Headwind Read online

  John Harris paced to the front of the first-class cabin and turned again, as he’d done a dozen times in the past half hour. He glanced at his watch, which was still on Dublin time.

  9:48 A.M.

  He could imagine the lawyers beginning to assemble for the 10 A.M. hearing, and the thought of their battling it out while he essentially sneaked out of town under the cover of darkness was eating at him.

  You panicked, John, he told himself. When faced with that tape, you panicked. You should never have run like this!

  He glanced over at Sherry, her head gently lolled on a pillow wedged against the window. Her help over the last four years had been of incalculable value, he thought, and he felt guilty for not giving her more time to live her life. She rarely dated. He’d kept her too busy with work, and the paternalistic feeling that had grown on his part had led him to worry lately that he eventually should urge her to look for a better job, and one that made a social life possible.

  But it was hard to envision facing the task of being an ex-President without her.

  One thing’s for certain, he told himself. Life is going to change now. No matter what happens back there in Dublin.

  In the cockpit of EuroAir 1020, Alastair suddenly yelped and looked up from his notebook.

  “What?” Craig asked.

  “We’re at the decision point. Turn it around, Craig.”

  “What?”

  “Turn this bloody craft around. We can’t make it.”

  “Wait a minute. What do you mean, we can’t make it?”

  Alastair was shaking his head. “The jet stream has moved south! Look at our ground speed. It’s down another forty knots, and the wind direction is coming around on our nose.”

  “The wind speed’s increased?”

  “Yes! Suddenly, on this forecast, the damn figures are all different and . . . and much worse. Also, Gander’s suddenly below minimums with fog! At this rate, we not only can’t make Presque Isle with running engines, we’re in potential trouble this far south getting to Gander with sufficient reserves. If we could have flown a true great circle instead of the North Atlantic Track System . . .”

  “How about the winds behind us?”

  Alastair shook his head. “They’re calling them the same, and what we’ve experienced is on prediction, but that low over Iceland is in motion southbound, so we’d better move now.”

  “Call them,” Craig said.

  “Shanwick, EuroAir Ten-Twenty. We need immediate clearance to reverse course and return to Dublin due to deteriorating winds and fuel.”

  “Stand by, Ten-Twenty.”

  “Negative, Shanwick. We’ve no time to stand by. We’re going to need to descend to a safe altitude and turn immediately while you’re coordinating.”

  “Are you declaring an emergency, Ten-Twenty?”

  “Not unless you force us to, sir.”

  “If you reverse course without clearance and without an emergency declaration, that will be a violation, sir.”

  Craig nodded. “Declare it! I’m turning and coming down a thousand feet.”

  Alastair nodded as he pressed the transmit button. “EuroAir Ten-Twenty is declaring a Pan Pan Pan, potential fuel emergency at this time. We’re reversing course and descending to flight level three six zero pending clearance, and we request to leave the NatTracks and proceed direct Dublin.”

  “Roger, Ten-Twenty, copy your emergency. Keep your same transponder code for now and make your turn. I copy flight level three six zero. Report reaching.”

  Craig had already turned the heading knob on the autoflight panel, bringing the Boeing back to an easterly heading as he moved the altitude selector and began the descent. He stopped the magnetic heading at 085 degrees as Shanwick Control formally approved the new course and altitude.

  “Alastair, are we okay to Dublin?”

  “I’m looking. We’re going to be tight, but if the tailwind holds . . . we’re okay.”

  “Dammit! It was looking so good!”

  “I’ve seldom seen a reversal this severe, or I screwed up the figures, or both. The headwinds we calculated were a minus forty maximum, and the average was minus thirty-two. Suddenly with that new information, it would have been a minus one hundred thirty!”

  “We screwed something up! They can’t change that fast!”

  “They did. But you’re right, somewhere in our figuring . . .”

  “Damn!”

  “I know it. I’m sorry, Craig.”

  “Forget it. We’re human. Now let’s just get this old girl on the ground safely.”

