John Nance - Headwind

Campbell’s eyebrows arched again as he recognized the name. “Of course. Well, Mr. Reinhart, what brings you here to this humble court?”

“We talked yesterday, if you recall,” Jay said evenly, enjoying the progression of emotions playing across Campbell’s normally placid face as he sized up his opponent.

Campbell smiled then and glanced away before returning his gaze to Jay. “Certainly you’re not attempting to tell me you’re the lawyer representing President John Harris?”

“I am, indeed. John used to be my senior partner, if you recall.”

“Yes. Now I do. Are you still associated with that firm?”

“No. I’m a sole practitioner, and I’ve retained local counsel, of course.” He gestured to Geoffrey Wallace and Nigel White, and Campbell nodded in their direction with perfunctory courtesy.

“Surprised to see me here, are you, Sir William?”

“There is little that surprises me at my age, Mr. Reinhart. I must say, though, I am surprised that John Harris’s attorney would waste his time here. All we’re doing today is perfecting the Interpol warrant as a provisional arrest warrant, as I’m certain you know. The London Municipal Police are actually the applying party, and considering the validity of the warrant, it’s hardly an adversarial process.”

“Of course. And yet I’m here to make it an adversarial process.”

Stuart Campbell gave Jay a condescending look, his head at an angle as if not believing the stupidity of the statement he’d just heard. Jay saw him shake his head as he leaned closer, his eyes on a far wall, his voice very low and meant just for Jay’s ear.

“I should help you out a bit here, old boy, to save you embarrassment. You see, this is a magistrate court, and this is really not the forum for opposition in this sort of matter, despite the circuslike atmosphere they created here in the Pinochet case. Pity that Mr. Wallace hasn’t briefed you on this, but as an American lawyer, you are not entitled to speak in open court for your client. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to be reprimanded by the likes of a mere municipal magistrate.”

“I’ve been reprimanded by the best of them, Sir William. What’s the difference if one of them’s wearing a wig and dispensing petty justice in a legal backwater?”

Campbell straightened up, his voice resuming a normal volume.

“Really? Well, please don’t tell our esteemed magistrate in there of your innate contempt for his little court. Oh, and by the way, we don’t wear wigs in the magistrate courts.”

“That’s not contempt – it’s reality. This is a very basic level of the judiciary for England. In centuries past, if I recall, this would have been the court of common pleas, and we’d be jostled by men holding geese and fighting over disputed chickens.”

“Not really. The courts of common pleas were a bit more common than this. But, very well, Mr. Reinhart. This should be entertaining. I shall enjoy jousting with you before the bar.”

“Until then,” Jay replied, turning with a barely contained smile to return to Geoffrey Wallace.

Craig Dayton looked at his watch and exhaled in frustration. They were sitting with both engines running on the taxiway by the end of the runway, waiting.

“I think we’re into the quagmire, Alastair,” he said, his eyes on the tower in the distance. “Someone’s holding up our clearance purposefully.”

The copilot raised an eyebrow and glanced knowingly at his partner. “And, if I may get this straight, oh captain, my captain, we are surprised, are we?”

Craig glanced at him and smiled. “I guess I’d let myself hope this was all arranged. Ask him again.”

“Your wish is my futile gesture, sire,” Alastair said, pressing the transmit button to question the ground controller for the third time.

“Ah, roger, EuroAir,” the young American controller responded. “Rome control says they’re still coordinating. Please stand by.”

“EuroAir Forty-Two…er, Ten-Ten, thank you,” Alastair responded, remembering their radio call sign had now changed from a flight number to a charter call sign, EuroAir 1010. He glanced over at Craig, aware that the captain had punched the flight attendant call button on the overhead panel.

Jillian opened the cockpit door within thirty seconds, and Craig relayed a request for Sherry Lincoln to come forward.

“You wanted to see me?” Sherry asked as she stuck her head in the cockpit.

“Our clearance is being held up, Sherry, and I’m thinking I ought to phone Captain Swanson.”

She thought for a few seconds and shook her head. “If it’s being held up, Rome is responsible. Stand by. I’ll be back in a few minutes. If the clearance comes through in the meantime, take it and go.”

Sherry returned to John Harris’s side and explained the situation as she looked for the name and number Captain Swanson had given her. She punched the long string of digits into the GSM and waited. A male voice answered.

“Yes?”

“Ah, this is Sherry Lincoln, aide to President John Harris. I would like to speak to Foreign Minister Anselmo if possible.”

“Please wait, signorina,” the voice said evenly.

There was silence on the other end, but no sound of communications being switched or extensions being rung.

“You asked to speak with Minister Anselmo, yes?” the man asked suddenly, causing her to jump slightly.

“Yes, I did. Is he available?”

“Apparently he is, Ms. Lincoln, since I am he. You are speaking to Giuseppe Anselmo.”

She apologized quickly and relayed her suspicions. “I must ask you, sir, if the Italian government intends to prevent our departure?”

There was a pause on the other end before Anselmo answered.

“I will make that inquiry, Ms. Lincoln,” he said with a careful side step. “Where may I reach you?”

She passed the number and thanked him before disconnecting.

“And?” John Harris asked when she’d replaced the phone.

“Strange,” Sherry replied. “He sounded startled, which means someone else may be calling the shots.”

Six men and one woman had settled into the plush conference alcove of the Air Force Boeing 757 executive jet from Andrew’s 89th Airlift Squadron’s Presidential Fleet, all of them watching U.S. Secretary of State Joseph Byer, who was just hanging up one of the satellite phones.

“Okay, folks,” Byer said. “They’re just starting that hearing in London. It’s pro forma. They’ll come out of there with the English version of the warrant and then simply wait for Harris to step out of his chartered jet.”

“That aircraft is still on the ground at Sigonella, sir,” one of the men said, “but we’re expecting departure for London anytime.”

The Secretary nodded. “Count on it. I don’t know what the delay is, but as long as they can fly, Rome will let them out of there.”

“You talked to Minister Anselmo’s people?” Assistant Attorney General Alex McLaughlin asked.

“I talked to Giuseppe Anselmo himself. They’re overjoyed.” He looked around the table. “Okay, first order of battle is to get this defrocked little Texas judge safely contained and out of the way. Harris doesn’t need a maverick lawyer, and I don’t want any fallen cowboys riding into Buckingham Palace and asking the blinking Queen for a favor and screwing this up further.”

“He’s screwed it up already?” McLaughlin asked with surprise. “I mean, I know he sounds like a bit of a caricature, but I have talked with him, and I checked out his background in international law before his close encounter with judicial ethics, and he’s no dummy. He practiced with John Harris for years.”