“But Mr. Smythe won’t be in until ten this morning.”
“That’s okay,” Jay replied. “Give me your address and I’ll be there at ten. I’m going to need to use someone’s office and phone as well.”
Jay wrote the address down and headed for the exit, stopping at a GSM cellular phone concession he’d spotted in the terminal. He filled out the paperwork quickly and used one of his credit cards to rent a phone, then headed to a ticket booth for the new high-speed Heathrow Express train, relieved to see familiar credit card logos adorning the counter.
Thank God! Jay thought. American Express!
He bought a round-trip ticket and arrived less than 20 minutes later in Paddington Station where he transferred to the underground, emerging at Holborne into a light, cold rain. Jay buttoned his topcoat and began walking resolutely toward where the solicitor’s office was supposed to be.
The address, he’d been told, was less than two blocks from the Old Bailey, as the central criminal courts of London were called. But after dashing back and forth several times and wasting a half hour, he finally stopped a policeman for directions. Jay’s dark hair was matted with rain and his pants legs soaked as he unfolded the piece of paper once more to show the officer the address he was struggling to find.
“Oh, there’s the problem, sir,” the police officer said with irritating cheerfulness. “Around the back of that street on the left. Just go down here, make a left again at the Viaduct Pub, and you can’t miss it.”
“That’s the one by the small restaurant that’s making me ravenous with all the good smells?” Jay asked.
“The very same. They pipe it out over the doorstep for that purpose, you know.”
A shiny brass plaque on the masonry exterior proclaimed the name of the firm, and the office was on the second floor. The building had been old when Queen Victoria reigned, but the interior reflected the sort of modern affluence he’d hoped to locate, one which bespoke connections and capabilities he could draw on rapidly.
Jay glanced at his watch as the receptionist called the appropriate secretary. It was almost exactly 10 A.M.
“He’s not in yet, Mr. Reinhart, but we have an office space you may use until Mr. Smythe arrives.” A conservatively attired young woman with an indulgent smile appeared and escorted him to a small cubicle by the firm’s library.
“These are all local calls, I trust?” she asked.
“Yes, but I’ll compensate any expense.”
“Of course, Mr. Reinhart, but you understand, I’m sure, that we would need Mr. Smythe’s approval before . . .”
“Before you consider me a client? Yes. I’m an American lawyer. I understand the protocols.”
“Very well, sir.”
“Mr. Smythe does have contacts in the government associated with foreign affairs and treaty compliance and such?”
“Yes. Certainly. He used to be an MP.”
“Good.”
“Member of Parliament,” she explained.
“I understand. That’s excellent. Oh, one thing I forgot to ask,” Jay said. “I need to be certain there’s no conflict of interest. Your firm doesn’t in any way have a correspondent relationship with Sir William Stuart Campbell of Brussels, does it?”
The woman’s expression changed from a pleasant, conservative smile to a broad grin.
“Is this a test, then?” she questioned.
“I beg your pardon?” Jay asked, thoroughly alarmed.
Her smile diminished. “Mr. Reinhart, we handle all of Sir William’s business interests in London. In fact, he owns this building.”
“I . . . thought he had his own firm.”
“Indeed, he does. That’s why we handle the commercial affairs for his business interests. Is this a problem?”
The rain had intensified slightly when Jay regained the street, intent on finding a London taxi to get him to the firm Smythe’s office had given him as a referral to a Geoffrey Wallace. The address was halfway across the center of London, and he stopped in a dry doorway to call them on the GSM phone, a process which ate up another fifteen minutes before Wallace came on the line and listened to his abbreviated plea after promising he had no connections with Stuart Campbell.
“Fascinating, Mr. Reinhart. And it was shaping up to be a boring day.”
“Can you help?”
“I don’t see why not. I haven’t had an American President as a client for at least the last few decades that I can recall.”
“Great. Here’s what I need you to do before I even get there.”
Jay passed along string of questions, including the problem of finding someone in government.
“Can’t help you greatly there,” the solicitor said. “But I do know a chap in the foreign office who might be a start. You could see him while I work on these other items.”
“How do I get there?”
“It’s just by St. James Park on St. George’s Street,” he said. “Just by Parliament. Take a taxi, mind you. The driver will know how to find it.”
Jay passed the number of his rented GSM phone and rang off with a promise that the man in the foreign office would be called to pave the way.
As he disconnected, Jay realized he’d been leaning against an ATM machine. He pulled a scrap of paper from the recesses of his coat pocket and rechecked the PIN number he’d suddenly remembered on the train from Heathrow. He inserted his Master Card and keyed in the numbers and required choices, relieved to hear the sound of £20 notes being counted out by the machine.
The ride to a nondescript government building took nearly thirty minutes through the metallic molasses of London traffic. Jay entered the massive government structure acutely aware of his less than stellar appearance. A labyrinth of halls and corridors, stairways and doors unfolded ahead of him as he tried to carry his belongings with the unperturbed air of one who always arrives at professional meetings with his suitcase. There were wheels on the bottom of the bag, but he refused to let himself use them. Carrying the damn thing was bad enough, he thought, but rolling it would utterly violate what Linda had dubbed “the guy code.”
