Headwind

THIRTY-TWO

Jay returned to the back seat of the car and closed the door.

“On to the airport, sir?” the driver asked.

The Secretary of State nodded and the driver pulled smoothly into traffic.

“Is there anything in your call we should know about?” Secretary Byer asked.

“Yes, sir. But this isn’t the moment to discuss it.”

Byer sighed and nodded. “Very well.” He sat back in silence and focused his attention outside in thought until they pulled up to the executive jet facility ten minutes later.

“If you gentlemen will wait for me, I’ve a couple of calls to make,” Jay said, slipping out as quickly as possible and entering the plush but diminutive terminal. There were glassed-in waiting lounges on both sides of the hall, each liberally equipped with phones, and Jay inserted himself in one to dial Geoffrey Wallace’s number.

The sound of a phone receiver being fumbled from its cradle and bumped across furniture reached his ears, along with a hoarse greeting.

“Yes? Wallace here.”

“Geoffrey, Jay Reinhart. Where does Ireland stand on this issue?”

“I beg your pardon? You mean, where do they stand on President Harris and the warrant?”

“Where would they stand if he came to town with this warrant in hot pursuit?”

There was a short laugh on the other end. “Well, you know the Irish.”

“No, actually I don’t. I should. My grandmother was an Irish immigrant from Galway, but I’ve never been there.”

“Well, they’re a great people, but basically rebellious as hell, even to their own institutions at times. It’s very hard to predict what they’ll do at any given moment.”

“But they’re a nation of laws and a party to the treaty, right?”

“Oh, yes. Of course. They have our basic legal system, as you know. But in typical fashion, they signed the treaty over a decade ago and didn’t ratify it until just last year.”

“They ratified? I thought they hadn’t.”

“Only took them twelve years to get around to it. But yes, they’re fully aboard now.”

A flurry of activity in the largest waiting salon down the hall caught Jay’s peripheral vision and he glanced over in time to see Secretary Byer in animated discussion with his aide, as the other officials milled around.

Jay turned his attention back to the phone. “Do you know any practitioners in Ireland?” he asked.

“I may know someone, but I’ll have to look for his number and call you back.”

“Let me hold, Geoffrey. While you get the number.”

“Oh. Well… very well.” Jay could hear the rustle of what sounded like bedcovers being moved in the background and an unhappy female voice.

“I’m sorry if I caught you at a bad moment,” Jay offered, slightly amused.

Geoffrey was still holding the phone to his ear and chuckled. “Oh, it was anything but a bad moment, I can assure you! I just hated to end it. I’d thought you were through with me for the day. Hang on. I’ll be right back.” Wallace put the phone down, returning three minutes later.

“All right, Jay. There was a seminar in Edinburgh several years ago on international subjects which I attended, and the chap whose name I’ve got here spoke very eloquently on this very treaty. I recall talking with him afterwards. Smart, funny fellow, though I don’t know how good he might be.”

“Irish solicitor?”

“A barrister.”

“So he’s in Dublin?”

“Yes. Interesting, too. He apparently doesn’t drink. Not even Guinness, or so he claimed. I offered him a pint, but…”

“Geoffrey,” Jay interjected, “I’m sorry, but I’m in a rush.”

“Of course. So am I… let’s see.” He passed the numbers in Dublin. “What else can I do for you, Jay? Would you… like me to call him for you?”

“No. I’ll call from here.”

“Good. That first one is a home number, I’m fairly certain.”

“Geoffrey, ah, if you hear anything in the next few hours regarding President Harris, do not necessarily believe it, okay?”

“I love a good mystery, Jay. Can’t you let me in on it?”

“I can’t even tell you there’s anything to let you in on.”

“Oh, right. Got it.”

Jay ended the call and dialed the barrister’s home number in Dublin. He looked around at the salon at the end of the hall while waiting for the phone to ring, startled at the sudden burst of activity among the group of American officials. Secretary Byer was barking an order to an aide and pulling out a portable phone as another group entered, headed by Stuart Campbell.

“Michael Garrity here,” a male voice answered, bringing Jay’s attention back to the line.

“Mr. Garrity, you’re a barrister, correct?”

“There have been scandalous allegations to that effect, but few around Dublin pay them any mind. And who might you be, sir?”

Jay introduced himself and quickly explained the situation as he kept an eye on the increasing intensity of conversations in the lobby. Byer’s people were watching Campbell’s team without making contact.

“So, an American lawyer representing an American ex-President. This sounds intriguing from the beginning. How may I help you, Mr. Reinhart?”

Jay smiled in spite of himself at the cultured Irish accent riding a warm baritone wave of sound echoing with overtones of friendliness.

“I need some very quick advice,” Jay said, “and then I may need to retain you. In the meantime, can we proceed under attorney-client privilege?”

“Well,” Garrity said, clipping the word just a bit, “technically you’ll need to hire me through a solicitor before I can take instructions from you here in Ireland, but that can be arranged later. There’s nothing wrong with my advising you straightaway by phone. As far as the protection of client privilege? Done! Ask away.”

Jay glanced around in search of Secretary of State Byer, who was now sitting on a lavishly upholstered couch, then turned back to the task of outlining the situation for Garrity, including the British position and the need to take the President to or through a country that wasn’t hell-for-leather determined to send him to Peru. “Would I be smart or crazy to bring him to Dublin, Mr. Garrity?”

“Well now, that all depends. I could say that no High Court judge in Dublin would send an American President off to Peru in irons, but I’d be giving you a glib and unsupported opinion. You may not know that we just got around to ratifying the damn thing last year, so we’re bound by the treaty now, and by the European protocols on the same subject. But, having said all that, the chances are very good, I would think, that while the Interpol warrant would be validated and an Irish warrant issued locally, and while your President might be arrested by some very confused Garda…”

“I’m sorry?”

