Headwind Page 36

  “It’s there, John, in one shot,” Jay said quietly.

  The President looked up at him, his face betraying pain. “You don’t believe me, do you, Jay?”

  “I honestly don’t know what to believe, John. I want to believe you, and I want to believe this is a fake, but . . . and maybe I do, personally, but I’m dead in the morning in court with this. Campbell will play this and even a U.S. judge would have to find a prima facie case against you.”

  “There will be time to fight this, Jay,” Harris said. “We’ll need to get expert analysis and show how it was fabricated. I don’t know precisely where I was in the office . . . I mean, the visual image is probably real, but somehow they’ve faked the voices. After all, there are people out there who do very good imitations of presidents.”

  “We don’t have time to do any sort of research or scientific analysis by tomorrow!” Jay answered. “I mean, we could do a digital voice analysis later and prove it isn’t you, but that takes time, and first I have to convince the judge that he can’t rely on this tape in any way. You can be sure Stuart Campbell’s got a carefully manicured pedigree for this thing: chain of possession, affidavits, everything needed to convince. That means an arrest for certain and the beginning of a long, bloody process, and I can’t be sure—with Garrity’s being spooked over the judge—that we won’t be facing a faster extradition track than normal.”

  John Harris exhaled a long and ragged breath, shaking his head. “This is one of those never-ending nightmares, isn’t it, Jay?”

  “Apparently.”

  They all fell quiet for more than a minute.

  “Sir?” Sherry said from the corner, emotion constricting her voice.

  “Yes, Sherry?”

  “I want you to tell me the absolute truth.”

  “I always have, Sherry,” he said with palpable sadness.

  “I know . . . as far as I know . . . and I’ve always believed that. Tell me the words on that tape were never spoken by you, if that’s the truth.”

  The President got to his feet and moved to her, placing a hand on her shoulder and the other under her chin, raising her eyes to him.

  “Sherry, I swear to you, what you heard was not my voice, nor my words. The conversation you heard was faked somehow.”

  She nodded as she blinked back tears and stood to hug him silently, leaving the President off balance until she sat down and he returned to sit on the end of the bed.

  “All right, Jay. What do we do?”

  “We fly. You fly. Seven A.M. departure. Captain Dayton has agreed to fly to the halfway point and if the winds and his fuel are okay, take you on to Presque Isle, Maine, and the airfield there. It’s literally the closest suitable U.S. airport.”

  “And you?”

  “I’ll . . . stand and fight as best I can. I have to anyway, because you may be back.”

  “Understood.” The President got to his feet and patted Jay’s shoulder. “If it helps, try to think how you could fake something like this, Jay.”

  “I am, sir. What scares me is that someone may have perfectly matched your voice digitally so that even if you didn’t say the words in that sequence, they could still be your words and your voice rearranged.”

  “Don’t lose faith in me, Jay. Things are seldom what they appear.”

  Jay looked up at him for several very long moments before replying. “That’s precisely what worries me,” he said.

  •••

  John Harris returned to his room and Sherry bade Jay good-bye with confirmation that she would leave with the President on the 737. They hesitated at his door, holding hands briefly as she promised to call the second they landed in the United States.

  Jay returned to the empty room in turmoil, desperate for sleep, feeling the effect of the two pints of stout, and determined to figure out a way around the inevitable. He turned on the TV and VCR and reran the tape, looking for something that had bothered him earlier, a fleeting glimpse of something he now couldn’t place. Whatever it was now eluded him.

  He sat on the edge of the bed in deep thought, regretting the time spent at the pub, though Michael and his friends were delightful company.

  His friends.

  Jay yanked a sheaf of business cards from his pocket and lunged for the phone to get Michael Garrity on the line.

  “What is it, lad?” Michael asked.

  Jay related the details of what he’d seen on the tape Stuart Campbell had provided.

  “Oh, me. That will make things very difficult indeed.”

  “Can we block admission of the tape?”

