Headwind

by John J. Nance

  “I . . . yes, but I just want to get you home.”

  “Well, I want to get me home, too, but not by pulling some cheap stunt.”

  He saw Jay wince and hastened to put his hand on Jay’s arm. “That wasn’t a shot at you, Jay. You’re doing exactly what I need you to do by looking at every option, but I’ve got to ride herd on my own panic.”

  Jay nodded. “I understand.”

  “I’m very concerned,” Harris continued, inclining his head toward Craig Dayton and Alastair Chadwick, who were waiting at a respectful distance, “that I’ve let these two wonderful pilots put themselves in great professional jeopardy for me. If they lose their jobs, I’ve got to fix it.”

  “We had to get you out of Italy, John.”

  “I know. But I’m getting more nervous about this by the hour, because I’m finally beginning to appreciate the gigantic scope of the dragnet Miraflores has cast around the globe to snare me. I’m sure Stuart has unlimited funds and unlimited numbers of people to help him.”

  Another pulse of self-doubt shot through Jay’s head. In contrast to the legal juggernaut captained by Stuart Campbell, John Harris’s legal team consisted of a single barrister of unknown capability, a solicitor he had yet to meet, and a failed Texas jurist trying to reclaim his long-dormant stripes as an international lawyer. The odds were shameful, and he would need every minute to prepare for battle in the Irish courts.

  Craig Dayton caught Jay just before he climbed into the first of two vans hired to take them to the nearby hotel.

  “Where do we go from here, Mr. Reinhart?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Are you going to need us, I mean? My airplane and my crew?”

  “I don’t know. Can you stand by through tomorrow?”

  Craig looked around at Alastair, who was approaching with his bags, then back at Jay. “Look, we’re probably about to be fired, and . . . the reason I need to know, is that if the charter is continuing, I can probably get EuroAir to let us keep on going. I know the only reason they agreed to this charter is the pressure the White House put on them, but once it’s over, the money’s stopped, and the political pressure is off, we’ll be ordered to deadhead the bird to Frankfurt.”

  “Tell them the charter continues and the money won’t stop,” Jay said immediately.

  Craig nodded. “Good. I . . . may need some help from Washington again if the stunt we pulled over the English Channel has too many people calling for our heads. They thought we’d gone down, and there was a rescue effort.”

  “Let me know. I’ll make the calls to D.C. and do my best.”

  “One other thing. We may need more pressure from D.C. anyway to go back Stateside with the airplane.”

  “You can make it Stateside? Without a fuel stop in Iceland or Canada?” Jay asked, his eyebrows up a notch. “I thought . . .”

  Craig nodded as he glanced at Alastair once more. “Let me put it this way. Dublin to Presque Isle, Maine, is about twenty-eight hundred nautical miles, but the maximum range of this airplane is just a tiny bit over three thousand nautical miles. That means that if the headwinds aren’t too bad, and if we fly at what’s called maximum endurance airspeeds, and if the airports in Iceland and Greenland and Canada aren’t socked in as alternate fields, we might be able to make it safely, although there’s one big legal hitch.”

  “I should say!” Alastair chimed in.

  “What?” Jay asked.

  “This isn’t an ETOPS bird.”

  “That’s . . . alphabet soup to me,” Jay replied, leaning against the van and willing himself to believe he wasn’t tired.

  “We love esoteric acronyms in aviation,” Craig was saying. “ETOPS means extended twin-engine overwater operation, and to reach the U.S. mainland from here we’d be way, way out over the Atlantic, instead of staying within three hundred miles of a suitable airfield, which is the normal limit.”

  “So . . . you’d be doing something illegal?”

  “More . . . against regulations than illegal . . . in a criminal sense,” Craig added.

  “Mr. Reinhart,” Alastair interjected, “what my partner here is trying to say with practiced understatement is that technically we’re not allowed to fly passengers straight out over the Atlantic, even though we are equipped with all the required overwater gear: life rafts, life jackets, survival gear, and such. You see, there’s a certain procedure for officially blessing twin-engine jets for such operations, and this one hasn’t yet qualified. We’re already in terrible trouble with our company, but even if we weren’t, I guarantee you EuroAir would never approve such an illicit route.”

