Jay closed his eyes and shook the thought from his mind as best he could. He couldn’t be making decisions based on fear instead of logic. Campbell was, after all, just a lawyer, as was he. It was a matter of reading the law and the procedures of each country and deciding where John Harris would be most protected while he built his case against the warrant.
Jay picked up the phone and ran his credit card again before dialing Sherry Lincoln’s GSM phone. She answered on the second ring.
“Go to London, Sherry. Please tell the President. On second thought, let me brief him directly, okay?”
There was a brief delay as she passed the word to John Harris and handed him the phone. His warm and friendly voice betrayed none of the tension or the peril he was in.
“John, I have to warn you of something,” Jay said.
“Go ahead.”
“It’s not likely, but… the current government and the current prime minister have not been tested on this issue, and they seem to think quite differently from their predecessors.”
“Meaning?”
“Well, it’s not impossible that their stance toward rapid compliance with the warrant could dramatically change from that of the Pinochet situation.”
“You mean, uphold sovereign immunity as a bar to the warrant?”
“No, John. I mean they could decide that they have a duty to hear the extradition case immediately with no interference from the Law Lords.”
“But you don’t think so?”
“Highly unlikely, but that’s why I need to get there first.”
“And if not Britain, Jay?”
“I don’t know,” Jay said at the very moment a new possibility flashed across his mind. “I don’t know, but I’m working on alternatives. Don’t leave until I call you from London in about nine hours.”
“I heard you hesitate,” Harris said. “What are you thinking?”
Jay snorted on the other end. “Something… an idea… completely off the wall and not worthy of discussion right now.”
“In my experience, Jay, those usually turn out to be the best of all.”
TWENTY-SIX
Jay Reinhart awoke with a start in his first-class seat, instantly upset at himself for having slept for the last three hours when he needed to be working. The flight attendants were already moving about the cabin with a fragrant breakfast, their efforts spotlighted occasionally by bright sunlight streaming in the windows and the welcoming smell of rich coffee.
He glanced at the small color TV screen at his seat displaying a map of their progress over the Atlantic and read the time remaining: one hour, ten minutes.
Jay sat up and rubbed his eyes, feeling exceedingly grubby. He got to his feet and headed for the lavatory, surprised at how wobbly his legs felt but determined to at least sponge his way back to social acceptability – an imperfect process which took less than ten minutes as he leaned heavily on a selection of colognes and amenities the airline provided in a small survival kit. He returned to the seat and gratefully accepted a cup of coffee and a sweet roll before pulling out his legal pads and trying to focus on planning the high-speed sequence of events he needed to orchestrate in London. It was a task he kicked himself for not completing hours ago, before the effect of time zones, loss of sleep, and dry cabin air began to muddle his thinking.
The first order of business would be to hire the right solicitor – the right British lawyer – to represent John Harris under Jay’s control.
But which one? He needed a lawyer who could quickly help him determine which magistrate court Campbell’s people had taken the warrant to, what rulings might have already been issued, and specifically what the extradition procedures were in Britain. He also needed to know whether or not Campbell was already in town. And he needed a best guess from an up-to-speed local practitioner on even the most far-out stunt Campbell might try to short-circuit the process and convince the appropriate branches of the British Government to turn Harris over to Peru when the courts had finished with the matter. So he would probably need an international firm.
No, wait. The first order of priority is to call them in Sigonella, he reminded himself, checking his watch. It was 8 A.M. in Italy, 7 A.M. in the U.K. He needed to call before heading for central London, just to make sure nothing had changed.
Next, I need to talk to the government. I’ve got to know how they’re going to react to a request to seize and extradite a former U.S. President.
Another flash of apprehension and doubt rang a warning buzzer in his head, much as the stall warning in the little Cessna had cut through the heart of his confidence on that incredible flight.
Was it only a few hours ago?
Jay forced his mind away from that scene and back to the issue. The fact that Campbell was a highly placed Brit – a Knight of the British Empire and a senior barrister known as a QC, or Queen’s Counsel – meant Jay was at a tremendous disadvantage. Campbell knew everyone. He knew no one. How could he possibly equalize such odds in time to discover what he had to know?
This is all about law, though. Not politics. The courts should be blind to Campbell’s position.
But he knew better. Ultimately the British Secretary of State and the policies of Her Majesty’s government would determine whether or not to extradite.
Indelibly etched images of Parliament, the interior of the House of Commons, and long-dormant memories of past contacts with British officialdom came to mind, as did the reality that he no longer had even one active contact in Her Majesty’s Government.
Whom do I call? How on earth do I penetrate that maze?
He’d tried searching the Internet for names of knowledgeable lawyers among the solicitors listed with London offices, but the search had yielded only three possible names, and since London was in the early hours of morning, there had been no open offices to call.
The thought of John Harris sitting in the aircraft in Sigonella interposed itself. Had something happened during the night? He knew it was partially to divert his mind from the Herculean problems ahead, but he couldn’t resist yanking up the phone. He swiped his American Express card and punched in the number of Sherry Lincoln’s GSM cell phone, the sound of her voice like music on the other end when she answered. She reassured him that nothing had changed. Jay promised to make regular progress calls from London and rang off, then opened his laptop and connected it to the satellite phone again, establishing the link with the Internet just as the Boeing 777 began descent over Ireland for the landing in London. Jay was still on-line and searching frantically for legal contacts as the big jet steadied onto final approach over the English countryside. One of the flight attendants appeared at his side, standing in mock disgust with her hands on her hips to order the laptop turned off.
“Otherwise we’ll explode immediately,” she said, “and it will all be your fault, and I’ll never speak to you again.”
“Really? I mean, the explode part?”
“No, that’s just a wind up, as the British call a good leg pulling. But that’s the kind of nonsense this industry teaches us flight attendants, since all of us are supposed to be bubble brains. Actually, the only way that laptop of yours could be dangerous is if you physically bashed one of the pilots with it, which is probably a bad idea, by the way. They get very testy when attacked with computers.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Jay said, pushing a smile through his fatigue.
“But, you’ve really got to turn it off now, sir, or I’ll have to kill you.”
“Done. Are you sure you don’t work for Southwest? You’ve got a Southwest Airlines sense of humor.”