John Nance - Headwind

Jay disconnected and dialed the Savoy Hotel, arranging to have his bag put in a taxi and sent immediately to Heathrow and the private terminal.

A quick call to Aer Lingus reservations turned up a departure to Dublin in less than an hour from Heathrow. Relieved, he decided against booking a seat under his name and called the hotel back to redirect his bag to the Aer Lingus ticket counter.

“Just in time, sir,” the concierge said. “I have it in my hand and the driver is waiting.”

“How long, do you suppose?”

“This time of evening, thirty minutes, if we’re lucky.”

One of the ramp attendants from the Metro facility agreed to shuttle him to Terminal 4, and Jay slipped into the car quietly, wanting to avoid the possibility of being seen by Stuart Campbell or his people.

“Aer Lingus terminal, please.”

The driver nodded and accelerated away, obscuring Jay’s view of a man in a dark business suit who had been watching from a dark corner of the entryway. As the car carrying Jay disappeared, the man quickly returned to the lobby.

The fact that the taxi carrying his bag actually arrived when and where it was supposed to at the curb of Terminal 4 surprised Jay. He thanked and paid the driver before racing through security and an interminable series of concourses to board the Dublin flight with ten minutes to spare. The possibility that Campbell already knew his plan flitted across his mind, but it made little difference. Thanks to the holiday, he knew they’d be okay in Dublin until Thursday regardless of when Campbell showed up, as he ultimately would.

The lights of Heathrow were falling away from the climbing jetliner before he realized that for the second time in his life, a takeoff sequence in a commercial jet had failed to scare him. Jay pulled one of the legal pads out of his briefcase and placed it on his lap, his pen at the ready, before remembering that he hadn’t obtained hotel rooms for the crew. Nor had he remembered to alert the Irish customs and immigration officials.

He’d already noticed the lack of in-flight phones on the 737, and he knew the flight crews tried to prohibit the use of cellular phones on the unproven assumption that they could interfere with the aircraft’s navigation system – an absurd premise, according to a knowledgeable friend in telecommunications. But in this case he had no choice.

The calls had to be made.

The flight was half full, and he waited until the flight attendants had wheeled their service cart past him before arranging a blanket against the sidewall of his window seat to hide the GSM phone he was leaning against after punching in Michael Garrity’s number once more. There was a form of digital static before Garrity answered.

“I hate to bother you again, Mr. Garrity,” Jay said.

“For heaven’s sake, man, call me Michael!” Garrity replied. “The only person in the world who calls me ‘Mister Garrity’ is my wife, and then only when she’s angry with me.”

“I’m sorry, Michael.”

“So am I,” Garrity said, chuckling. “Seems to happen a lot lately.”

“Look, I need to impose on you to get hotel rooms for the folks on that plane, not just the President, and alert customs and immigration.” He passed the basic information.

“I’ll take care of it, Jay, provided your credit card lasts,” Garrity said cheerfully.

“Okay. I’ll be on the ground in an hour.”

“I’ll be there,” Michael Garrity said.

Stuart Campbell had changed his location, appropriating a small conference room as their makeshift command post, and Henri Renoux sat down in one of the swivel chairs, watching him carefully. Background music from recessed ceiling speakers – a Vivaldi concerto – accompanied the elegant decor, and Henri realized the lights had been turned down to half strength, giving the well-appointed room a rich and palatial feel.

Campbell’s elbow was placed firmly on the arm of his chair, the bulk of his body balancing easily against the leather of the seat back, his hand supporting his chin and his eyes focused on the wall before him.

“Stuart?” Henri asked tentatively.

“Yes?” Campbell said slowly without turning.

“I think you were right. An intermittent radar target was tracked by London Center for about forty miles heading to the northeast, but then it disappeared in a poor radar coverage area.”

“Very well,” Stuart said passively, his mind deeply occupied with other thoughts. “Anything more?”

“Yes,” Henri responded, drumming his fingers silently on the table. “I think we know where they’re heading.”

“Dublin, I should think,” Stuart said, turning suddenly to look at his associate. “I am right?”

Henri was nodding and smiling. “How’d you know?”

“It’s what I would do, Henri. Who better to run to if you’re a beleaguered U.S. President than the country that loves Americans best? I would think less of our good Mr. Reinhart if he’d headed anywhere else.”

“He took a flight to Dublin. That’s how we knew.”

“I suspected that would be the case, and we’ll follow in the Lear in the next fifteen minutes,” Stuart said, resuming his contemplative posture, his eyes once again staring at a spot on the off-white wall. “Do you know what our esteemed Prime Minister wants to do, Henri?”

“No, sir.”

“You’re aware I talked with him at length a while ago?”

“I knew he was calling.”

Stuart shook his head slightly, almost imperceptibly. “I thought I knew his mind. I knew he was disgusted with Tony Blair’s tepid, timid prosecution of the Pinochet debacle. That’s why I alerted him from Sicily, to push him a bit, incite him a bit. I knew he’d help smooth the way in pursuit of John Harris.”

“I know.”

“But I had no idea how virulent he is on this subject. He really wants to ship Harris to Lima, Henri. Can you fancy that?”

“You mean, while the courts…”

“No, no. Nothing illegal. He can’t rip it away from the judicial process, of course, but he had the Home Secretary and the Secretary of State, the police… everyone he could control or influence ready to push the timetable for extradition to its absolute minimum.”

“A moot point now, of course,” Henri offered. “But you’re surprised, Stuart?”

Campbell leaned back to look at Henri. “In fact, I’m stunned. I honestly did not expect that.”

“We came very close, then?” Henri asked.

“To what?” Stuart asked, almost absently.

“To succeeding. For our clients.”

“Oh. Miraflores the bloodthirsty,” Stuart said with a snort, turning back to the wall and leaning back even more. “Yes, I suppose we did. We also put John Harris on a fast track to Lima.”

“And this worries you?”

There was silence for a few seconds before Stuart Campbell sighed and nodded.

“Profoundly.”

Michael Garrity waited just outside the customs area holding a small sign with “REINHART” in bold letters. Shorter than Jay had anticipated, he wore a full head of silver hair like a Roman emperor, swept forward and partly cropped, his face deeply lined, and a huge mouth that bisected his entire face and turned up at each end in a perpetual smile.

They shook hands and Garrity pointed to the front drive, where a van was waiting to take them to the flight line.

“It’s good to meet you,” he said in a deep rumble of a voice.

“Are they here yet?” Jay asked.

Garrity pushed open the terminal door and moved toward a passenger van parked by the curb, its flanks carrying the name and logo of Parc Aviation. “No, and as of ten minutes ago, I’d say Dublin Air Traffic Control had just about labeled me a crank for calling three times. They had yet to hear from a EuroAir Ten-Ten.”