  “They wouldn’t have to,” Craig said. “We’ll file by way of Keflavík, Iceland, and Gander, Newfoundland, then to Presque Isle, Maine. Only we’ll change the routing in flight and go direct, or as close to direct as they’ll let us. There is a specific system of tracks across the North Atlantic.”

  “I think I understand,” Jay said.

  “I’m assuming you still don’t want to touch down in any country other than the U.S., including Canada.”

  “That’s right . . . you can navigate over water?” Jay asked.

  “Piece of cake,” Craig answered, noticing the pained expression on Alastair’s face.

  “I hate that phrase,” Alastair muttered.

  “He hates that phrase,” Craig repeated, arching a thumb at the copilot. “We’ve got two GPS’s, global positioning satellite systems. We know our position within three feet at every moment.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Alastair said. “For instance, at this moment we know our careers are precisely within three feet of the intersection of Unloved and Unemployed. So why not enjoy the trip and push on some more?”

  “In other words . . .” Jay started to say, completely confused.

  “In other words,” Craig replied, “we can do it if the President needs us. Provided the winds aren’t ridiculous.”

  “Try to arrange it, fellows,” Jay said. “If I can’t get him out any other way, we’ll do it your way.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  The Great Southern Hotel, Dublin Airport, Dublin,

  Ireland—Tuesday—9:50 P.M.

  The drive to the midlevel airport hotel was brief, and the restaurant Garrity had lined up to feed them turned out to be a smokey pub with too much noise to permit serious conversation. It was nearly eleven when they returned to the hotel, said goodnight to the two pilots and three flight attendants, and gathered in John Harris’s room, with the President, Sherry Lincoln, and Jay sitting on two chairs and an ottoman while Matt Ward and Michael Garrity stood.

  “I do hope the accommodations are satisfactory, Mr. President,” Garrity said. “Mr. Reinhart wanted to keep you as close to the airport as possible.”

  “They’re fine, Michael,” the President said. “I don’t always need to be in a six-room suite.”

  Michael Garrity began laying out the basics of extradition in the Republic of Ireland.

  “It’s the Garda, our police force, that will have to formally present the Interpol warrant, but they’ll probably accept Campbell’s help in finding a judge. Now, if he can’t find a district judge, Campbell’s team will have one choice left, and that’s the High Court justice who’s on standby. There’s always one of them every holiday, either hanging on his cell phone or actually fooling around at home. The fact that he’s accessible is the good news for Campbell, although it’s possible a High Court justice would decide he didn’t have jurisdiction. What’s good for us is the fact that a High Court judge is far more likely to listen to our protests that the evidence is insufficient to support the basic charge.”

  John Harris could see Jay’s expression darken, and their eyes met momentarily as Jay looked at the President, his mind consumed by a new wave of worry.

  “Jay and I need to talk, Mr. Garrity, before we continue,” the President said.

  “Indeed,” Garrity replied, puzzled at the sudden chill in the room. Sherry, too, looked off-balance.

/>   “John,” Jay said. “I think we may need to include everyone in this.” He met John Harris’s eyes again as the President stared at him. “Michael, here, has to defend you, and Sherry and Matt are integral parts of the team. I think everyone has a need to know.”

  “What are you talking about, Jay?” Sherry asked.

  The President had begun to get to his feet, but he sank back onto the edge of the chair with a long sigh and nodded. “Very well, Jay. You’re probably right.”

  “Jay, what’s going on?” Sherry pressed, looking from the President to Jay and back.

  “What’s going on, Sherry,” the President began, “is an allegation that Stuart Campbell dropped like a small bomb in the London Magistrate Court. Go on, Jay.”

