Headwind

EPILOGUE

Jay slid the door of the Parc Aviation van open and stepped onto the ramp, preferring to wait by himself for the EuroAir 737, just now touching down.

He glanced at his watch, which was showing 3:20 P.M., and wondered how pilots achieved the level of composure necessary to survive a near-death experience, then fly the airplane back to Dublin as if nothing extraordinary had happened.

“They’ll probably strike a hero’s medal for us, and pin it on just before we’re executed,” Alastair had quipped by phone when Jay had reached them after the verdict.

A blue and white Boeing 757 from Andrews Air Force Base in Washington sat on another hard stand several hundred yards to the south. Jay glanced over his shoulder to make sure the Secretary of State and his people were still inside a waiting limousine several hundred yards away.

The 737 was coming up the taxiway toward the pre-appointed parking stand as a marshaller wearing an orange safety vest held up his arms to guide them in. Jay watched with his mind on Sherry. Her voice had been composed on the phone from Connemara, but he’d heard the residual tension as she talked and asked her about it.

“I’m okay. I mean, we knew there was something wrong when the crew told us to put on our life jackets, but it was all right.”

It was telling, Jay thought, that she responded to his news of the extraordinary events in court with a single “Good!” before returning to the subject of the pilots’ incredible performance.

“They were magnificent,” she had said.

“But they miscalculated their fuel, Sherry,” Jay had countered.

“True, but they pulled it out. That’s the important thing. They got us here safely, even if my hair is now completely silver!”

Only John Harris had seemed unaffected by the aeronautical drama, focusing instead on what had transpired in Mr. Justice O’Connell’s court.

“A movie set of the Oval Office! I never thought of that, Jay,” he’d said. “I knew my words on that tape were false, but… even I would have sworn that was me on the screen in the Oval.”

Jay pulled his attention back to the oncoming 737. The EuroAir jet was turning onto the hard stand, the noise forcing his fingers in his ears. As soon as the pilots brought the craft to a halt and cut the engines, the internal airstairs began to descend.

Jay walked toward the front entrance, waving to the attractive flight attendant who was standing in the doorway. She motioned to him to come aboard and he bounded up the steps.

Sherry was waiting at the top with a bear hug, and John Harris was right behind, his handshake progressing to a hug and a hand on Jay’s shoulder.

“Well done, Jay! Very well done!”

“Thank you, John, but…”

“No ‘buts.’ You did it!”

The pilots emerged from the cockpit, their faces reflecting the strain of the past few hours, as Matt Ward slipped into the doorway to scrutinize the ramp beyond, noting the approach of a limousine.

“Joe Byer is here to greet you, too,” Jay said, as he ran a hand through his hair to control an unruly forelock. “He got the information to me just in time this morning about the U.N.’s findings… about Peru torturing political prisoners. And then he flew over here in time to help me prove we were dealing with an artificial set and actors, not you and the Oval Office. He’s been very helpful.”

Matt Ward left the doorway and moved to the President’s side.

“Secretary Byer and three others are on their way to the plane, Mr. President.”

“See them in, please, Matt,” Harris responded, turning to the captain. “Craig? You remember when we were headed to Rome and I said I wanted to take you and your crew to dinner?”

Craig Dayton looked cornered. “Ah, I think so, sir.”

“Well, tonight’s the night, provided you’ll stay over.”

“Thank you, Mr. President, but…”

The President raised the palm of his hand. “No objections, Craig, I’ve got some work to do on your behalf, and it’ll be easier if you’re still here and I’m still paying for the charter.”

Craig glanced at Alastair. “I’ll be real surprised, Mr. President, if they ever let us fly on EuroAir again, even as passengers.”

“Give me a few hours,” John Harris said, “and we’ll see about that. By the way, I need that list of EuroAir personnel and phone numbers we talked about.”

“Okay,” Craig managed, noting that the Secretary of State was already halfway up the stairs.

“So,” John Harris said, “tonight we’re all going to debrief over the best food I can find in Dublin, and I’ve reserved rooms for everyone at the Shelbourne Hotel. No arguments. I’m buying.”

