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  “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.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  The Great Southern Hotel, Dublin Airport, Dublin, Ireland—

  Wednesday—12:20 A.M.

  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 . . .”

  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 sitting, 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.”