For a man with a six-foot-four-inch frame, climbing into the compact cabin of a Learjet Model 35 was always a minor challenge. But Stuart Campbell eased himself into one of the leather seats of his Lear with practiced ease and unfolded a wall-mounted table. In his peripheral vision he saw the Navy car that had brought him from the NAS-One part of the base to his aircraft pull away to a respectable distance and park.
He reached for the onboard satellite phone and stopped, his hand hovering just short of picking it up.
You’re moving too fast, your tubship! he thought to himself, specifically using the derogatory pet name a former lover had given him when he purchased an estate in Northumberland, which came with the amusing title, “lordship of the manor.”
“Tubship, I should think,” his lady decided.
He’d been a few pounds heavier then, as well as thoroughly unfamiliar with the institution of regular exercise, but the intervening years of workouts had shed the once-developing pot belly, along with the young woman who’d declared it unlovable. Only the epithet remained, and for some reason it still amused him.
Campbell leaned forward, intertwining his fingers on the small desk as he concentrated on the flaw in his thinking. The shock of apparently losing Harris to an American rescue had obscured the fact that he had no real confirmation yet that the rescue had actually occurred.
Could that sly old bastard still be on that 737? he wondered. Probably not, but he should put off the call to Lima until he was certain.
The captain of the Learjet came in the door as his employer hauled himself out of the seat and back onto the ramp.
“You and Gina stay here, Jean-Paul,” he said, smiling at the female copilot, who was also Jean-Paul’s wife. “I’ll be back.”
As his feet touched the concrete, the Navy staff car lurched into gear and headed back toward the Lear. The driver’s mission, Campbell was sure, being to keep him under tight control.
One hundred eighteen passengers trundled down the airstairs and across the leased Sicilian ramp as the last vestiges of twilight faded around Sigonella, casting an unearthly glow about the summit of Mt. Etna to the northeast. All the helicopters had departed, the two from competing Italian television outlets leaving the moment their assignment editors had learned that the American mission was complete and the former American President was on his way back to the United States – a myth propelled and perpetuated by several key interviews given by an unnamed source at the White House. John Harris’s presence on the Air Force jet had not been confirmed by the source, but the fact that an official reception was being planned for the C-17’s arrival in D.C. had been happily relayed and was entirely true. There was, of course, the small, unmentioned detail that the assigned reception committee consisted of a low-ranking White House aide and a steward, both of whom were expecting to “receive” only a tired aircrew on arrival at Andrews AFB. The resulting misunderstanding by the media had flashed around the globe: “Arrest of American Ex-President Foiled by Air Force Rescue!” The headlines instantly lowered the news value of Flight 42’s displaced passengers.
In the cockpit of EuroAir Flight 42, Captain Craig Dayton watched the exodus of his passengers as he waited for EuroAir’s director of operations to answer the satellite line. It was not a call he’d been looking forward to.
“They want to do what?” the director of operations, Helmut Walters, asked from Frankfurt.
“Two things, sir. First, charter this aircraft for at least two days. Second, pay for whatever charter you can get together to take the passengers out of here and bring them back to Rome. They also want to pay for any additional expenses this diversion has cost.”
“Captain Dayton, you call that a diversion? None of us yet knows what you were doing! Were you hijacked?”
“No,” Craig sighed as he rubbed his forehead and tried to choose the right words.
“At one time Rome Control thought you’d crashed. We thought you’d crashed! Wait… I’m putting you on speakerphone. The chief pilot is here, too. We all want to know what you were doing.”
“All right, here’s the deal,” Craig began. “I had a situation in Athens where I thought we were about to be either hijacked or attacked. I wasn’t sure whether we were facing the outfall from a Greek coup d’état or a direct assault because of the presence of the former U.S. President.”
He could hear consternation on the other end.
“Captain, operations said they told you to hold at the gate, and yet you started and blew over all sorts of things backing out,” the operations director said.
“And you may have hurt the engines with foreign object damage, Dayton,” the chief pilot added, “not to mention the fact that backing out violated all our procedures.”
“Gentlemen,” Craig countered, “if I’d stayed there and been the victim of some bloodbath and lost our passengers and the airplane, would you feel the same? Keep in mind that I had no way of knowing whether someone was holding a gun to the head of the operations agent or not.”
“But that was not the situation, eh, Captain Dayton?” the director of operations said.