  “Should I tell Jillian?”

  Craig nodded. “Yes. And make sure she tells the President. It looks like we’re bringing him right back to the frying pan.”

  FORTY-FOUR

  The Four Courts, Dublin, Ireland—Thursday—9:50 A.M.

  “And this would be the lion’s den,” Michael Garrity said, leaning close to Jay’s ear as they walked into courtroom three.

  Only one of the court staff—the registrar—was in position beneath the bench at the head of the courtroom, arranging papers and fussing with her files. Stuart Campbell was still outside the courtroom in the Round Hall in animated discussion with no fewer than seven other support solicitors, barristers, and staff.

  Jay looked at his watch with eyes rendered bleary by less than four hours of sleep. 9:50A.M. I’ve got to focus.

  “Now, Jay,” Michael was saying, “Judge O’Connell is well known for temper tantrums when people talk in his courtroom. You’ll be sitting just behind me, so you can lean forward and whisper in my ear, but two warnings, if you please.”

  “Sure.”

  “First, make absolutely certain no living soul can hear any sound from the whisper beyond the radius of a foot or two, or he’ll surely bellow at us.”

  “Okay.”

  “Second, please don’t knock my wig off.”

  Jay laughed. “That happens?”

  “Oh, it’s very embarrassing to have a client lean over to whisper something to you, and pull back, taking your wig along with him, or leave it at an odd angle on your head. The judge will definitely comment.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “He won’t let you speak, as we’ve discussed, although Campbell will be a full participant, since he’s already been called before our bar at least once in the past.”

  “I understand.”

  “Also, I am what we call an SC, or senior counsel, so I’ll be assisted by another barrister from my office, Tom Duggan, who had better be here pretty soon. I’ll introduce you.”

  “SC is like QC, Queen’s counsel?”

  Michael smiled wryly. “We have no queen, lad. This is the Republic of Ireland.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Mind you, we think Liz is a dandy old girl, we just have no allegiance to her, let alone any desire to be her lawyers.”

  A male staff member wheeled a large television set on a metal stand into the courtroom and placed it near the end of the jury box, plugging in the TV and the video equipment below it. Both Michael and Jay watched the adjustments without comment, knowing full well what Stuart Campbell would be using it to show. The ominous presence of the TV left a cold, black feeling of apprehension in Jay’s gut.

  EuroAir 1020, in Flight

  “How are the winds holding, Alastair?” Craig asked.

  The copilot had been chewing his lip as he scribbled calculations and used a pocket flight calculator to double-check the aircraft’s flight management computer.

  “The tailwind’s almost gone, Craig, and the latest weather report has that low really galloping south.”

  “Should we consider Reykjavík, Iceland?”

  Alastair shook his head no. “We’d be right into another monstrous headwind at this altitude, and we don’t dare descend into higher fuel consumption rates.”

  “We’re right on maximum endurance?”

  “Right on. It’s all a function of winds right now, but . . .” He looked up at C
raig and sighed. “I have to tell you, Craig, I’m not showing us arriving in Dublin with much fuel. We may want to consider Galway.”

  Craig shook his head and laughed ruefully. “You had to go and tempt Murphy a while ago by mentioning Galway, didn’t you?”

  “I’m sorry,” Alastair said, lowering his head into his calculations again. Craig realized with a small jolt of adrenaline that Alastair had met a joking comment with a sincere apology. That wasn’t like Alastair, which meant, Craig decided, that the copilot was really scared.

  And that fact alone raised Craig’s apprehension to a new level.

  “Better get Galway weather just in case,” Craig suggested.

  Alastair nodded. “I am. In the meantime, don’t change those throttles from maximum endurance. We need to stretch every drop of fuel we have.”

  The Four Courts, Dublin, Ireland

  Jay glanced nervously at his watch again and tried to force himself to calm down. He looked around, recording the details of the ornate old courtroom that had obviously seen much wear and tear over the years.