He turned, then, extending his hand just as Joe Byer stepped through the entry door.

With Matt Ward and Sherry Lincoln dispatched on various errands, John Harris had the two-room suite to himself, which was just what he wanted.

A knock on the door came as expected, and he greeted the visitor with a correct handshake.

“I thought it was time for some hatchet burying,” Harris said as he motioned the man toward the couch and sat in an opposite chair.

“I agree,” William Stuart Campbell replied with a neutral expression.

“We’ve never talked about the U.N. negotiations back in the eighties, Stuart, and… it occurred to me that I never explained or apologized for what happened.”

“No,” Stuart said. “But I assumed you achieved exactly what you wanted to achieve.”

John Harris shook his head. “I did not intend to kill your amendment.”

“Then why did you do it? Just what was your intention?”

John Harris studied the carpet for a few seconds before replying. “There you were in the limelight, Stuart, the engine behind the convention. Pearls of wisdom cascaded from your mouth with every speech. You’d done a masterful job of gathering the entire international community around you…”

“And your client,” Stuart interrupted, “was determined to have you kill my offered amendment on sovereign immunity, the amendment that would have everyone in agreement that butchers like Pinochet could never hide behind the concept.”

“I didn’t have a client, Stuart,” John Harris said.

“What?” Stuart Campbell’s eyebrows came together. “But… you were there representing the Saudis…”

“I was there representing myself. You only assumed I was representing the Saudis because you knew I’d been doing a lot of recent work for them.”

“But… why, John? You convinced the entire Third World that I was somehow going to kidnap and try all their leaders when all I was trying to do was keep the true criminals from slipping away.”

“I know.”

“And… you believed, personally, that this was the right thing to do?”

Harris shook his head slowly. “I wish I could claim noble purpose.”

“But, why? You cost us a year of angst while Britain grappled with the archaic concept of sovereign immunity for that bloody bastard Pinochet!”

“Was this personal, Stuart?” John Harris asked without warning. “This little action against me on Peru ’s behalf?”

“Personal?”

“Did you take this case because I blocked you in New York?”

Stuart looked at John Harris for several moments. “Yes and no.”

Harris laughed. “The perfect lawyer’s answer! I overuse it myself.”

Stuart was not laughing. “I didn’t create the opportunity, John. I was shown the tape by President Miraflores, and I believed it was real.”

Harris nodded. “Well, even I was fooled. Not by the words, which I knew weren’t mine, but by the images.”

“I chose to believe it was real,” Stuart continued, “because I thought it was the best of poetic justice.”

“Poetic…?”

“Yes! Have you forgotten the other provision that went along with that amendment of mine regarding sovereign immunity?”

“I… guess I have.”

“It was a procedure, John, for quickly trying the evidence of an Interpol warrant in order to protect former presidents and prime ministers against frivolous actions. Each nation would be required to hold an immediate and honest hearing on whether the charges were backed by real evidence or not, and whether the complaining country was competent to hold a fair trial. In other words, John, precisely what you needed in this case.”

“So, you thought…”

“I thought, what a marvelous opportunity! John Harris, the high and mighty, is going to rue the day he killed that amendment.”

“Did you know the charges were false?”

“Of course not. Good heavens, man, I do have some standards!”

“But… you were willing to send me to Lima?”

“I knew it would never come to that, John. President Cavanaugh couldn’t permit it. I knew he’d intervene.”

“Stuart, you’re not telling something here. You had an ace up your sleeve somewhere, because you had to know there was still a chance some judge would grant extradition and the Italian government would comply.”

Campbell nodded. “Very well. I knew your legal team would eventually realize that with Peru failing all the tests for humane treatment of prisoners, you could hardly be sent there. And Reinhart did catch on… with a little help from your State Department.”

John Harris studied the carpet and took a deep breath. “Well, Stuart, in the interest of full disclosure, what I did to block you at the U.N. was personal for me, too. Someone had to cut you down a notch.”

Stuart Campbell looked startled. “Simple jealousy, then?”

John Harris nodded. “When you take away all the justifications and excuses, yes. And I regretted it through every day of the Pinochet circus. And I humbly apologize to you now.”