“Garda… that’s our police force. They’re guardians of public safety. They hate to be called police, even when they’re dashing about acting out an Irish version of NYPD Blue. Anyway, I think any attempt at extradition would take a very long time and would give you more than ample opportunity to appeal. It’s really a torturous legal process. Frankly, without doing some fast research, I’m not even sure we have an extradition arrangement with Peru.”

“Does that matter?”

“Probably not in the least. If Mr. Harris is extraditable under the charges you mentioned, he’d be extraditable under the Treaty Against Torture even if there isn’t a regular agreement with Peru.”

“How about government attitude?”

“Essentially that doesn’t matter a great deal. Oh, with some of the jurists it may scratch at the back of their heads, but most of our judiciary are very independent thinkers and our Taoiseach, as we call our Prime Minister, would probably be very careful about stating a position.”

“Can we control which judge we get?” Jay asked.

“Can one control the wind? No, not in Ireland, you can’t. You just have to roll the dice. We have quite a gallery of judges. The good, the bad, the statutorily senile, and one or two who can’t seem to sleep in their own bedrooms.”

“Just like home.”

“Indeed?”

“I’m a former judge. It’s a long story.”

“This becomes even more fascinating by the moment, Mr. Reinhart. Are you of German ancestry, with that name?”

“Way back on my Dad’s side. Texas German.”

“My God, what a combination!”

“Isn’t it.”

“Like Walter Cronkite,” Garrity said.

“I… yes. But my maternal grandmother was from Galway. Look, Mr. Garrity, one other key question. Does the President actually have to be on Irish soil for Peru to perfect their warrant in Ireland?”

“No. All they need do is tell the judge they expect Mr. Harris to show up someday, and they’ll get their warrant.”

“Could you think hard about this, sir? Research it as far as you need to right now, and let me call you in a few hours.”

“Provided you never again in this life call me ‘sir,’ Mr. Reinhart. I’m not a bloody English knight, y’know.”

“Okay. Deal. We’re on the clock as far as fees go, and if you’ll find a solicitor for me who knows this area and hire him for me, I’d deeply appreciate it.”

Garrity chuckled. “You have no idea how much I would love to do just that. Our solicitors always hire us, so that would be a brilliant turnabout, but… I’m also afraid it would strain my ethics. I can make you a recommendation and even put someone on hold for you, but the actual retaining has to be done by you, I’m sorry to say.”

Jay listened to the names of two solicitors adept at international practice and picked the first.

“Ah, a fine choice, that,” Garrity said, as if Jay had chosen a premium wine. “Good man.” Garrity passed the solicitor’s phone number after agreeing to call and alert him to the case.

“Mr. Garrity, will you need a retainer fee immediately?” Jay asked.

“That’s an issue we always leave to our instructing solicitors.”

“Okay. It’s just that I’ll need to transfer funds.”

“Won’t be possible until Thursday, then, because tomorrow’s St. Patrick’s Day. But that’s all right. The solicitors will find a way to separate you from the appropriate amount of money, and I’m at your service in the meantime, I assure you.”

Jay disconnected and left the smaller waiting room, feeling unsettled by the discussion of fees. He walked over to the Secretary’s group, where urgent conversations were flying back and forth.

“Excuse me. What’s going on?” Jay asked.

Secretary Byer turned and took Jay’s arm, walking him toward an empty corner.

“The President’s plane disappeared from radar just off the coast over the English Channel. The pilot apparently indicated he was trying to work out some problem and canceled his flight plan.”

Jay looked at him in total confusion.

“What?”

“The Air Traffic Control people are telling us he was in a sort of tailspin before they lost contact. Rescue forces are on their way to have a look.”

“They think… he crashed?”

“They don’t know, but it was very curious, I’m told,” Byer said, studying Jay’s eyes. “Should we think anything else, Jay?”

“I really don’t know. I talked to them back there on the side of the road, and I was cut off… but I’ve had no contact since then.”

The conversation ran back and forth through his mind, both ends and the middle all at once, yielding the captain’s words of caution: “… but it’s kind of risky.” He felt a cold chill.

“I suspected you were calling the President,” Byer was saying. “You said you’d tell me the details of the call later. This is a pretty good time.”

Jay tried to swallow, his mouth suddenly dry as cotton. “I… ah, told him, Mr. Secretary, that they shouldn’t land in London.”

The statement hung in midair between them as the Secretary stared at him in silence, then nodded. “I understand. Let’s pray things are not as they appear out there.”

“Amen,” Jay said, slowly fighting back from the sudden doubt that they were still airborne. Maybe something had happened, but maybe not. What had Dayton meant? “What are you planning to do, Mr. Secretary?” Jay asked.

“Well, go back to the hotel and wait for word. I see nothing to be gained by staying out here. May I give you a lift back?”

Jay nodded, thinking of his roll-on bag in the Savoy. “I’d appreciate that, but I’d better not leave just yet. I have some urgent phone calls to make back to the States.”

Jay could see the questioning look return to Byer’s face.

“The President’s family,” Jay added.

Byer nodded. “Oh, of course.” He shook Jay’s hand and turned toward the door.

Jay walked over to a refreshment tray and poured himself a cup of coffee, aware that his hand was shaking, and acutely aware that Stuart Campbell and his entourage were working somewhere in the building. He waited until Byer’s car pulled away before walking outside into the night, conscious of the cool temperature, but needing to think. They were still airborne, of course. He refused to consider any alternative. He had to focus on what had to be done.