  The rug, to begin with, intrigued him. It was a heavily faded green with white dots, or what might have been meant to resemble small flowers. There were no pathways worn into the fabric, but the rug was at least a decade beyond its useful life.

  The shape of the courtroom was generally rectangular and approximately fifty feet in depth from the back doors to the bench. The woodwork in the chamber was ornate, but worn as well, with heavy use of molding known as dental work on the many layers and courses of crown molding overhead. The bench, as well as all the other fixtures and furniture in the room, was stained a dark fruitwood. The judge’s seat was elevated above the registrar and stenographer, backed by a faded burgundy curtain that cascaded down from an elaborate paneled header some twenty feet above the bench crowned with a harp in carved relief, the symbol of the Irish Republic.

  The witness stand was a simple chair to the judge’s right, more in keeping with an American court than a British one, and the jury box ran along the wall to the judge’s left, with benches provided behind the tables used by the instructing solicitors. Opposing counsel—the barristers—sat opposite their respective solicitors. The bench for the public was in the back.

  The courtroom was heated with old-style radiators, and a recessed series of glass panels, some artificially lighted from above, adorned the middle of the ceiling twenty-five or thirty feet overhead.

  A door opened loudly in the rear of the court, and Jay turned to see Sir William Stuart Campbell and his entourage enter, Campbell already wearing his barrister’s robe and wig, accompanied by two other barristers among his group. He moved to his chair and turned briefly to smile and nod at Jay and Michael as more people trooped in the back and took their places on the various benches.

  And suddenly the clerk was calling the case, and Judge O’Connell had swept in from his chambers to convene the court.

  “Mr. Campbell, I recognize you, sir, with pleasure,” Justice O’Connell said as he sat down. “I have been continuously impressed with your tireless efforts on behalf of international jurisprudence and the writing and acceptance of the Treaty Against Torture over the years.”

  Campbell bowed slightly in pleasant surprise. “I thank you, My Lord, for your gracious words.”

  “And Mr. Garrity, welcome back. I certainly recognize you.”

  “Not with displeasure, I hope, My Lord,” Michael said with a smile.

  “Certainly not,” O’Connell said, adding no more.

  Campbell took the floor first, laying out the pedigree of the Interpol warrant as Michael Garrity and Jay Reinhart listened and made notes, waiting for the chance to counter him.

  “Mr. Campbell,” O’Connell asked, “is President Harris, the defendant, present in the Republic of Ireland currently, or do you have reason to believe he will be in the immediate future?”

  “The answer to both questions is ‘yes,’ My Lord. Mr. Harris arrived Tuesday night in Dublin.”

  EuroAir 1020, in Flight

  The President had decided to let Sherry sleep a bit longer, but she stirred now and opened her eyes, smiling as she stretched, before noticing the dour expression on his face.

  “What’s going on, John?”

  He sighed. “We’re going back, Sherry. The winds were too high.” He relayed what Craig and Alastair had told him when he came to the cockpit after Jillian relayed the message.

  “Oh, Lord.”

  “It’s okay, Sherry. It’s probably for the best. I’ve been having great doubts about this escape attempt anyway.”

  “I haven’t,” she said.

  “Well . . . we’ve no choice now.”

  She stood up and pointed to the cockpit. “I’m going to have to use the satellite phone. I promised to let Jay know if this happened.”

  The Four Courts, Dublin, Ireland

  The realization that Stuart Campbell might not know that John Harris was airborne and streaking away from Ireland was a surprise. Surely, Jay had assumed, Campbell would have arranged for someone to monitor the EuroAir 737. Was he really unaware, or was he going to officially ignore it to keep it from becoming an issue?

  Jay leaned over to whisper directly in Michael Garrity’s ear. “Michael, should we admit he’s not here? Would that delay things?”

  Michael shook his head and whispered back. “Not unless we’re one-hundred-percent sure John Harris is not coming back. If we raise the issue, he’ll question us, and we’ll have to admit there’s a chance the plane could turn around. There’s nothing to be gained.”

