John Nance - Headwind

Campbell turned for a moment to watch the beehive of activity behind him. The Presidential Suite was only his central command post. Across the city, the main Dublin office of his law firm was ablaze with lights and a team of sixteen lawyers, secretaries, and clerks working feverishly on the sweeping assignment they’d been given: prepare every possible order for every possible court for every possible contingency.

For the past hour, between his own phone calls to the home numbers of various highly placed individuals, Stuart had received disappointing progress reports on the quest for a judge. As he had feared, there seemed to be no district judge anywhere in the Republic of Ireland who could be persuaded to consider the warrant at home.

“I thought we had it at one point,” Patrick had told him twenty minutes before. “Mr. Justice O’Mally, it was, and I caught him by cell phone in his back yard. He said we could bring the case to his home, and then he discovered the warrant concerned one John Harris, former President of the U.S.”

“What happened?” Stuart asked.

“Well, the exact words escape me because there was some sputtering and laughing on the other end… and a few epithets… but the gist of it was that I was certifiably crazy if I thought he was going to issue from home an arrest warrant against a past President of the United States, quote, ‘the greatest friend Ireland has ever had.’ At the minimum, he said, it would take a full-blown hearing and all the protections possible under Irish law, along with full statutory notice to the other party, and he would accept no waivers of the time requirements for notifying Harris’s team.”

“That’s all?” Stuart laughed.

“No, he was also personally incensed that I was trying to allege that a former U.S. President could really present a risk of flight. After that, Stuart, I bade him good night, since I figured our prospects for a favorable decision from him were, shall we say, somewhat reduced.”

“I think the phrase you’re searching for, Paddy, is ‘snowball’s chance in hell.’ ”

“Right. At best.”

The search had continued, but the few who could be located were not interested in holding court in their parlor, with one judge unconvinced that a former president would try to sneak away, and another of the opinion that an escape would be the best possible solution.

“It’s almost eleven,” Campbell announced as he walked back into the reception area of the suite that already resembled a war room. “I think we should suspend calling judges for tonight and concentrate on strategy until about two A.M., then all get some sleep and get started again around eight.” He sat down at the table, watching the faces around him. “Any thoughts?”

“Good idea. We’ve accomplished nothing, sir,” one of the men said, looking at the senior partner. “Did you get anywhere?”

“Yes,” Stuart replied, glancing at his notes before looking up. “And I wager that Mr. Harris and Mr. Reinhart are going to be in for a rather rude surprise in the morning if they do what I fully expect them to do.”

It was past midnight when Jay Reinhart, Sherry Lincoln, and Michael Garrity left the President in his room, with Secret Service Agent Matt Ward camped out in a connecting room.

In the hallway, Garrity bade them goodnight and headed for the stairway and his car, leaving Jay and Sherry to walk to the elevator alone.

“I’m going to recheck those flights before going to sleep,” she said.

Jay nodded. “The first one’s at ten?”

“Yes. That’s the Aer Lingus flight.”

“If they can’t get the warrant for an arrest here in Dublin, they’re not going to manage it by the time he gets to Shannon. We just need to get him to the airport around nine, not too early, not too late. We can buy the ticket quietly at that point. In theory, it should work. Without an arrest warrant, neither the Garda nor immigration has any justification for refusing him access to the flight.”

“That makes sense,” she said. “I’ll wake him on time.”

There was a bench seat opposite the elevators and they both sank onto it.

“You look exhausted, Jay,” she said with a weary smile.

He smiled back. “I am, but it’s as much from worry as real fatigue, I think. I… I just don’t want to screw this up.”

“Me either,” she said, pausing awkwardly to look away at the elevators. “He’s a good man, Jay.”

“I know.”

“I’ve worked for him for four years, and he’s one of the most decent, thoughtful…”

“Let me stop you, Sherry. I know all the superlatives, and I agree with all of them. We should… spend some time together telling each other John Harris stories when this is over,” he said with a laugh.

She nodded. “I’d like that. It was a real comfort, by the way, hearing your voice so reassuring on the other end of the phone, especially during the first hours of this mess.”

He laughed. “You wouldn’t have been reassured if you’d seen my alleged command post in Laramie, Wyoming.”

“Oh?”

“How about a kitchen counter with a land line and a cell phone and a bathrobe?”

“A bathrobe?” she smiled, cocking her head.

He hesitated, looking more directly into her eyes than he’d done before.

She’s really beautiful, he thought, validating the first impression he’d refused to let himself pursue.

“Yeah. A bathrobe,” he said. “It’s a long story.”

“I may want to hear that story. Sounds edgy, practicing law in your bathrobe.”

“Keeps the judges completely off-balance,” he chuckled, remembering the nearly fatal flight to Denver. “That was perhaps the most surreal experience I’ve ever had, trying to get on top of this situation for John from Laramie, trying to stay in touch, dealing with people at a level I’d never experienced.” The memory of his front door slamming when Linda left replayed momentarily, but he chased it from his thoughts.

“You mean at the White House?” she asked.

“Yes, and the State Department, and the Justice Department, not to mention the later encounter with the British Government. I’m still not so sure this isn’t some wild nightmare induced by an evening of debauchery at a Mexican restaurant.”

“They have Mexican restaurants in Laramie?” she asked.

“They think they do. Actually, it’s pretty good Tex-Mex.”

“How is this going to end, Jay?”

He locked eyes with her again, feeling another small flutter before realizing she was focused on John Harris, not him.

“I wish I knew. If we can get him on the way home, you’ve got a public relations battle ahead as to why and how he left Ireland, I suppose.”

“We can handle it. John Harris is well loved back home.”

Jay nodded. “But if we can’t get him out of Dodge, this could end up an extended stay in Ireland, although I’m very confident Peru isn’t going to shoehorn him out of here.”

“I guess that’s what I wanted to hear,” she said. “That you’re confident about the ultimate outcome.”

“I had some momentary doubt in that London courtroom when Campbell dropped the bombshell about the tape, but I kept telling myself that John Harris’s character didn’t change in the Oval Office. I couldn’t imagine his accepting such a proposition.”

“Torture and killing, in other words?”

“Absolutely,” Jay said. “This is a man who believes in the death penalty only to rid society of the most evil of two-footed animals, even though morally it hurts him to the core that taking life is the only rational solution in extreme cases. He cares so much…”