  “Yes and no. Remember, we’re dealing with Justice O’Connell, and he’ll do whatever he’ll do without benefit of counsel. Under our Criminal Procedure Acts, it’s really up to the trial judge. There’s no automatic exclusion just because the evidence—the video—might have been obtained contrary to U.S. law,” Michael said, pausing. “All I can do is fight a good fight to keep it out by persuading him that it’s terribly prejudicial to President Harris.”

  “Michael,” Jay said, “I’ve got an idea how we can convince him—if you’re willing to lose a night of sleep, and if you can get one of your friends to help us tonight.”

  FORTY-THREE

  Dublin International Airport, Ireland—Thursday—5:45 A.M.

  Alastair Chadwick had been gathering weather reports and studying the flight plan for nearly a half hour when Craig swung into the flight planning room of the aeronautical information services office in the lower level of the main terminal.

  “Okay, Magellan, what’s the word?”

  Alastair peered at Craig over his reading glasses. “Smashing, I should think.”

  “Not . . . the best of words to use in aviation, old friend,” Craig replied, scanning the weather depiction on the computer terminal.

  Alastair pointed to the papers. “Basically, Craig, we’ve got two weather systems moving around that we need to be aware of, and a rapidly changing jet stream.” He used his index finger to trace the serpentine wave of the jet stream, the high speed river of stratospheric air depicted as flowing from eastern Canada across the Atlantic in a great arc. Along the expanse of Canada’s Hudson’s Bay it roared to the northeast, but south of Greenland it flowed south, and at a right angle across their westbound route to Maine.

  “How fast?” Craig asked.

  “The core is moving about eighty to ninety knots, but it pretty much stays out of the way, unless that upper curve around Greenland starts to come south and, well, flatten. Then we could be facing it on the nose, and we couldn’t make it to Maine with safe fuel reserves if that happens.”

  “And the forecast?”

  “They don’t expect that much movement, but it’s not impossible in three hours for it to become a problem. We’ll have to keep close tabs on it.”

  “Okay. By the way, I know I’ve hogged the last two legs, but would you mind if I flew this one, too?”

  “Of course not.” Alastair grinned. “The fact that I’m rapidly forgetting how to fly because my captain won’t let me handle the aircraft is wholly immaterial, I should think. I’ll just save my pennies and take flight lessons at a local aeroclub when I get home. Maybe I can afford time in a Piper Cub.”

  “And you think I’m good at generating guilt!” Craig laughed.

  “Now,” Alastair continued, ignoring the comment, “pay attention, Mr. Bond.”

  “Certainly, Q.”

  “There’s a deep low over Iceland, and Keflavík is very marginal . . . just barely legal for our flight plan. We’ve also got to consider that the winds behind us could change in computing our equal-time decision point.”

  “Understood,” Craig said, moving closer to study the chart, his mind completely focused.

  “Gander, Newfoundland, is a decent alternative, and the weather all across the Maritimes is good, and the weather back here should hold through late afternoon, in case we have to come back.”

  “In other words, you can’t think of any met
eorological reason not to do this?”

  “Nothing compelling,” Alastair said with a smile. “Aside from the basic insanity of it all, we’re fine.”

  Despite the weather, Craig had fully expected something to go wrong. There were simply too many ways the flight of newly named EuroAir Charter 1020 could be blocked. It was overly optimistic, he thought, to believe they were really going to get airborne or be issued their clearance to Maine, some 2,800 nautical miles distant. Considering what had already happened, he expected the opposition would know their plans and would somehow find a way to interface, either through EuroControl in Brussels or through pressuring the appropriate companies to refuse fuel for their aircraft.

  Yet, the pre-departure tasks had been completed on schedule and their plane had been serviced, fueled, ground-checked, and readied for flight by 6:15 A.M. By 6:25 A.M., John Harris, Sherry Lincoln, and Matt Ward had joined the three flight attendants and two pilots aboard.