  Jay described in detail Campbell’s assertion that CIA covert operations chief Barry Reynolds had briefed the President in the Oval Office and warned him that the people they were about to hire to carry out the planned Peruvian drug raid would most likely maim and torture anyone they found before killing them.

  “And you approved this as an official act?” Michael Garrity asked evenly.

  “Absolutely not!” John Harris said. “I mean . . . all right, look here. What happened was entirely different. Reynolds had been working the case personally and reporting directly to the DCI, who was reporting to me.”

  “I’m sorry?” Michael replied.

  “DCI. The Director of Central Intelligence,” the President responded. “Anyway, I received word that we were at a critical juncture in this search-and-destroy mission, and Reynolds needed to brief me personally. I recall thinking that it was an odd request, since usually the DCI or his direct deputy do such briefings.”

  “So Mr. Reynolds did come to the Oval Office?” Jay asked.

  John Harris sighed and nodded. “Yes, he did. There were times when such off-the-record meetings were necessary. We even have them occasionally with members of the military. No time record kept, no names on the appointment calendar. Nothing to indicate it ever occurred, for national security reasons as well as political reasons.”

  “I see,” Garrity said, his eyes locked on the President. “You call it plausible deniability, if I’m to believe Hollywood.”

  “That’s not too far from the real phrase,” Harris continued. “Okay, so I received Reynolds, he was there on schedule, and the Secret Service slipped him in the west door to the Oval. Matt? Were you the agent on duty that day?”

  “No, sir. I’ve . . . brought individuals in through that door, but I don’t recall that one,” he said with great care, his normal unreadable expression changing ever so slightly.

  “Well, that’s how it was done. Reynolds . . . and I recall this very, very clearly because of my utter shock when I got the report later on the bloodbath that had transpired . . . Reynolds told me that they had a team ready to go in and raid the drug factory and destroy it. We knew we could not use Americans, expatriates or otherwise. We needed mercenaries, and that’s what he had found. I asked him if they were militarily trained, and he assured me that they were trained and disciplined and veterans with formal military experience essentially gone bad. He assured me they would stick to their orders, kill only if unavoidable, and that they would thoroughly understand that their target was the factory, not the people who worked there. I knew there were campesinos . . . peasants . . . pressed into service in such places. But we had to stop the flow.”

  “So you approved the raid?” Jay asked.

  “Yes. As Commander-in-Chief, and ultimate head of special operations and every other government function. I had to act. The flow of their heroin into the U.S. was reaching epidemic proportions, and an incredible percentage was coming out of that very facility, and the exiting government under Fujimori was doing absolutely nothing.”

  “But, John,” Jay interrupted, “the most important point is this: Did Reynolds in any way, form, or fashion indicate to you that the mercenaries you would be authorizing him to hire would torture or murder the workers?”

  “No, he did not. In fact, as I’ve already said, he assured me they would follow orders. And my orders were to do no harm to the workers and to kill only in self-defense.”

  “Then,” Jay continued, his eyes welded on John Harris, “why does Stuart Campbell allege that Barry Reynolds made a videotape of that meeting, a tape that shows the opposite?”

  John Harris thrust his arms wide open in a sweeping gesture of frustration.

  “I DON’T KNOW! Dammit, Jay, do you have any idea what an accusation like that does to me? I know I’m not suffering from Alzheimer’s like poor Ronnie Reagan. So far I remember things clearly, thank the Lord, and I know for an absolute fact that there can be no such video or audio evidence because this President never . . . repeat, never . . . listened to any such representations from Reynolds. I mean, you couldn’t even read that into his words between the lines, because I specifically asked him if he was sure they wouldn’t go overboard!”

  Jay was nodding. “I demanded a copy of the tape.”

  “And?” John Harris snapped, his breathing accelerated and his face reddened.

  “And Campbell never delivered it, which was in part, I’m sure, because neither of us stayed in London long enough.”

  “We need a copy of that tape, I’m afraid,” Michael Garrity said.