He followed a shapely secretary into an inner office, her image sparking memories of how sexy Linda always looked when she walked.
Jay shook his head to expunge the thought, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand.
“Geoffrey Wallace told me you were coming,” the deputy minister who handled treaty affairs told Jay when he’d introduced himself and sat down. “But I’m afraid I can’t help you directly. We are aware of the Pinochet matter, of course, but I am personally not connected with the Secretary of State’s Office, the Law Lords, or any official position regarding the hypothetical question you’re raising.”
“Who is?”
“May I offer you some tea or coffee, by the way?”
“That’s okay, I’m fine,” Jay lied, suppressing a growing desperation for coffee. “If not yourself, who would be able to help me?”
The deputy minister smiled, cocking his head as he folded his hands over his not inconsiderable belly and leaned back in his chair. “I suppose I could send you scurrying all over the government asking the same question, Mr. Reinhart . . .”
Jay leaned forward, supporting himself on the edge of the man’s desk.
“Look, this problem is about to fly into your airspace, and it will be a very large political problem with major foreign policy and legal and treaty ramifications, and it will run the risk of deeply affecting U.S.-British relations. I need your help in finding the person or persons who can tell me, point blank, what the British Government will do when presented with this warrant.”
The man nodded slowly. “Well, Mr. Reinhart, you just effectively and eloquently enunciated most of the reasons why your questions are so far above my level as to be effectively unanswerable.” He hauled himself up and walked around the desk with his hand outstretched. “Sorry I can’t help you, old man. I always admired President Harris, by the way. The gentleman has true style.”
“Who, then? Whom do I see?”
The man sighed. “Very well. Let me write down four names. You will most likely be wasting your time, of course.”
“I’ll take that chance.”
The deputy minister pulled a pad of paper across the desk and uncapped a Montblanc pen, inscribing the names and office locations, then tore it off and handed it over.
Jay thanked him and left, going in succession to the first three offices and finding the same distant and indeterminate response from each.
Back in another corridor he looked at the fourth name and decided he’d had enough. He ducked into an office at random and asked to see the government phone directory, copying down a particular number before begging the use of a phone.
What he was contemplating probably would be a complete waste of time. Pure desperation. Maybe even a small act of defiance.
But he was determined to try.
Jay dialed the number and waited.
“Office of the Prime Minister,” a cultured female voice said.
“Please listen carefully,” Jay began. “I’m Jay Reinhart, attorney for Mr. John Harris, former President of the United States of America. I have a matter of urgent national security affecting both the United States and Great Britain, and I need to personally come over and discuss this with the Prime Minister or one of his immediate deputies as soon as possible.”
There would be a long pause or a dial tone on the other end, he figured, but the woman answered him cheerfully. “We’ve been expecting your call, Mr. Reinhart.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Won’t you please hold?”
Jay stood in abject confusion holding the phone. Within a minute an aide to the Deputy Prime Minister came on the line and confirmed an immediate appointment.
“I was told you were expecting me,” Jay asked, thoroughly confused. “Might I ask, how, and by whom?”
“I’d rather discuss that in person when you get here, Mr. Reinhart. I don’t particularly trust open telephone lines.”
“Ah, certainly. I understand. How do I find you?” Jay asked after passing his location.
“A car will be out in front of the building to collect you, Mr. Reinhart, in five minutes. The driver’s name is Alfred. He’s in a black Daim-ler.”
“Thank you very much,” Jay replied, hanging up and taking a deep breath, his mind spinning with unanswered questions.
TWENTY-SEVEN
In Flight, 5 miles south of London—Tuesday—11:45 A.M.
Stuart Campbell knelt in the aisle just behind the two pilot seats of his Lear 35, a scowl on his face as he looked at the red splotches covering the radar scope on the forward panel. “I don’t have time for this, Jean-Paul!” he said to the captain.
“I’m sorry, Sir William,” the pilot replied, “but a storm cell is moving directly toward the Luton airport and an approach simply isn’t wise. Stansted is also in a rainstorm, but we can hold for Luton and wait until the storm passes, if you like.”
“I don’t have time!” Campbell snapped again. “I need to be in the Covent Garden area almost immediately. At the speed that storm’s moving, we’ll be on the ramp and in our cars before it gets close.”
“You forget the gust front that precedes a thunderstorm. Such gust fronts can hide windshear.”
“Well, blast it, let’s divert to Heathrow then.”
“We don’t have a slot for going into Heathrow.”
“So we’re stuck with waiting for Luton?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Jean-Paul, for heaven’s sake, we’re five miles from the runway! At least be so good as to try an approach, will you?”
“Take the airplane, Gina,” Jean-Paul Charat said quietly in French to his wife in the copilot’s seat.
“Oui,” she replied. “Remain in holding?”
“Oui.”
Jean-Paul slid his seat back and snapped off his seat belt as he looked around at his employer. “Sir William, may I speak to you in the cabin?”