  Craig was mildly shocked when they actually received the air traffic control clearance to the United States, something he had fully expected to be withheld. But there was still the matter of a takeoff clearance, and when the tower issued it routinely, he found himself in total disbelief.

  Craig hesitated and looked at Alastair. “Really? Did I hear that right?”

  “The tower sayeth, and I quote, ‘EuroAir ten twenty, cleared for takeoff.’ ”

  “I can’t believe it!”

  “I suppose,” Alastair added, “since they’ve been kind enough to give us the clearance, we ought to commit an act of aviation about now.”

  Craig nudged the throttles forward to taxi the 737 onto the runway. “How do we do this again?” Craig asked.

  “Do what?”

  “Take off.”

  “You’ve forgotten that, too? Boy, am I glad we don’t allow outsiders in the cockpit to hear these comments.”

  “Okay, check my memory, Alastair. When I pull the yoke, the houses get smaller, when I push, the houses get larger.”

  “Provided, that is, you first push the throttles up and provide a little forward momentum.”

  “Oh. Yeah. It’s all coming back to me now. I’m supposed to say, ‘Set power, engage autothrottles.’ ”

  “By George, I think you’ve got it.”

  “Alastair!” Craig said with mock surprise as the engines came up to full thrust and they began rolling forward. “I’m impressed you would cite the name of America’s founding father, President Washington.”

  Craig reached up to confirm the landing lights were on as Alastair snickered. “That reference, I’ll have you know, was to England’s esteemed King George.”

  “Sure it was. Eighty knots,” Craig said.

  “ ‘Eighty knots’ is my bloody line!”

  “So, say it.”

  “Eighty knots.”

  “Feel better?”

  “Much,” Alastair said, watching the airspeed climb steadily to the computer flying speed of 138 knots. “Vee One, Vee R,” he said.

  Craig brought the yoke back smoothly, lifting the 737 into the air, his thoughts already turning to the impending receipt of their oceanic clearance across the Atlantic and the task of monitoring the winds and weather ahead.

  “Positive rate, gear up,” Craig ordered.

  “Roger, gear up,” Alastair replied, raising the landing-gear lever.

  “What time is it, local?” Craig asked.

  “Six fifty A.M. We beat our schedule by ten minutes.”

  Craig nodded. “I just hope it’s not wasted effort.”

  The Great Southern Hotel, Dublin Airport, Dublin, Ireland

  The alarm jolted Jay awake at 8:10 A.M. after less than three hours of sleep. He imagined Michael Garrity would be feeling just as groggy across town, provided he’d made it back to his house. The prospect of fighting the courtroom battle ahead when he could barely keep his eyes open was already worrying Jay, but it was a comforting thought that the night’s work might have given them a weapon against Stuart Campbell’s well-oiled machine.

  He rocked to a vertical position and staggered to the bathroom for a shower, wishing he could stand under the hot water for at least an additional month or two.

  He was having trouble keeping his mind off the EuroAir 737. He’d phoned the FBO around 7:30 A.M. for confirmation that they’d lifted off, and so far the lack of a call from Sherry meant that they were proceeding on schedule.

  Jay stuck his head out of the shower and tried to focus on his watch on the counter. 8:23A.M.! Craig had warned him that the decision point would come some three hours after departure, or just about the time the hearing got underway.

  He returned to the hot water and stood with his eyes closed for a moment, luxuriating in the memory of Sherry Lincoln’s laugh and smile.

  Maybe the attraction is a rebound kind of thing, he thought.

  Or maybe not. In any event, I’d . . . like to . . . well, see if . . .

  Jay shook his head vigorously and forced his mind back to the task at hand. Michael Garrity would do the talking in court, but it would be up to Jay to help direct him, and he had to stay focused. If John Harris ended up back on Irish soil, it would be around 1 P.M., and if they failed in court, the Garda would be waiting with a freshly issued arrest warrant.

  A fleeting memory of something he’d dreamed crossed his mind. Was it a question, or a fantasy? Whatever it was hovered just out of reach until he closed his eyes and concentrated.

