Headwind (2001)

by John J. Nance

  “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 . . .”

  She raised her hand. “Now you’re playing my song.”

  He laughed easily, aware of how very relaxed he felt in her presence. “I am at that.” He looked at his watch. “Sherry, I think . . .”

  She was already getting to her feet and reaching out to take his hand in what began as a perfunctory handshake and became something else when he reached for her other hand, holding both of them, their eyes meeting for a few seconds.

  Reluctantly, he let go of her hands to punch the elevator button. The doors opened almost immediately, and they walked in a little awkwardly, Jay bidding her good night on the second floor as he continued to the third and his room, his thoughts temporarily sidetracked from matters of law and treaties.

  And, for some reason he couldn’t pinpoint, all efforts to find a mental image of Linda back in Laramie were failing, as was his usually well-tuned capacity for guilt when he thought about Karen.

  For the first time since his wife’s death, the familiar, gut-wrenching pain that hit him every time he thought about her had disappeared. In its place was a simple, sweet sadness. Why? Maybe he was just too tired, or too wrapped up in the problem at hand. Or maybe he was ready to take the advice he’d been so tired of hearing, that it was time to get on with his life.

  Jay put his suit on a hanger, pulled off the rest of his clothes, and brushed his teeth before falling into bed. He was sleepily luxuriating in the feel of the sheets when he remembered he had one final item of unfinished business to complete.

  He forced himself back up, sitting naked sideways on the bed as he pulled out a Dublin phone book and looked for hotel listings.

  None of the names jumped out at him.

  He called the night clerk at the front desk.

  “I need to know which Dublin hotel is the best, most plush, most expensive, and best thought of in Ireland.”

  “Good heavens, sir, you’re not happy with us then?”

  He laughed as he rubbed his eyes. “No, no, no! I’ve got to locate someone who would only look for the most expensive lodging. This is a lovely hotel.”

  “Well that’s a relief, that is. You have to be talking about the Shelbourne Hotel, and it is lovely. Is your friend American?”

  “British.”

  “Oh, then most certainly he’d be there. Hang on and I’ll ring them.”

  When the Shelbourne’s operator answered, Jay asked for Stuart Campbell’s room, unsurprised when there was no hesitation. An unfamiliar voice answered and he could hear more voices in the background, a fact that instantly reignited the earlier gnawing feeling that he was shirking his duties to be considering sleep.

  “This is Stuart Campbell.”

  “Jay Reinhart, Sir William.”

  “Ah, yes! Mr. Reinhart. Some impressive footwork tonight, eh?”

  “Look, we’re both preparing for battle, but I have one official notification I must give you. Actually, two.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “First, I formally request that you notify me immediately if you in any way arrange contact with a judge regarding any aspect of this matter, and certainly I demand to be present at any hearing, formal or informal, concerning the same, and I’ll pass you both my cellular GSM number and the hotel I’m in.”

  “Of course, Mr. Reinhart. There was never any question of that. I shall notify you in accordance with the rules, have no fear.”

  “I have a lot of fear, Sir William, because of the nature of your client, but the other matter is . . . and I realize neither of us had time to connect in London . . . but I need a copy of that tape, and I shall object vociferously and loudly in every possible forum if you do not provide me with a copy for advance scrutiny.”

  “Actually, I’ve had a little time to consider the matter, and I’m inclined to agree that you should see it. Give me your hotel information and I’ll have a copy delivered tomorrow afternoon or evening.”

  “The earlier the better.”

  “Mr. Reinhart, the format of the tape is very specialized, and it takes special equipment to dub it. I have a camera that can play it, but I’m not sure I can dub tapes with it. However, I’m confident you shall have a copy by tomorrow evening at the latest. Shall we say in standard VHS format?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well. Burning the midnight oil there, too, are you?”

  Jay hesitated, irritation fighting guilt over the truth of the answer. “Absolutely. Goes with the territory.”

  “Indeed. Well, good night to you, such as it is.”

  Jay replaced the receiver carefully, replaying the words in his mind and searching for second and third levels of meaning. Perhaps he should stay up and study, but study what? It all came down to what was on that tape, and until he could view it for himself, all he could do was let Garrity and the as yet unseen solicitor take the lead. Besides, he needed the physical strength and renewed mental energy a few hours’ sleep would give him.

  He set the nightstand alarm for 6 A.M. and turned out the light, falling asleep almost instantly.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Dublin International Airport, Ireland—Wednesday—9:05 A.M.

  The Aer Lingus agent handed a set of tickets over the counter and motioned to Jay, who was next in line.

