The Aer Lingus agent handed a set of tickets over the counter and motioned to Jay, who was next in line.
“I understand you still have seats available on the nonstop to New York at ten?” Jay asked.
“Yes, sir, I believe we do. I’ll check. Just a moment.”
The agent pecked away at her computer keyboard for nearly a minute before looking back up at him. “Yes, we have seats in both coach and first class.”
“I’ll need two tickets, one way, first-class, please.”
“Your name, please?”
“J. Harris,” Jay said.
More pecking.
“Very good, Mr. Harris, and I’ll need to see your passport and a credit card.”
Jay handed over the credit card before turning to catch Sherry’s eye where she stood by the terminal entrance. She nodded and disappeared for nearly a minute, returning with the President in tow. They came up quietly by Jay’s side.
“They need your passports,” Jay said.
Harris smiled as he and Sherry handed over the blue-cover American passports, and all three watched as the agent flipped them open before looking up with an unreadable smile.
“Just a moment, please. I’ll be back straightaway.” She left the counter area, which was in the middle of the terminal floor, and entered a door off to one side.
“Oh, boy,” Jay muttered.
“I know. She took my passport with her,” John Harris said.
The agent emerged a minute later with a man trailing her. She resumed her position behind the counter as he circled around the front to where they were standing, and handed back the President’s passport.
“Good morning. I’m Richard Lacey, the station manager,” he began, his eyes darting nervously from John Harris to Jay Reinhart to Sherry and back. “Would you be good enough to come with me for a moment?”
“Mr. Lacey,” Jay said, “we’re trying to complete a transaction here and get on a flight. What’s wrong?”
“I’d… appreciate it if you would follow me,” Lacey said, ushering them away from the counter and through a series of doors to a small conference room.
“What’s this about?” John Harris asked when they’d shut the door behind them.
“Please, have a seat, sir.”
“I’m not interested in sitting, Mr. Lacey,” Harris said. “I am interested in getting on your flight.”
“I know that, Mr. President,” Lacey replied, his eyes on the table as he took a deep breath.
“All right,” Jay began, stepping forward. “If you know who President Harris is, then you’ve got a specific purpose in pulling us off the floor. What is it?”
Lacey looked up at last. “I’m terribly sorry, but we cannot offer you passage on our airline today.”
“And why would that be, Mr. Lacey?” Jay asked, struggling unsuccessfully to keep an acidic edge from his voice. “Has any official agency of the Irish Government given you a directive? Because if they have, I can assure you it’s not legal.”
“Not the government.”
“Who, then?”
Lacey was perspiring and obviously nervous. “Won’t you please sit a minute?”
“No,” Jay snapped. “You’re running an airline here and President Harris is attempting to pay you several thousand dollars for passage as a member of the public, and you possess no legal right to deny that passage. You’re playing with the potential for a massive lawsuit, sir.”
“I’m not making the decisions here, Mr…”
“Reinhart. Jay Reinhart. I’m the President’s lawyer.”
“Yes. Of course, Mr. Reinhart.” He extended his hand but Jay refused to take it, and Lacey lowered it in embarrassment.
“Well, you see, the bottom line is, the chairman of my company has instructed me that regardless of threats or consequences, I may not sell any tickets to President Harris today.”
“Or tomorrow?” Jay asked.
“Until further notice. I do not know why.”
“Very convenient,” Jay snapped.
John Harris gently put a hand on Jay’s arm.
“We understand this is out of your discretion, Mr. Lacey,” the President said. “But you are telling us that you are not authorized to give me an explanation?”
Lacey pulled a piece of note paper from a suit coat pocket and handed it over with a slightly shaking hand. “I was told to ask you to call Mr. O’Day at this number, sir. That’s our chairman, and he will explain.”
“Very well.”
“Wait a minute, John. It’s not all right! I’ll get an injunction against this and…”
“No, Jay. Let’s go. Thank you, Mr. Lacey.”
“You’re welcome to use the phone in here,” Lacey said.
John Harris shook his head. “I fail to see the point, sir, of talking to your chairman or anyone else at this airline. I’m either welcome on your airline or I’m not, and clearly you’ve established the latter, and clearly you’ve accepted all the potential liability that may be attached thereto.”
“I… suppose so,” Lacey stammered. He led them back to the main terminal floor and departed with another mumbled apology. Sherry had waited by the door she’d seen them enter earlier. Jay heatedly explained the situation.
“I’m going to talk to Delta. Wait here,” he said.
He returned fifteen minutes later, red-faced and angry. “Delta’s Dublin manager claims Irish immigration will fine them if they allow you to leave while a criminal matter is pending, but the local manager can’t give me a name or number of any immigration personnel he’s talked to, nor will he give me the number of anyone in Atlanta at their company headquarters. That’s garbage, of course.”
“I rather expected this, Jay,” John Harris said quietly.
“I didn’t, and it’s outrageous!”
John Harris motioned to Jay and Sherry to follow him and they walked to an alcove near the front of the terminal, where the President turned and leaned close to them.
