The Chief of Staff shook his head. “Well, fact is, we do owe that overgrown Boy Scout a lot. Like, for instance, your election.”
“Wait a darn second!” the President said with mock indignation. “That’s an excessive statement. The fact that the Republican Party couldn’t find a better candidate in time doesn’t mean I won by default, which is what you’re trying to say.”
“Well, Mr. President, somewhere along the way we need to acknowledge the fact that if John Harris had not screwed his own party by refusing to run for a second term on the strange concept of principle, we wouldn’t be sitting here. Do I have to remind you he was twenty-eight points ahead in the polls?”
The President scowled. “I don’t have to acknowledge that.”
“That’s true, sir,” the Chief of Staff replied with a grin. “You don’t have to. History will do it for you.”
The President laughed and flipped to the next page in his briefing book.
“No kidding, Jack. Keep me informed on Harris’s flight. I see in this note that the hijacking hasn’t been confirmed. Let’s pray it’s a false alarm.”
EuroAir Flight 42, Airborne, Southeast of Milan, Italy
Sherry could feel the time ticking away and her stomach contracting with every wasted second.
“Hello?” she said again into the receiver, wondering when the White House operator was going to come back on the line. There were certain phrases she was supposed to use to get the operator’s immediate cooperation. Sherry had all the direct numbers to the White House staffers she needed to contact from time to time, but she hadn’t located the list and the wrong words had tumbled out of her mouth. She was struggling to bring up the right page in her Palm Pilot as she balanced the receiver against her ear.
“White House Comment Office.”
“Comments? Jesus! She gave me the wrong extension. Can you connect me to someone in the Situation Room?”
“Who’s speaking, please?”
“This is Sherry Lincoln. I’m assistant to former President John B. Harris. Hurry.”
“Well, Ms. Lincoln . . . first, if you insist on cursing, I’ll break the connection. Second, we cannot connect just anyone to the Situation Room. Now, what would you like to tell the President?”
Sherry was rubbing her forehead frantically. “Okay. Please, just reconnect me to the White House operator. Can you do that? They gave me the wrong extension.”
The sound of a dial tone filled the earpiece and a long list of expletives raced through her mind.
For the second time she dialed the lengthy combination of numbers and waited for the White House operator to come on the line.
“All right, please listen. This is a staff-related emergency, a Signal Zulu. I have a call from former President John B. Harris for . . . Jack Rollins, Chief of Staff. Please put me through to his office immediately.”
“Yes, ma’am. Please hold.”
Over a minute passed before a suspicious female voice filled the other end of the phone.
“Mr. Rollins’s office.”
Quickly and carefully she explained who and where she was, and her immediate need to speak to the Chief of Staff. At the same moment she found the listing of code names she could never remember.
“And, for authentication, President Harris’s Secret Service designation is ‘Deacon.’ Mine is . . . um . . . ‘Magpie.’ ”
Within thirty seconds Jack Rollins came on the line. He listened intently to her before asking a few quick questions.
“So you’re not hijacked?”
“No. The captain just let them believe that to get us out of Dodge. Athens, to be precise.”
“Understood. And you’re headed for Rome?”
“Affirmative. And the key question, Mr. Rollins, is this: can we land safely in Rome, or do we run the risk of encountering this same arrest attempt there? And, naturally, the other question is, who is trying to nab him, and why?”
“I don’t know, but we’ll find out. They called it an arrest warrant?”
“Yes, Mr. Rollins. I have no details other than that. The Greek government will know.”
“You mean a warrant such as a criminal warrant?”
“I suppose. Why else would we have heard the word ‘arrest’?”
“That leaves me completely puzzled. He wasn’t visiting in Greece, was he?”
“No. Just passing through from Istanbul. We weren’t even going to leave the aircraft.”
“Which means this is definitely something international. Okay. How do I call you back?”
“I’ll have to call you,” Sherry said. “Is there a direct number?”
He passed two private lines and a cell phone number. “Call me back in ten, no more than fifteen minutes, okay?”
“Absolutely. And on behalf of President Harris, thank you.”
“No thanks needed.”
More than 4,200 miles distant in his compact office in the West Wing, Jack Rollins replaced the receiver and hesitated for a few seconds, thinking through the irony of his comments to the President a half hour before. The fog cleared and he bellowed for his secretary at the same moment he snatched up the receiver and pressed a memory dial button.
After disconnecting, Sherry Lincoln moved quickly back into first class to find Matt Ward still on the line with Secret Service Headquarters in Washington. He motioned her to wait while he finished and disconnected.
“What are they telling you?” she asked.
“Sit tight. Violate no laws.”
“I figured they’d have to say that,” she replied.