  “Damn right we do!” John Harris said. “I mean, in the first place, the incredible act of claiming to have taped a conversation in the Oval with the President of the United States is ridiculous enough.”

  “You know, when . . . people were brought in that way,” Matt interjected, “we usually knew precisely who they were, and although we would pat them down, we wouldn’t run them through the metal detector.”

  “Meaning?” Jay asked.

  “Meaning, it’s not impossible that a known CIA chief could come through the door with a hidden camera wired to him. It’s not something you’d expect.”

  John Harris looked Jay in the eye, speaking slowly. “If there is a tape that has any words spoken by Reynolds or myself that vary from what I just told you, it has been electronically fabricated or altered.”

  Jay nodded slowly. “It’s entirely possible. But how do we prove it?”

  “Indeed,” Michael Garrity said, his eyes on the far wall as he stroked his chin. “A tape like that at a full-blown trial can be challenged, but in a hearing like this . . .”

  “It can be challenged here,” Sherry said, coming partially out of her chair, her eyes wide. “Remember the Rodney King thing? Those police officers were beating the hell out of the man on camera, in living color, and the defense team somehow fuzzed it up to the point of an acquittal. Who’s going to believe a ridiculous fake like this?”

  “That’s loyalty talking, Sherry, for which I’m grateful,” the President said sadly.

  “He’s right, Miss Lincoln,” Garrity added. “A tape like that in front of a judge at this stage is going to be very difficult to challenge.”

  “Can’t we attack it as illegally made and therefore inadmissible?” Jay asked.

  “Perhaps, but that’s entirely up to the judge, and you’re dealing with a bizarre combination of things, a U.S. President, the White House, a CIA chief, and I’m not certain that even a U.S. court could so easily declare such a tape patently inadmissible. Keep in mind that you told me Reynolds was a respected senior officer of Central Intelligence.”

  “So, if Campbell produces it in court in Dublin, it would be a problem?” Jay asked.

  “No,” Michael Garrity said, carefully choosing his words. “No, Jay, it wouldn’t be a problem. For what we’re trying to do, it would be a disaster.”

  The Shelbourne Hotel, St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin, Ireland

  Stuart Campbell finished the last call he had to make and opened the window overlooking St. Stephen’s Green to clear his head.

  The temperature was moderate, if not balmy, and a light breeze rustled the curtains. He could almost feel the presence of the Four Courts building
on Inns Quay bordering the River Liffey, unseen but less than a mile distant. There was something in the history of the structure that always affected him, a symbol of defiance on a level that his native Scotland had never achieved. The building had been left barely standing in the ruins of the Irish Civil War in April of 1922, a victim of shelling by pro-treaty forces that had all but collapsed the dome. The steely determination of the Irish had rebuilt it to be as much a symbol of the rule of law as the rule of the Republic, and the Four Courts had become the center of justice in the Republic.

  It would be the situs of the battle to come, and not the first for him. With the British and Irish legal systems essentially identical in form, he had been—as they expressed it—“called” before the Irish bar as a barrister many years back in a case representing U.K. interests. It had been a thrill he would never discuss with his fellow English barristers, many of whom delighted in rolling their eyes at anything Irish.

  Campbell turned for a moment to watch the beehive of activity behind him. The Presidential Suite was only his central command post. Across the city, the main Dublin office of his law firm was ablaze with lights and a team of sixteen lawyers, secretaries, and clerks working feverishly on the sweeping assignment they’d been given: prepare every possible order for every possible court for every possible contingency.

  For the past hour, between his own phone calls to the home numbers of various highly placed individuals, Stuart had received disappointing progress reports on the quest for a judge. As he had feared, there seemed to be no district judge anywhere in the Republic of Ireland who could be persuaded to consider the warrant at home.

  “I thought we had it at one point,” Patrick had told him twenty minutes before. “Mr. Justice O’Mally, it was, and I caught him by cell phone in his back yard. He said we could bring the case to his home, and then he discovered the warrant concerned one John Harris, former President of the U.S.”