“Yes, it’s outrageous, but we all know this is Stuart’s doing, and we knew we could expect something like this. He’s managed to intimidate them with thinly veiled threats of litigation or potential government sanctions and, of course, they’re going to do what any doubtful company would do, which is: err on the side of caution.”
“Sounds like you’re excusing them, John,” Jay said.
The President shook his head. “As I told you last night, never underestimate Stuart Campbell. He’s a genuine Lamont Cranston, with the ability to cloud men’s minds.”
Jay looked puzzled. “Who?”
John Harris smiled. “Lamont Cranston. You have to be over fifty to remember the name, Jay. An old radio show.”
“Oh.”
John Harris looked over his shoulder at the front drive, then back at them. “Let’s get back to the hotel. We can sort out the next move from there.”
“I’m glad you’re taking this calmly, Mr. President,” Jay said.
Harris met his eyes. “Only on the surface, Jay. Inside is a different matter.”
Alastair Chadwick was sipping a glass of orange juice when he spotted Craig Dayton walking into the hotel restaurant in jeans and a white shirt, looking smug.
“You’re smiling,” he pointed out.
“Yes,” Craig agreed, offering no other explanation.
“Are Jillian, Ursula, and Elle going to join us?”
“Jillian will be down in a few minutes,” Craig said. “I don’t know about the other two.”
“So, do I detect canary feathers around the corners of your mouth?” Alastair asked, as dryly as possible.
Craig sat down and motioned to a nearby waiter, pointing to his coffee cup before looking at Alastair.
“Canary feathers?”
“As in, the cat that ate the canary. In other words, you seem insufferably pleased with yourself.”
“I do? Well, I just had a very strange conversation with our chief pilot.”
“Really? Strange? Craig, any conversation with Herr Wurtschmidt is, by definition, strange. The man’s a raving paranoid with delusions of adequacy.”
“Maybe, but he told me to carry on, and said he’d fax me the charter papers for customs in Iceland, Canada, and the U.S., if our client decides to go.”
Alastair looked stunned. “Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
The copilot shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. “Craig, last night we cost the British Government a few quid, to say the least, by sending them on a wild goose chase for a missing aircraft that wasn’t. He doesn’t know?”
“Oh, he knows, but he accepted my explanation,” Craig said, stealing a piece of Alastair’s toast and dumping a small pitcher of cream into his freshly poured coffee.
“Aha!” Alastair said, raising his remaining slice of toast for emphasis. “Now we get to the truth! You flummoxed him once more!”
“I’m sorry, what? Oh! You’re into Britspeak again, aren’t you?”
“Flummoxed. Bamboozled. Pulled the wool. Messed with his mind.”
“Oh, yeah. Mind messing. That one I got.”
“Craig, what in heaven’s name did you tell him?”
“I simply told him…” Craig began, as he searched the menu and drew out the suspense.
“Yes? What?”
“I told him that we’d cancelled our instrument clearance in order to stay in international airspace to prevent diplomatic problems, and for some reason London Center couldn’t hear our subsequent radio calls.”
“That’s all?”
“Well… I might have told him… or might have somehow suggested… that we were operating on direct orders from the Royal Air Force and the White House.”
“Direct…?”
“Direct orders. I told him it was classified. He said he didn’t want to know.”
“Yes, I imagine. Nor would I.”
“He’s beginning to act like Schultz, in Hogan’s Heroes. Did you ever see that show? Remember old Schultz? Whenever Hogan or his guys would pull something, Schultz would scream: I know nothing!”
“I think I envy Schultz. So… we’re still employed for a few more hours?”
“For a few more hours. Wanna go to Maine?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“No.”
“So… what’s the determining factor for a ‘go, no-go’ decision?”
“Primarily, whether or not President Harris is able to get out of here on a commercial flight. If he can’t, then the decision depends on the weather, the upper-level winds, careful flight planning, and the possibility that someone will find a way to refuse us departure clearance.”
“That’s a serious threat?”
“Yeah, it is. I haven’t heard from them, whether the flight’s on or not, but we have to use the North Atlantic Track System to make it direct, and they could refuse us the clearance just like that, and for no apparent reason.”
Alastair was nodding as Craig continued.
“It’d be as easy as intimidating the average FAA inspector with a call from a U.S. senator. One call from Mr. Campbell to the right people, and we’d never get off the ground.”
Secretary of State Joseph Byer hung up the telephone and sat back with his arms behind his head as an aide sat in a nearby chair with a questioning look. Byer ignored him for well over a minute, carefully marking the time necessary to reinforce the reality that he was the head wolf, as he was fond of describing himself.
“Wondering what the President wanted this time, Andrew?” he asked at last, his eyes carefully focused on the opposite wall.
“Yes, sir.”
“He wanted to know why, if we’d determined that Harris and Reinhart are in Dublin, weren’t we in Dublin, too, holding their hands.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Know why?”
“No, sir. I mean, I think I do, but I didn’t hear what you told him.”
“I told him that Harris’s lawyer insists on running the show, and Harris insists on letting him, so we’ll just wait until Harris gets himself arrested and then we’ll fly over and offer to help pick up the pieces. And if they don’t want our help, so be it. We’ll just monitor the situation. Let Harris twist in the wind awhile.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Meantime, get the others in here. We’ve got some official channels to engage in Ireland.”