He grimaced. “This is really delicate, Sherry. I can do almost anything to protect him physically, but I can’t protect him from this legal document or a legal arrest. How about you?”
She turned to check on the President, who was still reading, then sat next to Matt and relayed the details of her call. “I’ve got to phone back in a few minutes.”
“If it’s what we were discussing, an arrest warrant, they can’t block it, can they?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know, Matt. That’s . . . a lawyer question, I suppose.”
“Does he have one?”
She stared at him. “Not for this sort of thing. You think I need to line one up?”
“Wouldn’t hurt. Provided there’s a chance of arrest.”
She checked her watch once more, watching her hand shake slightly in the process. There would be just enough time to brief the President before calling back, and she moved to her original seat to fill him in before pulling the seat phone from its cradle and redialing the appropriate numbers.
Jack Rollins answered personally.
“Hold on, Ms. Lincoln. I’m connecting a conference with Rudolph Baker, Assistant Secretary of State, and Alex McLaughlin at Justice.”
She repeated the names out loud for the President’s benefit and felt his hand on her shoulder. “Let me talk to them, Sherry,” he said. “You’ve paved the way nicely.”
John Harris took the phone, his distinctive rumble of a voice filling the transmitter, instantly recognizable to the men on the other end.
“So, folks, what are we dealing with out here?” he asked.
“Mr. President, Rudy Baker at State. Sir, I spoke a few minutes ago with my counterpart in Athens. The . . . for want of a better term, legal instrument . . .”
“Call the damn thing what it is, Rudy!” someone interjected. “It’s an arrest warrant, Mr. President, and this is Alex McLaughlin, Assistant Attorney General.”
“Thank you, Mr. McLaughlin,” John Harris said. “Mr. Baker, you were saying?”
“Yes, sir. I was saying that this arrest warrant was issued by a court in Lima, Peru, on a complaint filed by the Peruvian government, and specifically, the current president of Peru, Alberto Miraflores. It charges you under the Treaty Against Torture for violations of . . . well . . . Alex?”
“Mr. President, there was apparently a raid on a drug factory in Peru during your term that ended very badly.”
“I reme
mber it all too well,” John Harris said, picturing the gruesome photos of charred corpses in a burned-out building. “It was a tragic mistake. Langley went off on an unauthorized crusade and hired a bunch of criminals.”
“They’re trying to hold you criminally liable for that, Mr. President.”
“That’s absurd, Alex.”
“Yes, sir. I’m sure it is, but that’s what the warrant alleges, according to Greek authorities.”
The Assistant Secretary of State spoke up. “Sir, the Greeks sound very relieved your pilot got you out of there. They weren’t interested in arresting you and sending you off to Peru, or trying you there, or anything else. But my counterpart emphasized that they had no choice legally but to honor the warrant when they received it.”
“And, gentlemen, what about Rome?” Harris asked.
There was a telling silence from Washington before Baker spoke.
“Sir, Peru’s counsel took the warrant . . . which is now called an Interpol warrant . . . before an Italian magistrate earlier today and had it, in effect, certified. The Italian Foreign Ministry tells me that, just like the Greeks, they will have no choice but to execute it. In other words, they’ll have to arrest you as soon as you arrive.”
“I see,” John Harris said, quietly drumming his fingers on the armrest of the plush leather seat. “Gentlemen, those charges are nonsense. I don’t mind hanging around Rome a few days if I can get some help clearing this up. Is that feasible? Can State help?”
“Sir, Alex McLaughlin again. Let me be perfectly frank, Mr. President. What they will do is place you under some sort of house arrest. I’m sure no one’s going to try to dump you in a cell. Britain didn’t even do that to Pinochet. But what undoubtedly will happen is this. Peru, through their lawyers, will ask whatever Italian court they’re using to immediately extradite you to Peru. Now, we haven’t had time to study the ins and outs of their extradition procedure, but as you may know, under the Treaty Against Torture, they really only have two basic choices in the absence of letting you claim sovereign immunity, and Britain’s pretty much blown that away with Pinochet.”
“In other words,” Harris said, “the Doctrine of Sovereign Immunity, the idea that a former head of state can’t be held liable for crimes committed as an official act while in office, has been invalidated by Britain’s rulings in the Pinochet case, with respect to allegations of torture under this treaty.”
“Yes, sir. Well stated. That’s exactly right.”
“You forgot I was a lawyer, Alex?”
“No, sir. But few of us are current on that treaty. Anyway, Mr. President, they have only two basic choices. Send you to Lima for trial, or try you themselves in Italy. The latter just won’t happen, so there is a chance that you could be extradited, and we doubt you’d get a fair trial in Peru under the current regime.”