“No, but it’s all too easy for you to declare that now, in hindsight, Herr Walters, and to thump me on the head with the news that there was no real threat. But I perceived a threat! I perceived a major, immediate threat. And I was the one in command, right there, right then, who had to make a decision, and I’m always going to err on the side of safety. Would you want me to act otherwise? Certainly our passengers wouldn’t.”
There was sudden silence from the other end, and Craig could tell they’d been momentarily halted by the logic of his argument.
“Very well, Captain, but why did you then fail to land in Rome, fly to Sicily, keep your passengers cooped up, and make Rome Control think you were crashing?”
“Same reason, sir. Whatever or whoever was after us at Athens appeared to be lying in wait in Rome for reasons I absolutely cannot discuss on a nonsecure telephone connection.”
Craig could see Alastair stifling a laugh in the right seat as he continued.
“I was completely convinced that everyone aboard was at risk, and I chose Sigonella because it was an American base, I had an American ex-President aboard being chased by God knows who, and I felt my passengers – who included an American tour group of forty-four, by the way – would be far safer here than anywhere else. I don’t know the Italian military bases. I do know this one. And, okay, why the sudden descent without the transponder into here? Because, if you didn’t know it, we were being literally followed by another aircraft and several fighters, and I wanted to lose them. I wasn’t interested in being shot down on final approach when I’m most vulnerable and have no countermeasures or missiles on board.”
At the mention of missiles, Alastair lost it, laughing quietly in the right seat as he covered his mouth and shook his head. Craig looked at him and almost lost control as well, holding his voice barely in check as he listened to the increasingly befuddled response from Frankfurt.
“That’s… what do you mean, shot down, Captain Dayton? Why would you think, for heaven’s sake, that anyone would be trying to shoot you down?” the operations manager sputtered as the chief pilot weighed in.
“Dayton,” the chief pilot snarled, “that is without a doubt the most delusional nonsense I’ve ever heard from an airline captain!”
“When you gentlemen hired me, you knowingly hired an experienced pilot with thousands of hours in top-of-the-line military fighter jets. In fact, Herr Wurtschmidt, I recall you yourself saying that was a very valuable commodity to this airline. As a veteran fighter pilot, I’m very sensitive to airborne threats that you may not even know exist, and if I overreacted here, then please explain to me who was chasing us and why.”
“Well… we do not know that yet… it’s still early…”
“Look,” Craig said, “you can fire me or give me an award for bravery later. Right now, let’s just get to the heart of what we need to do while we’ve got the crew duty time left to do it. Do we let these folks charter this aircraft or not? And before you answer, I’ve got a number for you to call in Washington, D.C.”
“What number?”
He passed the name and telephone number. “That’s the Chief of Staff of the White House. The call will be confidential. The United States Government is formally requesting our assistance.”
“But… but I thought you said this would be paid for by credit card or a wire transfer? Now the American government is trying to charter us?”
“No. President Harris’s staff is trying to charter us. Herr Walters, have you ever had experience in the world of intelligence operations or security matters?”
“No.”
“Then just trust me. There are reasons for paying for certain things by personal credit card or check or wire that are sometimes necessary for political and security reasons. Again, I can’t explain over a nonsecure line.”
More silence on the other end, and in the cockpit, except for the sound of the air-conditioning and the muffled chuckling from Alastair, which increased with the phrase “nonsecure line.”
“Well,” Walters said at last, “do you have any idea where they want to go?”
“Not yet. They may just want to stay here. Give them a price that covers everything.”
“Very well. We will call you back. This is very irregular.”
“Please, gentlemen. Call the White House first.”
“We will. Thank you, Captain. And… you’re correct. We want you to exercise your judgment for safety. We did not mean to imply we don’t. We will need to discuss this at length when you return, but… very well. We accept your explanation.”
“Thank you, sir,” Craig said, as deferentially as he could manage.
He disconnected the call and turned to the copilot with his eyebrows raised in feigned innocence as Alastair audibly exploded in laughter.
“That…” Alastair said, pointing to his captain, “was by far the funniest… dishing of basic bull I’ve… ever heard!”
“I beg your pardon?” Craig managed, a huge, involuntary smile on his face as he tried in vain to look offended. “What do you mean, ‘bull’?”
“A nonsecure line! HAH!” He wagged an index finger at Craig again. “Missiles? Blinking MISSILES, for Chrissakes? Good Lord, you’re a bloody bullshit champion, Dayton!”
“I’m a fighter pilot. The terms are synonymous.”
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.”