John Nance - Headwind

“You really want to know, Mr. President?”

“This…” More scraping. “never happened, Barry, so I want to know now, since officially I never will.”

“Very well, sir. They want a million, U.S.”

The first of the reply was lost. “… bargain, if they can do the job.”

“Yes, Mr. President, they can do it. But I have to warn you about something.”

“Now…” The voice faded, then came back clearly. “… different matter. Do I want to know whatever you’re going to warn me about? Even off the record?”

There was a hesitation before Reynolds spoke again.

“Sir, I need to tell you, because I don’t want to trigger this thing unless I know you understand the possibilities and are ready to accept them. I don’t want to decide this myself. And, in fact, I’m strongly recommending against this operation.”

The President sighed and crossed his arms, saying, “Very well. Go ahead.”

“There are likely to be sixty or seventy people in that factory and in the compound, and some of them will be civilian.”

“The workers?” the President asked.

“Yes, sir. If we commission this so-called army we’re ready to hire – these mercenaries who are ex-Shining Path, ex-Peruvian Army, and a real ragtag bunch – if we commission them, they’ll go in with the intention to leave no one alive, regardless of who they find. They won’t do it without that understanding.”

“As far as… concerned, Barry, anyone in that factory is forfeit, regardless. They’re killing Americans with… poison they make…” The voice faded to incoherence again.

“Yes, sir. But it will almost certainly be a bloodbath, and the government is certain to be outraged, especially if they can prove the Company was behind it. That’s why I’d say we shouldn’t do it. Too much risk. I need to make sure you understand.”

“I understand, Barry.”

“These are real cutthroats, sir, as I say, on a level you may not be ready to believe really exists in this world. These vermin would just as soon dismember you alive for the fun of it as to decide to have dinner. They’re the closest thing to pure two-footed animals I think I’ve ever met, and… frankly… we can be certain that they’re going to enjoy this job.”

The President asked something in a muffled voice.

“Meaning torture,” Reynolds replied. “We’re authorizing torture. They’ll have themselves a playground with a license to kill, and they’ll very likely kill slowly and painfully for the fun of it.”

Reynolds hesitated, then got to his feet and walked back toward the fireplace before turning, the camera catching the President in full view at the other end of the office.

“Sir, these guys would frighten the SS in Nazi Germany. And I need you to know that the Peruvian peasants working there may well have family members with them.”

“Family…” The President’s voice was too far away from the microphone to be heard.

“Could be,” Reynolds replied to the unheard question. “I can’t guarantee who’ll be there. But if they’re there, they’ll be eliminated.”

There was more incoherent comment from the President, followed by the word “recommendation.”

“Depends on what you want to accomplish, sir,” Reynolds replied. “If you want to shut down that factory once and for all, devastate the leadership, frighten away anyone else who would set up such a large drug-making facility, and massively impact the heroin flow all at once, then there’s probably no other way to get it done. But there will be a terrible cost in lives.”

The President pushed away from his desk and disappeared out of the frame. Reynolds apparently sat back down on the couch and swiveled toward the desk again, raising the level of the frame and revealing the chief executive with his back to the camera standing at the window overlooking the Rose Garden.

The frame lowered once more as the President turned, his head just out of the shot at the top as he turned toward Reynolds. “… no choice,” he said, the words barely understandable. “You’ve… green light. But you never told me this, and…” The words faded momentarily. “Don’t try to limit or warn them in any way. Don’t tell them ‘no torture,’ or you’ll poison our ability to say we never knew.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Now. Bring… over here and show me the details.”

The rest of the tape was a recitation of the logistics of the plan, a handshake, and Reynolds’s exit through the east door.

The screen had been black for many seconds before Jay reached out and stopped the videocassette player. He sat quietly for nearly a minute before drawing a deep breath and shaking his head.

“Oh my God.”

Sherry Lincoln sat stunned and immobile in her chair, her eyes still on the darkened screen. Jay heard her swallow hard, but she said nothing as he got to his feet and leaned on the television.

“Sherry… I cannot believe what I just heard.”

“Nor can I,” she said quietly.

“That was… to the best of my knowledge… John Harris’s voice,” he said. “I mean, I don’t know Reynolds or his voice, but I spent years around John, and…”

“It’s him, Jay. No one else. I recognize the phraseology, the meter, everything.”

Jay sat again, shaking his head, his hands out in a helpless gesture. “I… have no way to fight this tomorrow, except, maybe, just try to harp on the fact that you can fake tapes.”

“It’s not a fake,” Sherry said.

Jay turned to her. “You saw something or heard something that convinced you?”

She looked up at him, true pain filling her eyes. “I know what the Oval looks like. I never saw his face closely enough, but that was his voice, and everything else is exactly right, and after all, there’s only one damn Oval Office!” A hint of anger was creeping into her voice, but Jay spoke the words.

“Then… he lied to us, Sherry.”

“He did that, all right.”

“I… would never, ever have believed… but there it is. And there was one moment you could see his face when Reynolds was at the other end.”

“I hadn’t noticed that,” she said. “I just know his voice.”

They sat in stunned silence for a few minutes before Sherry got to her feet.

“What are you thinking?” Jay asked as she picked up the phone and punched in a few numbers.

“I’m calling him. I want him up here. I want an explanation, although I can’t see how one could exist.”

Her words to the President were short and to the point, undoubtedly leaving him puzzled. She replaced the receiver and turned to Jay with tears glistening in her eyes.

“He’ll be up in ten minutes, as soon as he gets dressed,” she said, sitting again. “What do we do, Jay? I assume they’ll make mincemeat of him when this is shown tomorrow.”

“Yes. I can’t defend this. It clearly establishes sufficient cause.”

“So what do we do? I think he’s finished in Ireland.”

Jay sighed again and reached for the phone. “There’s only one option left. We’ve got to risk a direct flight to Maine.”

The fact that Craig Dayton and lead flight attendant Jillian Walz had been lovers for the past year was standard knowledge at EuroAir, but their practiced discretion on the road usually obscured the liaison, even when Craig answered the room phone with a husky, distracted voice at what would otherwise be the mid-evening hour.

Jay Reinhart was on the other end, his voice and demeanor very grave, and they kept the conversation brief.

Craig replaced the receiver after an economy of words and snuggled back against Jillian in the spoon position, stroking her silken hair as he related the call.

She turned her head toward him slightly. “You sure this flight is safe, Craig?”