  “There’s everything to be gained if we can avoid showing that tape,” Jay whispered back.

  “Mr. Garrity!” Judge O’Connell snapped.

  “Yes, My Lord?” Michael replied, startled.

  “Would you care to join us in this action, or would you prefer to take your client outside and have a jolly chat where you’re not interrupting these proceedings?”

  “My Lord, I beg your pardon, but this gentleman is Mr. Jay Reinhart, the American lawyer representing Mr. Harris, and it is proper, I believe, for me to converse with him quietly, is it not?”

  “The key word is ‘quietly,’ Mr. Garrity! I don’t like a lot of whispering in my court. I have sharp ears, sir. I can hear that disgusting psst psst psst sound from yards away, and I will not have it!”

  “Yes, My Lord.”

  “Proceed, Mr. Campbell,” O’Connell ordered.

  Jay knew the dangers of challenging Campbell’s assertion that the warrant was valid on its face. Campbell would immediately offer the videotape of John Harris into evidence, a tape that would prove, Campbell would say, that the charges against Harris were obviously substantial enough to justify an Irish warrant and an order to send John Harris to Lima for trial.

  But if Michael didn’t challenge the validity of the charges, the Irish warrant would be granted almost automatically. It was a form of catch-22 that Michael and he had discussed carefully, and he was thinking about that discussion as Michael Garrity rose to his feet.

  “My Lord, may it please the court . . .”

  “Proceed, Mr. Garrity,” the judge said.

  “Thank you, My Lord. Mr. Campbell asserts that the Peruvian Interpol warrant seeking the arrest of a former President of the United States of America is valid simply because it was issued through normal legal process in Peru. I say that this High Court should have full jurisdiction over the simple and vital question: is the Interpol warrant based on real, rational, and reliable prima facie charges? Or, are the charges underlying this warrant a sham, as we maintain? What if the warrant was issued without justification simply because the government of Peru illegally directed a judge to do so? If there is any possibility whatever of that, My Lord, you must require proof that the charges are more than a fantasy, and that proof should be beyond question.

  Justice O’Connell literally snorted and leaned toward Michael.

  “Mr. Garrity, I love a good flowery rhetorical dance
as much as the next overburdened judge with time to burn, but stick to the point and state it in plain English.”

  “Indeed, I am attempting to do exactly that, My Lord.”

  “You’re not succeeding.”

  “Then I shall try again. My Lord, this court must examine the sufficiency of the evidence, not just rely on the Interpol warrant, before issuing an Irish warrant,” Michael replied.

  “Good!” O’Connell replied sarcastically. “See there? You can do it if you try to get to the blasted point. Very well. You are challenging Mr. Campbell, here, to provide some reliable proof that the Interpol warrant is based on substance, and I happen to agree with you. Mr. Campbell? What evidence exists that would justify an Irish arrest warrant and extradition order, beyond the fact that an unknown Peruvian judge wants Harris arrested?”

  Stuart Campbell rose smoothly to his feet, his six-foot-four frame towering over the table and dominating Jay’s field of vision. He introduced the existence of the videotape, where and how it had been made, and offered document after document to validate it with sworn statements from Barry Reynolds, along with evidence of who physically possessed it and how it had been kept under tight control.

  Jay scribbled notes furiously during the presentation and passed them in a constant stream to Michael Garrity as copies of each document were handed over by Campbell’s staff. He could feel the GSM phone vibrating at one point, but he had no time to answer it, and the subsequent small vibrations told him a message was waiting, which he’d have to get to later.

  Mike . . . pls object to this!!! The tape was illegally obtained.

  This sworn statement he’s offering merely states that he swears he’s making the statement, not that it’s true!

  B.S.! He wants the judge to accept the idea that the technology for this kind of tape existed during John Harris’s term. He needs an expert for that! We don’t know if it did or not, and the presumption should not be our burden.