  “I understand you still have seats available on the nonstop to New York at ten?” Jay asked.

  “Yes, sir, I believe we do. I’ll check. Just a moment.”

  The agent pecked away at her computer keyboard for nearly a minute before looking back up at him. “Yes, we have seats in both coach and first class.”

  “I’ll need two tickets, one way, first-class, please.”

  “Your name, please?”

  “J. Harris,” Jay said.

  More pecking.

  “Very good, Mr. Harris, and I’ll need to see your passport and a credit card.”

  Jay handed over the credit card before turning to catch Sherry’s eye where she stood by the terminal entrance. She nodded and disappeared for nearly a minute, returning with the President in tow. They came up quietly by Jay’s side.

  “They need your passports,” Jay said.

  Harris smiled as he and Sherry handed over the blue-cover American passports, and all three watched as the agent flipped them open before looking up with an unreadable smile.

  “Just a moment, please. I’ll be back straightaway.” She left the counter area, which was in the middle of the terminal floor, and entered a door off to one side.

  “Oh, boy,” Jay muttered.

  “I know. She took my passport with her,” John Harris said.

  The agent emerged a minute later with a man trailing her. She resumed her position behind the counter as he circled around the front to where they were standing, and handed back the President’s passport.

  “Good morning. I’m Richard Lacey, the station manager,” he began, his eyes darting nervously from John Harris to Jay Reinhart to Sherry and back. “Would you be good enough to come with me for a moment?”

  “Mr. Lacey,” Jay said, “we’re trying to complete a transaction here and get on a flight. What’s wrong?”

  “I’d . . . appreciate it if you would follow me,” Lacey said, ushering them away from the counter and through a series of doors to a small conference room.

  “What’s this about?” John Harris asked when they’d shut the door behind them.

  “Please, have a seat, sir.”

  “I’m not interested in sittin
g, Mr. Lacey,” Harris said. “I am interested in getting on your flight.”

  “I know that, Mr. President,” Lacey replied, his eyes on the table as he took a deep breath.

  “All right,” Jay began, stepping forward. “If you know who President Harris is, then you’ve got a specific purpose in pulling us off the floor. What is it?”

  Lacey looked up at last. “I’m terribly sorry, but we cannot offer you passage on our airline today.”

  “And why would that be, Mr. Lacey?” Jay asked, struggling unsuccessfully to keep an acidic edge from his voice. “Has any official agency of the Irish Government given you a directive? Because if they have, I can assure you it’s not legal.”

  “Not the government.”

  “Who, then?”

  Lacey was perspiring and obviously nervous. “Won’t you please sit a minute?”

  “No,” Jay snapped. “You’re running an airline here and President Harris is attempting to pay you several thousand dollars for passage as a member of the public, and you possess no legal right to deny that passage. You’re playing with the potential for a massive lawsuit, sir.”

  “I’m not making the decisions here, Mr. . . .”

  “Reinhart. Jay Reinhart. I’m the President’s lawyer.”

  “Yes. Of course, Mr. Reinhart.” He extended his hand but Jay refused to take it, and Lacey lowered it in embarrassment.

  “Well, you see, the bottom line is, the chairman of my company has instructed me that regardless of threats or consequences, I may not sell any tickets to President Harris today.”

  “Or tomorrow?” Jay asked.

  “Until further notice. I do not know why.”

  “Very convenient,” Jay snapped.

  John Harris gently put a hand on Jay’s arm.

  “We understand this is out of your discretion, Mr. Lacey,” the President said. “But you are telling us that you are not authorized to give me an explanation?”

  Lacey pulled a piece of note paper from a suit coat pocket and handed it over with a slightly shaking hand. “I was told to ask you to call Mr. O’Day at this number, sir. That’s our chairman, and he will explain.”

  “Very well.”

  “Wait a minute, John. It’s not all right! I’ll get an injunction against this and . . .”

  “No, Jay. Let’s go. Thank you, Mr. Lacey.”

  “You’re welcome to use the phone in here,” Lacey said.

  John Harris shook his head. “I fail to see the point, sir, of talking to your chairman or anyone else at this airline. I’m either welcome on your airline or I’m not, and clearly you’ve established the latter, and clearly you’ve accepted all the potential liability that may be attached thereto.”

  “I . . . suppose so,” Lacey stammered. He led them back to the main terminal floor and departed with another mumbled apology. Sherry had waited by the door she’d seen them enter earlier. Jay heatedly explained the situation.

  “I’m going to talk to Delta. Wait here,” he said.