“Why? You can say anything you’d like right here,” Stuart Campbell grumbled, backing up when he realized the captain wasn’t taking no for an answer. Jean-Paul swung his body out of the command seat, and Campbell retreated to the cabin ahead of him and sat down, aware that his pilot was angry.
“Permit me to apologize, Jean-Paul,” Campbell began, but the pilot was shaking his head and his jaw was set as he settled onto the compact couch opposite Campbell’s seat and faced him, his hands clasped in front of him.
“This is a very serious occurrence, Sir William. When you employed Gina and me, you made us a solemn promise that you would never attempt to put pressure on us to override our better judgment as pilots, and that is exactly what you have just attempted to do.”
“I said I’m sorry, old boy. It shan’t happen again.”
“I will require a blood oath from you, Sir William, or as soon as we park this aircraft, we will leave your employ.”
Stuart Campbell shook his head and held his hand up. “I humbly apologize, Jean-Paul! You are correct. I made you that very promise, and I let my own scheduling anxieties get the best of me.”
“I must have your renewed promise,” the pilot said, his eyes boring into Stuart Campbell’s.
“You have it,” Campbell replied, extending his hand. “You have my word this will not happen again.” He started to get out of the seat. “I’ll go up and apologize to Gina as well.”
Jean-Paul stopped him from standing as he shook Campbell’s hand with formality. “No. I shall reassure Gina. But you do have a choice to make, Sir William. We have another hour and ten minutes of holding fuel, and if the storm clears the airport we might be able to land then, or we can proceed immediately to Gatwick and have a car or a helicopter waiting for you.”
“Let’s go to Gatwick,” Campbell said without hesitation.
“Very well. And a helicopter, perhaps?”
“No. A car will be fine.”
Jean-Paul nodded and got up as Stuart Campbell lightly touched his arm.
“Jean-Paul? I really do value your professionalism and your conservative thinking. Thank you for keeping us safe.”
“You’re welcome, Sir William,” Jean-Paul said evenly, studying his employer’s face and hesitating. “This situation . . . with the American President . . . it has you agitated, no?”
“It does,” Campbell agreed with a sigh. “It’s a very serious, precedent-setting action, this. Very important to the development of international law.”
“And, I think to you, personally, it is important,” the captain offered.
“You mean, is there some old score to settle? There will be that criticism, but the truth is plain and simple, Jean-Paul. He’s guilty . . . although I’m not even sure John Harris knows it.”
Stuart Campbell waited until Jean-Paul returned to the cockpit before pulling the phone out of its cradle. He punched in a string of numbers and waited for a male voice to answer.
“What’s our status, Henri?” he asked.
“We have the judge for four o’clock in the Bow Street Magistrate Court. That’s the court that by law will eventually have to rule on extradition.”
“The committal hearing, as we call it for some obscure reason?” Campbell added.
“Absolutely.”
“Henri, please double-check my memory of the extradition procedure. First we’re essentially asking the municipal police to take the Interpol warrant to the magistrate and apply for a British arrest warrant.”
“That’s correct, Sir William. When we get the warrant, the police make the arrest, and then Peru has to send a formal request to the Secretary of State for extradition . . .”
“Already been done,” Campbell said, stopping the other man.
“Really?”
“Yes. Last week. Go on.”
“Very well. Once the arrest has been made, the Secretary will decide whether to sign the so-called Authority to Proceed.”
“He will.”
“And . . . then we deal with the committal hearing, which could drag on for several days. With Pinochet, it tied up the Bow Street Court for a week.”
“True, but Amnesty International was there, as was Spain, all represented by a gaggle of QC’s.”
“Well, once that’s over and it goes against Harris, his counsel may ask the Divisional Court for a habeas corpus writ.”
“Which he will not get.”
“Sir William, with Harris still on the ground at Sigonella, is there any chance the Italians will change their minds?”
Stuart laughed. “None. Anselmo is praying that Harris escapes as quickly as possible. He has no reason to guess that I’m hoping the same thing.”
“No flight plan has been filed as yet. You’re certain they’ll come to London?”
“It was John Harris’s own idea,” Stuart chuckled, “although he’s obviously misread the political climate.”
“Rather badly, I would say. Any chance he’ll discover that in time?”
“I would think not. Now, in the meantime, I want you to proceed with the plan I gave you this morning.”
“Right now?”
“Yes, Henri. Right now. The sooner we flush them out of there, the less time they’ll have to think it over. Make the call.”
Residence of the Prime Minister, London, England
Being chauffeured to #10 Downing Street was a baffling turn of events, Jay Reinhart thought, as he got out of the government car and followed a grim-faced man in a gray suit into a compact conference room to wait for the Deputy PM. Why they would have been expecting his call was even more of a mystery, although it was probably a result of White House efforts to help.
Hopefully that’s it, Jay thought. Hopefully the British want John Harris out of this, too.
Perhaps he could arrange a quiet little deal to give the chartered 737 time to refuel at some British airport and be on its way before the courts could get involved. That might work, he thought, provided Stuart Campbell hadn’t already taken the warrant to a British magistrate. He couldn’t expect the government of Great Britain to defy its own courts.
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