Harris emerged, with Jillian, Ursula, and Elle behind them.
Sherry descended the stairs with her eyes on the two men in the front now in conversation with the Secret Service agent, wondering which one owned the steady, metered voice that had been so reassuring during the ordeal.
The first of the two men was fairly short and somewhat rotund with a huge smile under a shock of silver hair, the second athletic and just under six feet in height with a full head of black hair and a well-sculpted face set with large, dark eyes.
Sherry felt a tiny shudder of inner relief when the second one stepped forward with his hand outstretched.
“Miss Lincoln, I presume?”
“Mr. Reinhart?”
“Or should I say ‘Ms.’?”
She smiled. “ ‘Miss’ is accurate, ‘Ms.’ is better, and ‘Sherry’ is preferred.”
“It’s great to meet you at last, and get you here safely,” Jay said, taking her hand gently and looking beyond her as John Harris reached the bottom of the airstairs and hurried over.
“Jay!”
Jay smiled as he squeezed Sherry’s hand and released it to greet Harris. “You’re even more trouble than you were as my senior partner, Mr. President.”
“At the White House they teach you how to be a burden to everyone simultaneously,” the President said, turning to introduce Craig Dayton and Alastair Chadwick.
Jay in turn introduced Michael Garrity before gesturing toward the other two men who had hovered in the background.
“These gentlemen are from Irish Immigration.”
One of the officers smiled and pointed to
the group. “So, which one of you fine people happens to be a former President of the United States?”
When the formalities and paperwork had been completed, John Harris caught Jay’s attention and pointed to another parked aircraft. “I see Campbell’s here.”
“You . . . recognize the airplane?” Jay asked.
Harris nodded with a frown. “From Sigonella. Yes. It was parked in the distance, but the colors are very distinctive.”
“He got here almost an hour ago,” Jay said. “I’m completely perplexed how he found out you were coming to Dublin, let alone how he knew you hadn’t gone down.”
The President began walking the group toward the terminal. “Never underestimate Stuart Campbell, Jay. As trite as that sounds, it’s a survival manual in a phrase.”
“I believe it,” Jay replied. “And I imagine he’s hard at work with his people right now trying to find a judge. Michael will fill you in on the realities of that process on the way to the hotel, but the bottom line is, I think we’re reasonably secure until morning. In fact, they might be incapable of perfecting their warrant before Thursday morning, since tomorrow’s St. Patrick’s Day. But, John, if we can get you out of here in the morning on a commercial airline, we need to do it. Urgently.”
“Is that possible?” the President said as Jay held the terminal door open for him and Sherry.
“I haven’t had time to work on it,” Jay said when he caught up with them after handing off the door to Garrity and the others, “and frankly, I was reluctant to make a reservation in your name for fear Campbell’s team would be watching.”
“You have a list of the flights, though?” Sherry asked.
Jay nodded. “Yes. Aer Lingus and Delta are the direct ones, although Delta makes a stop in Shannon. I was thinking you could use my passport, John . . .”
The President had come through the door and stopped, shaking his head “no” as he cast a sideways glance at Sherry. “I’m not going to do it that way, Jay. I’ve got to draw the line somewhere. Besides, my using your passport would be a criminal offense in almost any nation on earth. You know that.”
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