“You’re not fond of Harris, are you, sir?”
“Has nothing to do with politics, Andrew. I heard about the allegations Mr. Campbell made in that hearing, that Harris knowingly approved torture and murder. I’m deeply worried there could really be such a tape.”
“And if there is?”
Byer lowered his arms and turned to look at his aide. “If there is, John Harris is in far more trouble than even he knows, and he’s going to drag us into a terrible debacle. The harm he could do to American foreign policy cannot be overstated.”
Mr. Justice Gerald O’Connell had slapped his tiny electronic alarm clock across the room for the offense of waking a High Court judge before he was ready to regain consciousness.
That was thirty minutes before he admitted to himself that the hour of ten o’clock was not a respectable time to be in bed alone, even on a holiday.
The judge rolled to a sitting position and sampled his mood, finding it unusually sour. Sleeping alone was an agony and an ecstasy. With his wife on holiday in the States, he could hog the bed and the covers, but the unavailability of feminine comfort was an irritant. Mrs. Justice O’Connell – Elizabeth by given name – was still lovely and sexy and desirable and, dammit, he wanted her right now. And where was she? Instead of tending to her womanly duties, she was gallivanting halfway around the globe with her loony sister.
I’ll hold her in contempt, I will! he thought, thankful she couldn’t read such thoughts from afar. She didn’t need red hair to be fearsome when angered, and his demands sometimes infuriated her.
“So you want me now, do you, Your Lordship?” she’d screamed at him one morning several months before, pulling her gown off and standing in all her glory before the large bedroom window for the neighbors to see. “Take me, damn you! Right here, right now! Or would you rather do it in your courtroom on the bench?”
He rubbed his eyes and remembered the equally irritating fact that he was the standby judge for this holiday, available to any rotten barrister or incompetent progenitor of Irish law who couldn’t handle the tide of crime and punishment without a bewigged jurist to bless the process.
“Dammit!” he muttered aloud, just to hear the protest echo off the walls.
He almost dared the phone to ring as he boiled a couple of eggs and burned some toast for breakfast in the downstairs kitchen, and ring it did.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Justice O’Connell?”
“Who else do you think would be answering his phone on a holiday?”
“I’m sorry, Judge. I thought you were the standby…”
“Yes, I am, dammit. Who’s this?”
“Patrick Nolan, sir, of the firm of McCullogh, Malone, and Bourke. I’m afraid we have an urgent matter involving a former U.S. President, and we’ve exhausted all possibilities of securing a district judge.”
He snorted. “That figures. They’re all slacking. A U.S. President? Is this a joke?”
“No, My Lord, it isn’t.” Nolan explained the basics of the case as O’Connell sat down at his kitchen table.
“So the application is for issuance of an arrest warrant based on the Interpol warrant, is that correct?”
“Yes, My Lord.”
“So where are the Garda? Such a warrant has to be presented by them, not by a private firm.”
“It will be, My Lord. I’m merely assisting them.”
“Will the application be opposed by Mr. Harris’s counsel?”
“We’re certain it will be, and we’re ready to notify them when you’re ready to receive us, Judge.”
“Why on earth would you think I have jurisdiction of a case like this? It’s just a warrant!”
Carefully and quickly, Patrick Nolan laid out his argument. “Bottom line, My Lord, in the absence of a District Court and the presence of an emergency, you may assert jurisdiction, if you so desire.”
“Well, I may hear it, but get it out of your head that you’re coming to my house today.”
“Begging your pardon, Judge, but there is a distinct danger of flight.”
“From Ireland?”
“Yes.”
O’Connell thought it over for a few seconds. “You say this man is a former President of the United States. I do recognize the name.”
“Yes, Judge.”
“Is there some serious worry that he’s going to go forth and reoffend somewhere?”
“No, Judge, but we might lose jurisdiction over him.”
“What? You said the alleged crimes were committed in Peru, isn’t that correct?”
“Yes, My Lord.”
“Peru, as in South America, llamas, and halfway around the bleeding globe?”
“Yes, My Lord.”
“And, this is still the Republic of Ireland, like it was when I went to bed last night, correct?”
“Ah… yes, My Lord.”
“Then WHY IN BLOODY HELL ARE YOU WORRIED?”
“Well…”
“I mean, has he threatened to torture anyone here, other than me, that is?”
“No, Judge, of course not, but…”
“Tomorrow morning, then, counsel! I’ll hear this case promptly at eleven. No. At ten A.M. You’ll provide notification to Harris’s solicitor?”
“Yes, My Lord.”
“Good. Now leave me alone.”
“Yes, My Lord. Thank you.”
He replaced the receiver and sat in thought as he munched his toast. Anything involving such a high-ranking personage would draw considerable attention. Media coverage, government officials, diplomatic corps, and a thundering herd of interested parties.
I wonder if there’s any substance to this? he mused, suppressing his long-held antipathy for the posturing of the American government on so many issues.
This could be bloody interesting!