John Nance - Headwind

“Good.”

“Member of Parliament,” she explained.

“I understand. That’s excellent. Oh, one thing I forgot to ask,” Jay said. “I need to be certain there’s no conflict of interest. Your firm doesn’t in any way have a correspondent relationship with Sir William Stuart Campbell of Brussels, does it?”

The woman’s expression changed from a pleasant, conservative smile to a broad grin.

“Is this a test, then?” she questioned.

“I beg your pardon?” Jay asked, thoroughly alarmed.

Her smile diminished. “Mr. Reinhart, we handle all of Sir William’s business interests in London. In fact, he owns this building.”

“I… thought he had his own firm.”

“Indeed, he does. That’s why we handle the commercial affairs for his business interests. Is this a problem?”

The rain had intensified slightly when Jay regained the street, intent on finding a London taxi to get him to the firm Smythe’s office had given him as a referral to a Geoffrey Wallace. The address was halfway across the center of London, and he stopped in a dry doorway to call them on the GSM phone, a process which ate up another fifteen minutes before Wallace came on the line and listened to his abbreviated plea after promising he had no connections with Stuart Campbell.

“Fascinating, Mr. Reinhart. And it was shaping up to be a boring day.”

“Can you help?”

“I don’t see why not. I haven’t had an American President as a client for at least the last few decades that I can recall.”

“Great. Here’s what I need you to do before I even get there.”

Jay passed along string of questions, including the problem of finding someone in government.

“Can’t help you greatly there,” the solicitor said. “But I do know a chap in the foreign office who might be a start. You could see him while I work on these other items.”

“How do I get there?”

“It’s just by St. James Park on St. George’s Street,” he said. “Just by Parliament. Take a taxi, mind you. The driver will know how to find it.”

Jay passed the number of his rented GSM phone and rang off with a promise that the man in the foreign office would be called to pave the way.

As he disconnected, Jay realized he’d been leaning against an ATM machine. He pulled a scrap of paper from the recesses of his coat pocket and rechecked the PIN number he’d suddenly remembered on the train from Heathrow. He inserted his Master Card and keyed in the numbers and required choices, relieved to hear the sound of £20 notes being counted out by the machine.

The ride to a nondescript government building took nearly thirty minutes through the metallic molasses of London traffic. Jay entered the massive government structure acutely aware of his less than stellar appearance. A labyrinth of halls and corridors, stairways and doors unfolded ahead of him as he tried to carry his belongings with the unperturbed air of one who always arrives at professional meetings with his suitcase. There were wheels on the bottom of the bag, but he refused to let himself use them. Carrying the damn thing was bad enough, he thought, but rolling it would utterly violate what Linda had dubbed “the guy code.”

He followed a shapely secretary into an inner office, her image sparking memories of how sexy Linda always looked when she walked.

Jay shook his head to expunge the thought, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand.

“Geoffrey Wallace told me you were coming,” the deputy minister who handled treaty affairs told Jay when he’d introduced himself and sat down. “But I’m afraid I can’t help you directly. We are aware of the Pinochet matter, of course, but I am personally not connected with the Secretary of State’s Office, the Law Lords, or any official position regarding the hypothetical question you’re raising.”

“Who is?”

“May I offer you some tea or coffee, by the way?”

“That’s okay, I’m fine,” Jay lied, suppressing a growing desperation for coffee. “If not yourself, who would be able to help me?”

The deputy minister smiled, cocking his head as he folded his hands over his not inconsiderable belly and leaned back in his chair. “I suppose I could send you scurrying all over the government asking the same question, Mr. Reinhart…”

Jay leaned forward, supporting himself on the edge of the man’s desk.

“Look, this problem is about to fly into your airspace, and it will be a very large political problem with major foreign policy and legal and treaty ramifications, and it will run the risk of deeply affecting U.S.-British relations. I need your help in finding the person or persons who can tell me, point blank, what the British Government will do when presented with this warrant.”

The man nodded slowly. “Well, Mr. Reinhart, you just effectively and eloquently enunciated most of the reasons why your questions are so far above my level as to be effectively unanswerable.” He hauled himself up and walked around the desk with his hand outstretched. “Sorry I can’t help you, old man. I always admired President Harris, by the way. The gentleman has true style.”

“Who, then? Whom do I see?”

The man sighed. “Very well. Let me write down four names. You will most likely be wasting your time, of course.”

“I’ll take that chance.”

The deputy minister pulled a pad of paper across the desk and uncapped a Montblanc pen, inscribing the names and office locations, then tore it off and handed it over.

Jay thanked him and left, going in succession to the first three offices and finding the same distant and indeterminate response from each.

Back in another corridor he looked at the fourth name and decided he’d had enough. He ducked into an office at random and asked to see the government phone directory, copying down a particular number before begging the use of a phone.

What he was contemplating probably would be a complete waste of time. Pure desperation. Maybe even a small act of defiance.

But he was determined to try.

Jay dialed the number and waited.

“Office of the Prime Minister,” a cultured female voice said.

“Please listen carefully,” Jay began. “I’m Jay Reinhart, attorney for Mr. John Harris, former President of the United States of America. I have a matter of urgent national security affecting both the United States and Great Britain, and I need to personally come over and discuss this with the Prime Minister or one of his immediate deputies as soon as possible.”

There would be a long pause or a dial tone on the other end, he figured, but the woman answered him cheerfully. “We’ve been expecting your call, Mr. Reinhart.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Won’t you please hold?”

Jay stood in abject confusion holding the phone. Within a minute an aide to the Deputy Prime Minister came on the line and confirmed an immediate appointment.

“I was told you were expecting me,” Jay asked, thoroughly confused. “Might I ask, how, and by whom?”

“I’d rather discuss that in person when you get here, Mr. Reinhart. I don’t particularly trust open telephone lines.”

“Ah, certainly. I understand. How do I find you?” Jay asked after passing his location.

“A car will be out in front of the building to collect you, Mr. Reinhart, in five minutes. The driver’s name is Alfred. He’s in a black Daim-ler.”

“Thank you very much,” Jay replied, hanging up and taking a deep breath, his mind spinning with unanswered questions.

Stuart Campbell knelt in the aisle just behind the two pilot seats of his Lear 35, a scowl on his face as he looked at the red splotches covering the radar scope on the forward panel. “I don’t have time for this, Jean-Paul!” he said to the captain.