John Nance - Headwind

“Get that C-17 off the ground immediately. Without President Harris. Rudy? Have our ambassador relay this decision to the Italians with my personal request for rapid negotiation on how we may cooperate to protect both due process and our former chief executive. I’ll want to talk to them within the hour, and I’d like the Italian ambassador here as fast as possible. Diane? Stay a few minutes along with Jack so we can figure out what to say when this hits the media. Who has the connection to President Harris? I’ll tell him personally.”

“Line four, sir,” Jack Rollins prompted.

“Mr. President,” General Davidsen began, “are you sure? I mean, before we let that C-17 go…”

President Cavanaugh turned to look him in the eye as he placed his hand on the general’s shoulder.

“Yes, Bill. I’m sure.”

The frustration of not being able to access the same live broadcast of the Sigonella flight line that half the world could see had driven Stuart Campbell to keep his staff in Brussels on the phone line from their conference room, where the projected TV image filled a wall. One of his partners narrated the scene as it unfolded, describing everyone moving on or around the ramp area in the picture.

“If a mosquito moves down there, I want to know,” Campbell had demanded, listening carefully as his partner described the movements of people around the Boeing.

Without warning the C-17 had started engines and taxied away, leaving Stuart Campbell in a sudden quandary over whether John Harris might have somehow slipped aboard.

“Did you see anyone walk from one to the other?”

“Well, yes, as I said. Two mechanics, and several uniformed officers, and one or two others. But always as many came out as went in the C- 17.”

“Were you taping it?”

“Yes.”

“Play it back, and look very closely. See if Harris could have changed clothes with one of them and slipped out that way.”

Several minutes passed.

“Ah, Stuart, I hate to tell you this, but looking at the tape? There’s a man walking between two Navy officers and trying to stay invisible, but I can see him in the shot.”

“Does it look like Harris?”

“He’s about the same height, and he’s wearing a suit coat, although the pants look like Navy uniform.”

“Good Lord!” Stuart Campbell said.

“They walked directly from the 737 to the Air Force jet, but… only the two uniforms left. I’m afraid that’s him.”

“But it might not be.”

“Maybe not, but whoever I’m looking at, at least no one dressed like that left the C-17, and the others were trying to conceal him.”

“Damn him!” Campbell said, letting his mind race over the problem as his eyes fell across the note pad he’d been using. “I honestly thought that kind of escape was beneath him.”

The name of one Jay Reinhart was inscribed on it with a number in the States. “All right, thank you. I’ll ring you back shortly.” He toggled the phone and dialed through the local system to a direct U.S. long-distance operator and passed the number. The response from the other end was immediate.

“Hello?”

“Is this Mr. Reinhart?”

“Yes. Who is this?”

“I don’t believe we’ve met, sir, but I understand you’re counsel for ex-President Harris.”

“That’s correct” was the caution-tinged answer. “And you are…?”

“Stuart Campbell, counsel for the Peruvian Government, Mr. Reinhart. I need to speak directly to President Harris in that 737. I rang him a while ago not realizing he had hired an attorney… I called on their satellite phone… and I need to reestablish the connection, with you on the line, of course. I believe I may have a quick and easy solution that does not involve immediate extradition to Lima.”

“Getting on the phone at this point is not possible, Mr. Campbell.”

“And why would that be? It was possible fifteen minutes ago. I suppose I could request to go talk to him in person, but…”

“Did you see that C-17 depart, sir?”

“Yes,” Campbell answered, suddenly off balance.

“Well, since I don’t have a phone number for that aircraft, I can’t help you.”

“Are you implying, Mr. Reinhart, that President Harris is aboard the C-17? No one saw him leave the Boeing.”

“And you’re surprised, Mr. Campbell? This is a former U.S. President under the protection of the Secret Service. Now, when that C-17 reaches the U.S., perhaps we can arrange the conference you’re seeking, but even if it were possible at this moment, it would serve no purpose.”

“I see.”

“In case I need to reach you, Mr. Campbell, may I have your phone numbers, please?”

Stuart Campbell passed the numbers by rote, his thoughts centered on the upsetting task ahead of informing Lima he had failed. He rang off and replaced the phone, then walked absently to the window as he explored the options.

There were none.

With Harris gone and under the protection of the U.S. Air Force, all that remained would be the task of presenting the warrant to a U.S. court, which would be akin to punching a giant marshmallow. It could take years of long, exhausting, and ultimately useless effort only to prove in the end that no American President was touchable by the treaty as long as American military might remained.

Well, old boy, you’ve been well and truly snookered, I should think.

He turned as the Deputy Foreign Minister walked in.

“Mr. Sigerelli, I believe that about concludes our business. I assume you will want the Carabinieri to withdraw, and to that I have no objections.”

Jay cautioned himself to calm down. The phone would ring again, and this time with John Harris on the other end. Without a number he could call in Sicily, it would be up to the President to reestablish the connection.

There’s no way this is going to work! he told himself. Yet Campbell had given him a totally unexpected opportunity and the words had formed without conscious thought, careful words that neither confirmed nor denied that the President was aboard the C-17.

Hearing Campbell’s voice on the other end had been a true shock. The big man’s deep, resonant tones were indelibly etched in his memory from a long time ago. He smiled at the fact that Campbell hadn’t even recognized his name. Or was that a purposeful slight? No, he concluded. Too many years, too many miles to remember some faceless little lawyer back in the States. He wondered if even John Harris remembered that Campbell and Reinhart had met once on the legal battlefield. Probably not, and it wasn’t worth mentioning at this point.

He got up from the kitchen stool and looked at the clock, wondering if he dared to block either inbound line long enough to cancel his three o’clock class. He would have to get to Europe now as fast as possible, but when and how were still unresolved issues, especially with events unfolding so rapidly.

When President Cavanaugh had ended the conversation with an apology and a promise, ex-President John Harris had slowly lowered the telephone receiver, keeping his face a mask of impassivity.

“What is it, sir?” Sherry Lincoln asked, noticing that Captain Swanson had suddenly moved out of sight toward the front of the aircraft, his cell phone pressed to his ear. She knew the connection had been with the Oval Office.

John Harris took a deep breath and turned, smiling thinly. “I knew it was too easy,” he said.