John Nance - Headwind

This is all about law, though. Not politics. The courts should be blind to Campbell’s position.

But he knew better. Ultimately the British Secretary of State and the policies of Her Majesty’s government would determine whether or not to extradite.

Indelibly etched images of Parliament, the interior of the House of Commons, and long-dormant memories of past contacts with British officialdom came to mind, as did the reality that he no longer had even one active contact in Her Majesty’s Government.

Whom do I call? How on earth do I penetrate that maze?

He’d tried searching the Internet for names of knowledgeable lawyers among the solicitors listed with London offices, but the search had yielded only three possible names, and since London was in the early hours of morning, there had been no open offices to call.

The thought of John Harris sitting in the aircraft in Sigonella interposed itself. Had something happened during the night? He knew it was partially to divert his mind from the Herculean problems ahead, but he couldn’t resist yanking up the phone. He swiped his American Express card and punched in the number of Sherry Lincoln’s GSM cell phone, the sound of her voice like music on the other end when she answered. She reassured him that nothing had changed. Jay promised to make regular progress calls from London and rang off, then opened his laptop and connected it to the satellite phone again, establishing the link with the Internet just as the Boeing 777 began descent over Ireland for the landing in London. Jay was still on-line and searching frantically for legal contacts as the big jet steadied onto final approach over the English countryside. One of the flight attendants appeared at his side, standing in mock disgust with her hands on her hips to order the laptop turned off.

“Otherwise we’ll explode immediately,” she said, “and it will all be your fault, and I’ll never speak to you again.”

“Really? I mean, the explode part?”

“No, that’s just a wind up, as the British call a good leg pulling. But that’s the kind of nonsense this industry teaches us flight attendants, since all of us are supposed to be bubble brains. Actually, the only way that laptop of yours could be dangerous is if you physically bashed one of the pilots with it, which is probably a bad idea, by the way. They get very testy when attacked with computers.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Jay said, pushing a smile through his fatigue.

“But, you’ve really got to turn it off now, sir, or I’ll have to kill you.”

“Done. Are you sure you don’t work for Southwest? You’ve got a Southwest Airlines sense of humor.”

“I would, but I’m allergic to peanuts.”

Jay hardly noticed the landing and wondered absently if the close encounter near Denver could have permanently scared him out of his fear of flying – an oxymoronic concept to say the least.

Probably not. I’m just too numb and too tired to care.

The trip through British immigration and customs in Heathrow’s Terminal 3 was a rapid blur and within fifteen minutes he was in the baggage claim atrium resisting the urge to head immediately for central London. There was little point, since he had no specific place to go as yet.

Cash! Jay reminded himself. He located a cash machine a few steps away and waited in a brief line before swiping his main cash card and punching in his PIN number.

“The card you have used is not supported by this service,” the screen announced.

Jay fumbled through his wallet for another credit card and pulled out a little-used VISA.

“Incorrect PIN. Reenter the correct PIN,” the machine proclaimed in bold type.

He tried again, trying to remember the number he thought he’d memorized.

Again the machine refused.

He pulled out his American Express card.

“Your account is not set up for this service.”

Jay opened his wallet and counted the remaining American bills: $50. Hardly enough for a taxi, let alone all he needed to do.

He looked at his watch, reading just after 9 A.M. and feeling the time already slipping away. There was a money exchange window nearby and he converted the $50 to pounds, taking some in change, which he to used to feed a pay phone to call the three solicitors he’d researched in flight.

“I’m terribly sorry, sir, Mr. Thompkins does not accept international cases.”

“So sorry, Mr. Reinhart, but international law isn’t my specialty. Frankly, I don’t have a recommendation for you.”

“Mr. Blighstone is out of the country this week.”

Jay opened a London phone book and riffled through the yellow pages for solicitors, writing down the numbers of several other firms before calling them one by one and finding only one firm with any promising experience.

“But Mr. Smythe won’t be in until ten this morning.”

“That’s okay,” Jay replied. “Give me your address and I’ll be there at ten. I’m going to need to use someone’s office and phone as well.”

Jay wrote the address down and headed for the exit, stopping at a GSM cellular phone concession he’d spotted in the terminal. He filled out the paperwork quickly and used one of his credit cards to rent a phone, then headed to a ticket booth for the new high-speed Heathrow Express train, relieved to see familiar credit card logos adorning the counter.

Thank God! Jay thought. American Express!

He bought a round-trip ticket and arrived less than 20 minutes later in Paddington Station where he transferred to the underground, emerging at Holborne into a light, cold rain. Jay buttoned his topcoat and began walking resolutely toward where the solicitor’s office was supposed to be.

The address, he’d been told, was less than two blocks from the Old Bailey, as the central criminal courts of London were called. But after dashing back and forth several times and wasting a half hour, he finally stopped a policeman for directions. Jay’s dark hair was matted with rain and his pants legs soaked as he unfolded the piece of paper once more to show the officer the address he was struggling to find.

“Oh, there’s the problem, sir,” the police officer said with irritating cheerfulness. “Around the back of that street on the left. Just go down here, make a left again at the Viaduct Pub, and you can’t miss it.”

“That’s the one by the small restaurant that’s making me ravenous with all the good smells?” Jay asked.

“The very same. They pipe it out over the doorstep for that purpose, you know.”

A shiny brass plaque on the masonry exterior proclaimed the name of the firm, and the office was on the second floor. The building had been old when Queen Victoria reigned, but the interior reflected the sort of modern affluence he’d hoped to locate, one which bespoke connections and capabilities he could draw on rapidly.

Jay glanced at his watch as the receptionist called the appropriate secretary. It was almost exactly 10 A.M.

“He’s not in yet, Mr. Reinhart, but we have an office space you may use until Mr. Smythe arrives.” A conservatively attired young woman with an indulgent smile appeared and escorted him to a small cubicle by the firm’s library.

“These are all local calls, I trust?” she asked.

“Yes, but I’ll compensate any expense.”

“Of course, Mr. Reinhart, but you understand, I’m sure, that we would need Mr. Smythe’s approval before…”

“Before you consider me a client? Yes. I’m an American lawyer. I understand the protocols.”

“Very well, sir.”

“Mr. Smythe does have contacts in the government associated with foreign affairs and treaty compliance and such?”

“Yes. Certainly. He used to be an MP.”