Stuart Campbell nodded his head slowly. “I accept your apology, John, and add one of my own.”

They sat in silence for the better part of a minute before John Harris shook his head. “We’re quite a pair, huh, Stuart?”

“Sorry?”

“Two legal titans involving the world in our private little shoving contest. Like two brothers fighting on the street corner, blissfully unaware that we’re upsetting the neighbors.”

For the first time, Campbell’s expression softened to a smile. “Yes, I suppose there’s some truth to that. Our motivations were hardly pure and lofty.”

Stuart Campbell let his gaze wander to the windows and the lengthening, reddening rays of the late afternoon sun, his thoughts soaring back to Scotland and his own boyhood, memories of the good battles of the brothers Campbell flashing in his mind. Harris’s analogy was closer to the truth than he wanted to admit.

“John, have you ever given a speech to some important world function, and found yourself mentally standing in the wings watching yourself, and wondering why all those important people were listening to the likes of you, because, in your mind, you’re still a pimply-faced fifteen-year-old?”

John Harris was nodding. “More times than I’ll ever admit.” He sat forward. “See, Stuart, when we strip away all the veneer and the fancy jargon and the cloak of noble purpose and official position, we are just a couple of overgrown boys doing a pretty good job of acting out our respective roles.”

Stuart nodded. “Which is a pretty apt description of life in general.”

From the moment Craig Dayton had walked into the restaurant, he’d tried to focus on enjoying the extraordinary company and the once-in-a-lifetime circumstance of dining with a grateful former world leader and a sitting cabinet secretary whom Harris had invited as well. That, coupled with Jillian sitting across from him looking incredibly beautiful in a shimmering white dress that traced and caressed the magnificent femininity of her body, gave him every reason to ignore whatever professional disaster tomorrow was going to bring.

Or so he kept telling himself.

But the effort was failing, and he could no longer hide his depression, so before the main course arrived, President Harris excused himself and asked Craig and Alastair to follow.

He led them to a corner of an empty banquet room.

“This is bad news, isn’t it?” Craig asked, unable to suppress the sick feeling inside.

“Well, that all depends,” John Harris said, his expression betraying nothing.

Alastair was trying to smile. “It’s certainly all right, sir. We didn’t expect you’d be able to influence a bunch of hard-nosed German managers to forgive such a stunt.”

“And what stunt would that be, Alastair?”

“Well…”

“You aren’t referring, are you, to the brave and heroic acts of a couple of airline pilots whose timely actions prevented the putative kidnapping of a former U.S. President?”

“And… who almost cashiered that same former President by running an airliner out of gas? Yes, that would be the stunt,” Alastair said, laughing ruefully.

“Well,” the President continued, “I guess we do have a problem if you want to see it that way, because I’ll need to call EuroAir’s chairman back and ask him to cancel the parade.”

“I’m sorry… what?” Craig asked.

John Harris smiled. “Relax, both of you. The airline you’re working for has just landed a brand-new contract for U.S. military charters, subject to passing the scrutiny of the air safety inspection people at Scott Air Force Base in Illinois. EuroAir seems rather ecstatic about that. And, after a serious chat with the Secretary of Defense and the Secretary of State, EuroAir has come to understand that it is in their best interests to be very proud of you, and very quiet about the magnificent demonstration of airmanship that followed a somewhat less laudatory fuel event.”

“Mr. President! You did that? I can’t believe it! You bloody well pulled it off!” Alastair said, his face ablaze with amazement as Craig grabbed John Harris’s hand and began to shake it.

“Thank you, sir! Thank you! Are you sure? I… I just…”

“Hey, take it easy fellows!” John Harris said, smiling. “The truth is, I’m the one who owes the thanks to both of you, and this was the absolute minimum I wanted to do. Now, let’s get back in there and enjoy the evening.”

It was nearly 9:30 P.M. when the President bade good night to Michael Garrity, Craig Dayton, and the rest, and walked in a different direction with Joe Byer.

“You said you’d heard from Washington about Reynolds,” John Harris probed.

“Yes, I did hear, and it’s pretty tawdry, Mr. President.”