  Jay left the shower, dried himself, and moved quickly to the phone as he retrieved a slip of paper from his shirt pocket in search of a London phone number. With any luck, the Secretary of State would still be there.

  EuroAir 1020, in Flight

  Alastair punched the transmit switch on his control yoke. “Roger, Shanwick, EuroAir Ten Twenty level at flight level three seven zero.” He glanced at the altimeter, confirming that Craig had leveled the 400 model Boeing 737 at its maximum operational altitude.

  Alastair punched some numbers in the small handheld GPS unit in his lap and stuck a suction-cup-mounted antenna on the side window.

  “What?” Craig asked. “You don’t trust the flight computer or the onboard navigation system?”

  “I like plenty of backups, Captain, sir,” Alastair said. “And I like playing with my new toy.”

  There was a click behind them as Jillian Walz opened the cockpit door to hand Alastair the Coke he’d ordered, then disappeared for a moment and returned with coffee for Craig. She hesitated with the cup in hand and turned to Alastair. “Since . . . this is a charter and . . . you know about us, Ali, do you mind very much if I kiss your captain?”

  Alastair raised his eyebrows and tried to look shocked.

  “And where, exactly, were you planning to kiss him, young lady?” he asked in as stilted a voice as he could manage.

  “On the flight deck.”

  “The flight deck? Only a shameless hussy would do such a thing.”

  “Okay. I’m a shameless hussy. Now may I kiss him?”

  Alastair held his right hand up, fanning his fingers as if tapping a cigar while he cycled his eyebrows and tried a strange, British-accented impression of Groucho Marx. “As long as that’s all you do in the presence of a lonely copilot!”

  Jillian kissed Craig’s cheek and handed him the coffee before patting Alastair’s shoulder.

  “Poor, poor Ali! No love, no companionship, no women.”

  “How’re our passengers doing?” Craig asked.

  “Sherry Lincoln and Matt Ward are both snoozing, but the President is awake and pacing around like a caged tiger.”

  “How about Elle and Ursula?”

  “Doing what we flight attendants do best in flight.”

  “Talking?”

  “Talking. See you boys later. Ring if you need anything . . . within reason, of course.”

  When Jillian had left, Alastair took a long drink of the Coke as he pulled a notebook from his flight kit.

  “Okay. Here’s the situat
ion. I compute our decision point as being right at three hours, twenty-four minutes into the flight. We go westbound beyond that time, we’d best keep on going. Right now we’re right on predicted maximum endurance fuel burn, on speed, and the winds have been cooperating bang on to prediction so far.”

  Craig nodded. “What do you estimate we’ll have on arrival at Presque Isle?”

  “Let’s see . . . ah, three thousand pounds of jet fuel. Not a lot, but not an emergency, either.”

  “But almost no margin for higher winds.”

  “That’s the bad news,” Alastair said.

  “And how long have we been motoring in this general direction?”

  Alastair checked one of the displays. “We’ve been airborne two hours and forty-eight minutes. In other words, I need to wring the latest winds and weather from the radio so my courageous captain can conclude whether it’ll be a gallon of Guinness in Galway, or a bucket of Bud near Bangor.”

  Craig looked at him wide-eyed for several seconds before speaking. “Promise me, Alastair, please, for the good of mankind . . . that you’ll never, ever try writing poetry!”

  The Four Courts, Dublin, Ireland

  Jay’s taxi braked to a halt in front of the Four Courts just as Michael Garrity was climbing the steps.

  Jay paid the driver and hurried to catch up with him as he pushed through the large doors.

  “Michael!”

  “Ah. There you are. All rested and ready?” Michael asked with a wink.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  They entered the Round Hall and Michael stopped to point out the entrances to the four courtrooms that radiated from the rotunda.

  “Come on. We’ve got a few minutes. Let me show you the library, then we’ll find out which courtroom we’re in.”

  EuroAir 1020, in Flight