“These are not good choices, fellows. Let me ask you this. The captain of this aircraft happens to be a U.S. Air Force reservist. If he should be so inclined, is there some other nearby nation I should visit instead of Rome? I don’t want to run from this, but I’m not interested in being Miraflores’s victim either.”
John Harris could hear Rudy Baker clear his throat. “Ah, well, we haven’t had time to poll surrounding nations, but I doubt, sir, that there is anywhere we could divert you to, other than U.S. soil, that would be safe.”
“And I couldn’t get safe conduct to one of our embassies?”
“Not unless you could land in an embassy courtyard, which would be a bit disastrous in a jetliner. Even then, we’d be under incredible pressure to turn you over on the theory that not even an embassy can be used as refuge from this treaty.”
“So, what would you suggest?” Harris asked. “Mr. Rollins? Can you help me out here?”
More embarrassed sighs on the other end.
“Mr. President, this is Jack Rollins. We’re going to keep working on this and see what options we can develop quickly. Maybe . . . maybe your pilot there could slow down or hold in the Rome area and buy us some time, depending on your fuel, I guess.”
“I’ll look into that,” Harris replied. “But to sum up the options as they exist right now, I’m heading for an arrest and possible extradition in Rome, and we have no reason to believe it wouldn’t be the same situation in Paris, Geneva, Bonn, Madrid, or maybe even some off-the-wall place like Malta?”
“All the ones you just mentioned are cosigners of the treaty, sir,” Baker replied. “Give us twenty minutes. We’ll poll virtually every country within range.”
“Very well, gentlemen.”
“And, Mr. President? President Cavanaugh is following this and is very concerned. He’s asked me to tell you that, and to tell you we’ll do everything within our constitutional power to . . . to help end this.”
“Tell the President I deeply appreciate it.”
“Call us back in fifteen minutes, sir.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Mr. President, wait a second,” Alex McLaughlin added.
“Yes?”
“Ah, I . . . while we’re working on this, I have to tell you, sir, that it would be . . . ah . . .”
“Spit it out, Alex,” John Harris said gently.
“Okay. You need your own lawyer, sir. Beyond a point, we’re going to be handicapped in helping you. You need a really top name in international law who can assemble a team very rapidly. I’m frankly not sure how far the Justice Department can go to help you, but I can tell you we won’t be able to provide your primary counsel.”
“Understood, Alex. Thanks for pointing that out. I have one other question for you.”
“Sir?”
“Who’s representing Peru? Is it one of their own, or have they hired someone on the Continent, as I suspect?”
“They have, sir. An Englishman who practices in Brussels and was very involved with the treaty.”
“He’s not English, really,” Harris replied smoothly. “He’s actually a Scot by birth. We are talking about Sir William Stuart Campbell, correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“You know him personally, Mr. President?”
There was a long pause before John Harris replied. “Thank you for the advice, Alex.”
In Washington, Alex McLaughlin sat holding the dead receiver, acutely aware of the question President Harris hadn’t answered.
When he had replaced the phone, John Harris sat a few seconds in thought before realizing that Sherry had been sitting in agonized silence, watching him and waiting for a summary.
“In brief, Sherry? I need to hire a lawyer, right now, from way out here.” He filled her in on the rest of the call.
“Do you know anyone who fits that description, sir? Top international lawyer?”
He snorted, surprising her, and nodded his head. “I did. Once upon a time in a galaxy far, far away. The best legal mind I’ve ever encountered in the field of international law, but too big a heart.”
“Sir?”
He shook his head and sighed. “Sorry. Old memories. I had him on a short list for my administration, but appointing him became impossible. Something he did.”
“Would he be available now?” she asked.
John Harris looked at her for the longest time.
“That was his problem. He was too available.”
“But, could you hire him now?”
“Only if I were certifiably crazy. At least, that’s the advice I’d get if I asked Washington.”
SIX
Leonardo Da Vinci International Airport, Rome, Italy—Monday—2:20 P.M.
A constellation of serious faces were orbiting around a small conference room in the offices of Rome’s airport authority, each man picking at a basket of fruit and plucking bottles of water from the conference table.
A half dozen police officers were in conversation with two plain-clothes officers of the Carabinieri, while three uniformed pilots stood by themselves in a far corner, watching the others
. A few feet away, the manager of the airport stood with a mid-level representative of the Italian Foreign Ministry as Sir William Stuart Campbell gestured toward the airport ramp, where a passing rain shower had left a glistening film of water. A haze of cigarette smoke filled the room, and several ash trays were threatening to overflow. The hint of background music leaked in from the passenger areas, the songs too distant to be identifiable.
“Is there any further news from air traffic control?” Campbell asked the ranking police commander in Italian.
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