“Tell me.”

“In brief? Reynolds was promised all the protection he needed, but he decided to make a side deal with Miraflores. It wasn’t just about delivering you; it was about money as well. In effect he sold out the Company and his president for the proverbial thirty pieces of silver, and he paid to have that tape made to perfect his scam by indicting you. I’m told he had it shot in Los Angeles.”

“Is Langley going to go after Reynolds legally?”

“I don’t know,” Byer said. “The spook business is a little out of my element, Mr. President. I’m just relaying what the CIA told us.”

After leaving the restaurant, Jay walked with Sherry Lincoln back to the Shelbourne a few blocks away.

“May I buy you a drink, kind sir?” she joked, gesturing to the hotel bar.

He checked his watch and smiled. “Sure. As long as I pay for it.”

“I guess that can be arranged,” she said, her eyes following his to the watch. “You’re going somewhere?” she asked.

“In a little while.”

“What’s her name?”

Jay laughed and shook his head. “No. Nothing like that. A cleanup professional matter is all.”

“Okay. Now I’m burning with curiosity.”

“What would you like to drink?”

“Nothing creative. A glass of some naive white zinfandel, I suppose,” she said. “And you?”

“Zinfandel is good.” He retrieved the wine and joined Sherry at a small table.

“When are you going back, Sherry?” he asked.

“To the U.S.? I don’t know. John hasn’t said, but I suspect he’ll want to wait a few days and decompress… since all of you seem very sure there’s no more legal danger in staying here.”

“Not in Ireland, at least.”

“Why were you asking?” she said, smiling.

Jay tried to feign innocence. “Oh, no reason.”

“I see.”

“Other than an idea that, maybe, I’d like to rent a car and see some of this beautiful country.”

“They drive on the wrong side of the road here, Jay.”

“I know. That’s why I need a copilot. You interested?”

Sherry smiled again, sending a warm wave of anticipation through him. “Oh, I’m interested, if the schedule permits. We’re talking two rooms for any overnights, right?”

“Of course, Sherry,” he said quickly. “I am a gentleman, you know.”

“Like I’ve never heard that line before,” she laughed. “Okay. Let me talk to the President in the morning and we’ll see. Maybe I could break loose for a few days. I’d like that, if John can spare me.”

“I really hope you can,” Jay said, looking directly into her eyes.

Sherry hesitated, her smile broadening as she replied softly, “So do I.”

The pedestrian-only bridge just west of the famous Ha’penny Bridge was only a short walk from the hotel. Jay had left Sherry at the door to her room just half an hour before, his mind consumed with conflicting thoughts – including the need to finish a heartfelt letter to Linda he had begun to write that afternoon.

He hated the pain he’d caused Linda, and hated the abrupt way he’d slapped her with the news that he was leaving Laramie. She was right, he thought, about Karen’s memory holding him away from life and commitment, and he would change all that. Maybe it had been the near-death experience getting to Denver that had suddenly jarred him from the grip of Karen’s memory, or maybe time was finally dulling the intense pain. He could actually think of her now with more sadness than grief, and that was amazing.

Thinking of Linda, however, triggered nothing but guilt. He should have told her months ago that love wasn’t growing like it should, but it was easier to submerge in her love night after night, just taking the moment. He hoped they could remain friends, hoped she’d forgive him, but time would tell.

I’ll finish the letter as soon as I get back, Jay thought, wondering again why he’d agreed to this meeting.

He reached the metal bridge and walked to mid-span before turning to watch the light show of nighttime Dublin reflect on the dark silver of the river’s surface. He enjoyed the light breeze at his back and the constant passage across the bridge of individuals and strolling couples who formed a pleasant crosscurrent to the water below.

Jay saw someone lean on the railing to his right, and he looked over, instantly recognizing the man before he spoke.

“Thank you for meeting me here, Mr. Reinhart,” Stuart Campbell’s resonant voice announced as the senior attorney leaned forward, breathing deeply and examining the night.

“You understand that I’m still John Harris’s lawyer,” Jay said, his curiosity still overriding the caution of being asked by opposing counsel for a private meeting in the dead of night.

