Sidney Sheldon - The sands of time

She was on her way to California to sign the papers that would give Scott Industries one million acres of timberland north of San Francisco. She had struck a hard bargain.

It's their fault, Megan thought. They shouldn't have tried to cheat me. I'll bet I'm the first bookkeeper they've ever come up against from a Cistercian convent. She laughed aloud.

The steward approached her. "Can I get you anything, Miss

Scott?"

She saw a stack of newspapers and magazines in the rack.

She had been so busy with the deal that she had not had time to read anything. "Let me see The New York Times, please."

The story was on the front page and it leaped out at her.

There was a photograph of Jaime Miró. Below it the article read: "Jaime Miró, leader of ETA, the radical Basque separatist movement in Spain, was wounded and captured by police during a bank holdup yesterday afternoon in Seville.

Killed in the attack was Felix Carpio, another of the alleged terrorists. The authorities had been conducting a search for

Miró since…"

Megan read the rest of the article and sat there for a long time, frozen, remembering the past. It was like a distant dream photographed through a gauze curtain, hazy and unreal.

This fight will be over soon. We'll get what we want because the people are behind us… I would like you to wait for me…

Long ago she had read of a civilization that believed if you saved a person's life, you were responsible for him.

Well, she had saved Jaime twice—once at the castle, and again at the park. I'll be damned if I'm going to let them kill him now.

She reached for the telephone next to her seat and said to the pilot, "Turn the plane around. We're going back to New

York."

A limousine was waiting for her at La Guardia Airport, and by the time she arrived in her office it was two A.M.

Lawrence Gray, Jr., was waiting for her. His father had been the company's attorney for years and had retired. His son was bright and ambitious.

Without preamble, Megan said, "Jaime Miró. What do you know about him?"

The reply was immediate. "He's a Basque terrorist, head of

ETA. I think I just read that he was captured a day or so ago."

"Right. The government is going to have to put him on trial. I want to have someone there. Who's the best trial lawyer in the country?"

"I'd say Curtis Hayraan."

"No. Too much of a gentleman. We need a killer." She thought for a moment. "Get Mike Rosen."

"He's booked for the next hundred years, Megan."

"Unbook him. I want him in Madrid for the trial."

He frowned. "We can't get involved in a public trial in

Spain."

"Sure we can. Amicus curiae. We're friends of the defendant."

He studied her a moment. "Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?"

"Yes. Get on this."

"I'll do my best."

"Larry…"

"Yes?"

"And then some." There was steel in her voice.

Twenty minutes later, Lawrence Gray, Jr., walked back into

Megan's office. "Mike Rosen is on the phone. I think I woke him up. He wants to talk to you."

Megan picked up the telephone. "Mr. Rosen? What a pleasure this is. We've never met, but I have a feeling you and I are going to become very good friends. A lot of people sue Scott

Industries just for the target practice, and I've been looking around for someone to take charge of all our litigation. Yours is the one name that keeps coming up.

Naturally, I'm prepared to pay you a large retainer for—"

"Miss Scott—?"

"Yes."

"I don't mind a little snow job, but you're giving me frostbite."

"I don't understand."

"Then let me put it in legal parlance for you. Cut out the bullshit. It's two o'clock in the morning. You don't hire people at two o'clock in the morning."

"Mr. Rosen—"

"Mike. We're going to be good friends, remember? But friends have to trust one another: Larry tells me you want me to go to Spain to try to save some Basque terrorist who's in the hands of the police."

She started to say, "He's not a terrorist—" but stopped herself. "Yes."

"What's your problem? Is he suing Scott Industries because his gun jammed?"

"He—"

"I'm sorry, friend. I can't help you. My schedule is so tight that I gave up going to the bathroom six months ago. I can recommend a few lawyers…"

No, Megan thought. Jaime Miró needs you. And she was suddenly seized by a sense of hopelessness. Spain was another world, another time. When she spoke, her voice sounded weary.

"Never mind," she said. "It's a very personal matter. I'm sorry for coming on so strongly."

"Hey! That's what CEOs are supposed to do. Very personal is different, Megan. To tell you the truth, I'm dying to hear what interest the head of Scott Industries has in saving a

Spanish terrorist. Are you free for lunch tomorrow?"

She was going to let nothing stand in her way.

"Absolutely."

"Le Cirque at one o'clock?"

Megan felt her spirits lifting. "Fine."

"You make the reservation. But I have to warn you about something."

"Yes?"

"I have a very nosy wife."

They met at Le Cirque, and when Sirio had seated them,

Mike Rosen said, "You're better-looking than your picture.

I'll bet everybody tells you that."

He was very short, and he dressed carelessly. But there was nothing careless about his mind. His eyes radiated a blazing intelligence.

"You've aroused my curiosity," Mike Rosen said. "What's your interest in Jaime Miró?"

There was so much to tell. Too much to tell. All Megan said was, "He's a friend. I don't want him to die."

Rosen leaned forward in his seat. "I went through the newspaper files on him this morning. If Don Juan Carlos's government executes Miró only once, he'll be way ahead of the game. They're going to get hoarse just reading the charges against your friend." He saw the expression on Megan's face.

"I'm sorry, but I have to be honest. Miró has been a very busy man. He holds up banks, blows up cars, murders people—"

"He's not a murderer. He's a patriot. He's fighting for his rights."

"Okay, okay. He's my hero too. What do you want me to do?"

"Save him."

"Megan, we're such good friends that I'm going to tell you the absolute truth. Jesus Christ himself couldn't save him.

You're looking for a miracle that—"

"I believe in miracles. Will you help me?"

He studied her a moment. "What the hell. What are friends for? Have you tried the pate? I hear they make it kosher."

The Fax message from Madrid read: "Have spoken to half a dozen top European lawyers. They refuse to represent Miró.

Tried to have myself admitted to trial as amicus curiae.

Court ruled against me. Wish I could pull off that miracle for you, friend, but Jesus hasn't risen yet. Am on my way home. You owe me a lunch. Mike."

The trial was set to begin the seventeenth of September.

"Cancel my appointments," Megan told her assistant. "I have some business to take care of in Madrid."

"How long will you be gone?"

"I don't know."

Megan planned her strategy on the plane flying over the

Atlantic. There has to be a way, she thought. I have money and I have power. The prime minister is the key. I have to get to him before the trial starts. After that, it will be too late.

Megan had an appointment with Prime Minister Leopoldo

Martinez twenty-four hours after she arrived in Madrid. He invited her to Moncloa Palace for lunch.

"Thank you for seeing me so promptly," Megan said. "I know what a busy man you are."

He raised a hand in deprecation. "My dear Miss Scott, when the head of an organization as important as Scott Industries flies to my country to see me, I can only be honored. Please tell me how I can assist you."