  He returned fifteen minutes later, red-faced and angry. “Delta’s Dublin manager claims Irish immigration will fine them if they allow you to leave while a criminal matter is pending, but the local manager can’t give me a name or number of any immigration personnel he’s talked to, nor will he give me the number of anyone in Atlanta at their company headquarters. That’s garbage, of course.”

  “I rather expected this, Jay,” John Harris said quietly.

  “I didn’t, and it’s outrageous!”

  John Harris motioned to Jay and Sherry to follow him and they walked to an alcove near the front of the terminal, where the President turned and leaned close to them.

  “Yes, it’s outrageous, but we all know this is Stuart’s doing, and we knew we could expect something like this. He’s managed to intimidate them with thinly veiled threats of litigation or potential government sanctions and, of course, they’re going to do what any doubtful company would do, which is: err on the side of caution.”

  “Sounds like you’re excusing them, John,” Jay said.

  The President shook his head. “As I told you last night, never underestimate Stuart Campbell. He’s a genuine Lamont Cranston, with the ability to cloud men’s minds.”

  Jay looked puzzled. “Who?”

  John Harris smiled. “Lamont Cranston. You have to be over fifty to remember the name, Jay. An old radio show.”

  “Oh.”

  John Harris looked over his shoulder at the front drive, then back at them. “Let’s get back to the hotel. We can sort out the next move from there.”

  “I’m glad you’re taking this calmly, Mr. President,” Jay said.

  Harris met his eyes. “Only on the surface, Jay. Inside is a different matter.”

  The Great Southern Hotel, Dublin Airport, Dublin, Ireland

  Alastair Chadwick was sipping a glass of orange juice when he spotted Craig Dayton walking into the hotel restaurant in jeans and a white shirt, looking smug.

  “You’re smiling,” he pointed out.

  “Yes,” Craig agreed, offering no other explanation.

  “Are Jillian, Ursula, and Elle going to join us?”

  “Jillian will be down in a few minutes,” Craig said. “I don’t know about the other two.”

  “So, do I detect canary feathers around the corners of your mouth?” Alastair asked, as dryly as possible.

  Craig sat down and motioned to a nearby waiter, pointing to his coffee cup before looking at Alastair.

  “Canary feathers?”

  “As in, the cat that ate the canary. In other words, you seem insufferably pleased with yourself.”

  “I do? Well, I just had a very strange conversation with our chief pilot.”

  “Really? Strange? Craig, any conversation with Herr Wurtschmidt is, by definition, strange. The man’s a raving paranoid with delusions of adequacy.”

  “Maybe, but he told me to carry on, and said he’d fax me the charter papers for customs in Iceland, Canada, and the U.S., if our client decides to go.”

  Alastair looked stunned. “Just like that?”

  “Just like that.”

  The copilot shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. “Craig, last night we cost the British Government a few quid, to say the least, by sending them on a wild goose chase for a missing aircraft that wasn’t. He doesn’t know?”

  “Oh, he knows, but he accepted my explanation,” Craig said, stealing a piece of Alastair’s toast and dumping a small pitcher of cream into his freshly poured coffee.

  “Aha!” Alastair said, raising his remaining slice of toast for emphasis. “Now we get to the truth! You flummoxed him once more!”

  “I’m sorry, what? Oh! You’re into Britspeak again, aren’t you?”

  “Flummoxed. Bamboozled. Pulled the wool. Messed with his mind.”

  “Oh, yeah. Mind messing. That one I got.”

  “Craig, what in heaven’s name did you tell him?”

  “I simply told him . . .” Craig began, as he searched the menu and drew out the suspense.

  “Yes? What?”

  “I told him that we’d cancelled our instrument clearance in order to stay in international airspace to prevent diplomatic problems, and for some reason London Center couldn’t hear our subsequent radio calls.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Well . . . I might have told him . . . or might have somehow suggested . . . that we were operating on direct orders from the Royal Air Force and the White House.”

  “Direct . . . ?”

  “Direct orders. I told him it was classified. He said he didn’t want to know.”

  “Yes, I imagine. Nor would I.”

  “He’s beginning to act like Schultz, in Hogan’s Heroes. Did you ever see that show? Remember old Schultz? Whenever Hogan or his guys would pull something, Schultz would scream: I know nothing!”

  “I think I envy Schultz. So . . . we’re still employed for a few more hours?”

  “For a few more hours. Wanna go to
Maine?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “No.”

  “So . . . what’s the determining factor for a ‘go, no-go’ decision?”

  “Primarily, whether or not President Harris is able to get out of here on a commercial flight. If he can’t, then the decision depends on the weather, the upper-level winds, careful flight planning, and the possibility that someone will find a way to refuse us departure clearance.”