“Of course. I just wanted you to know that you fought an excellent battle today.”

“Thank you, Sir William,” Jay said hesitantly, wondering what would follow.

Campbell remained quiet as he leaned on the railing, scanning the dark water below.

Jay broke the silence. “May I ask you a question?”

“By all means.”

“Why did you do it?”

Stuart Campbell glanced at him again with an even expression. “Not object to your motion for adjournment, you mean?”

“Exactly. We had nothing but verbal representations about a phone call to Washington. You could have easily overridden it.”

“Yes, but I had no choice,” Stuart said.

“I don’t understand.”

“I already knew Peru’s record on prisoner abuse. You’d found the key, and one way or another you would prevail against extradition when you obtained proof of the U.N.’s actions. Why prolong the agony?”

“I see, I guess.”

Stuart Campbell looked at him again. “That ploy of yours was brilliant, you know.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Doing the alternative audio track to demonstrate that the tape could have been staged. Impeccable logic.”

“Thank you.”

“So, where are you going professionally, former District Judge Jay Reinhart? As you see, I know your history.”

Jay shook his head. “I don’t know, really. Probably back to Wyoming.” He began to smile skeptically and turned to look at Campbell. “Why? Are you offering me a job or something?”

“Good heavens, no!” Campbell laughed, falling silent just as rapidly. “But, on the other hand, you never know. If you start practicing over here, I might just have to hire you to keep from having to meet you on the battlefield.”

Jay snorted. “Yeah, as if I’m a threat to Sir William Stuart Campbell.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Mr. Reinhart. Were I your senior partner, I would be heaping praise and reward on your shoulders this minute for your handling of this matter.”

Jay pushed away from the railing and turned toward the senior lawyer.

“Well, you know something, Sir William? This may all be a game to you, but to me the law is a very serious thing, especially when someone’s life hangs in the balance. It matters a lot to me. So I’m very thankful I’m not your partner. Now, what’s the real reason you asked me to meet you here?”

Stuart Campbell smiled and reached in his inside coat pocket to pull out a small audiocassette tape.

“What’s that?” Jay asked.

“The openly taped record of a phone call between myself and President Miraflores several weeks ago. I thought you might like to have it.”

“What’s… on it?” Jay asked.

“President Miraflores’s angry voice as he quakes with anticipation of John Harris’s handcuffed arrival in Lima and makes plans for trying, convicting, sentencing… and burning John Harris alive. You see, one of Miraflores’s brothers was a drug dealer, and the brother’s death in that raid was the main source of his fury against John Harris. The stated intentions on this tape would have instantly prevented extradition, if needed.”

“You held that tape back!”

“Of course I did. I assumed it was protected under attorney-client privilege.”

“Okay, but then… then it’s still privileged…”

Stuart smiled and shook his head, his eyebrows flaring in mock surprise. “Apparently I was wrong. I checked my phone log and discovered this conversation predated my taking the case. So you’re welcome to use it anyway you see fit. Mr. Miraflores is no longer my client.”

Jay took the offered tape and balanced it in his hand. “Why now, Sir William?”

Stuart Campbell chuckled and stood away from the railing, ready to depart. “Because, Mr. Reinhart, the law and justice matter a lot to me, too. They always have.”

Jay watched in mild shock as the big lawyer turned and walked away.

So, Sir William Stuart Campbell had controlled it all from the beginning, Jay thought. Even Campbell’s defeat before Mr. Justice O’Connell had been consonant with his plan to drag an ex-President to the brink and yank him to safety just in time. He’d been John Harris’s prosecutor and savior rolled into one, and, as always, master of the game.

Jay quietly slipped the audiocassette into his pocket and turned back toward the river to lean on the railing, his mind furiously working on the question Campbell had asked him.

So where am I going professionally? Where should I go? He thought about Sherry and the trip they’d be taking together the next day if her schedule worked out.

Something else Sir William had said flashed across his mind, a comment about legal battlefields with Jay on the front lines.

Maybe I should think about resuming an international practice, Jay thought. It was a possibility he’d have to explore, and Ireland might just be a pretty good place to start.