John Nance - Headwind

“I know it! Look, John, give me your agreement, and let me talk to the captain.”

He could almost make out John Harris sighing.

“In some ways,” the President said, “I’m so tired of this, I’d like to just get it over with, Jay.”

“John! Sir! We can’t take the chance they could really get you to Lima. I know what will happen there. I did some research on Miraflores in the air coming here. He wants to hang you, John. And Britain’s being ridiculous placing their trust in him. And… and…”

“And because of Campbell’s invoking the name of Barry Reynolds, you’re suddenly not so sure you can win on the merits, right, Jay?”

The statement was a slap in the face, but John Harris had stabbed the source of Jay’s panic with one rapier thrust, and there was no time to finesse the reply. He caught himself nodding, then reminded himself to speak.

“Yes.”

More silence on the other end. An eternity of silence amidst the cacophonous traffic noise all around him and the clock ticking in his head and the presence of no less a personage than the United States Secretary of State waiting in the car behind him, all colluded with the forces of fatigue and hunger and circadian disorientation to make the crucible he was in seem like a scenario personally designed by Dante.

Finally, Harris spoke. “I’m handing the phone to the captain, Jay. I agree. Do what you think best.”

There was a pause before the businesslike voice of Craig Dayton filled the line.

“Yes, Mr. Reinhart?”

“Captain, in a nutshell, here’s the situation. If you land here, they’ll not only arrest him at planeside, there’s a very good chance they’ll have him on the way to Lima within a few days or weeks. I was wrong to trust the Brits on this. I misread the whole thing.”

“So, what do you want us to do, Mr. Reinhart?” Dayton asked evenly.

“Go somewhere else. You can’t land in London.”

“You realize how hard it was to get an arrival slot for Heathrow on short notice?”

“Can’t be helped,” Jay replied.

“Would it be begging the question to ask where you want us to go?” Dayton replied, instantly adding, “And I’m not trying to be facetious. We’re almost into British airspace and we’re under positive IFR control.”

“I… don’t know the terms, Captain. But can’t you change the type of flight plan you’re using and just fly wherever you want?”

“Not without the whole world knowing exactly where we are. We’re too big a plane to just disappear… and we’re running out of time. I mean, I can divert to probably any airport in the U.K., or go to Holland or Denmark, but I don’t have enough fuel to make Iceland or Greenland, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Forget the Continent. That would be an entirely new set of legal horror stories.”

“Okay.”

Jay could hear an exchange of radio messages in the background.

“What was that?”

“They were just clearing us on down to ten thousand feet with radar vectors for London.”

“Could you fly up to Scotland?”

“Yes, but Scotland is in the United Kingdom, and I’m sure whoever’s waiting for us at Heathrow will find a charter jet and get there almost as fast as we can.”

Jay licked his lips and closed his eyes, thinking as fast as he could. The Irish Republic was a possibility he’d thought of earlier and had been loath to mention because there had been no time to research Ireland’s feelings concerning the Treaty Against Torture. But he couldn’t risk just having John Harris pop up in Dublin without knowing whether or not doing so would constitute jumping from the proverbial frying pan of the U.K. into a legal fire in Ireland.

What do we do?

“Mr. Reinhart, I may have an idea, but it’s kind of risky,” Dayton said, interrupting his thoughts.

“Tell me!” Jay replied, wondering what “risky” meant.

But there was no answer on the other end, and Jay realized the connection had been dropped.

“Damn!” He punched the number in again, but it rang uselessly.

Jay returned to the back seat of the car and closed the door.

“On to the airport, sir?” the driver asked.

The Secretary of State nodded and the driver pulled smoothly into traffic.

“Is there anything in your call we should know about?” Secretary Byer asked.

“Yes, sir. But this isn’t the moment to discuss it.”

Byer sighed and nodded. “Very well.” He sat back in silence and focused his attention outside in thought until they pulled up to the executive jet facility ten minutes later.

“If you gentlemen will wait for me, I’ve a couple of calls to make,” Jay said, slipping out as quickly as possible and entering the plush but diminutive terminal. There were glassed-in waiting lounges on both sides of the hall, each liberally equipped with phones, and Jay inserted himself in one to dial Geoffrey Wallace’s number.

The sound of a phone receiver being fumbled from its cradle and bumped across furniture reached his ears, along with a hoarse greeting.

“Yes? Wallace here.”

“Geoffrey, Jay Reinhart. Where does Ireland stand on this issue?”

“I beg your pardon? You mean, where do they stand on President Harris and the warrant?”

“Where would they stand if he came to town with this warrant in hot pursuit?”

There was a short laugh on the other end. “Well, you know the Irish.”

“No, actually I don’t. I should. My grandmother was an Irish immigrant from Galway, but I’ve never been there.”

“Well, they’re a great people, but basically rebellious as hell, even to their own institutions at times. It’s very hard to predict what they’ll do at any given moment.”

“But they’re a nation of laws and a party to the treaty, right?”

“Oh, yes. Of course. They have our basic legal system, as you know. But in typical fashion, they signed the treaty over a decade ago and didn’t ratify it until just last year.”

“They ratified? I thought they hadn’t.”

“Only took them twelve years to get around to it. But yes, they’re fully aboard now.”

A flurry of activity in the largest waiting salon down the hall caught Jay’s peripheral vision and he glanced over in time to see Secretary Byer in animated discussion with his aide, as the other officials milled around.

Jay turned his attention back to the phone. “Do you know any practitioners in Ireland?” he asked.

“I may know someone, but I’ll have to look for his number and call you back.”

“Let me hold, Geoffrey. While you get the number.”

“Oh. Well… very well.” Jay could hear the rustle of what sounded like bedcovers being moved in the background and an unhappy female voice.

“I’m sorry if I caught you at a bad moment,” Jay offered, slightly amused.

Geoffrey was still holding the phone to his ear and chuckled. “Oh, it was anything but a bad moment, I can assure you! I just hated to end it. I’d thought you were through with me for the day. Hang on. I’ll be right back.” Wallace put the phone down, returning three minutes later.

“All right, Jay. There was a seminar in Edinburgh several years ago on international subjects which I attended, and the chap whose name I’ve got here spoke very eloquently on this very treaty. I recall talking with him afterwards. Smart, funny fellow, though I don’t know how good he might be.”

“Irish solicitor?”

“A barrister.”

“So he’s in Dublin?”

“Yes. Interesting, too. He apparently doesn’t drink. Not even Guinness, or so he claimed. I offered him a pint, but…”