“I would, but I’m allergic to peanuts.”
Jay hardly noticed the landing and wondered absently if the close encounter near Denver could have permanently scared him out of his fear of flying – an oxymoronic concept to say the least.
Probably not. I’m just too numb and too tired to care.
The trip through British immigration and customs in Heathrow’s Terminal 3 was a rapid blur and within fifteen minutes he was in the baggage claim atrium resisting the urge to head immediately for central London. There was little point, since he had no specific place to go as yet.
Cash! Jay reminded himself. He located a cash machine a few steps away and waited in a brief line before swiping his main cash card and punching in his PIN number.
“The card you have used is not supported by this service,” the screen announced.
Jay fumbled through his wallet for another credit card and pulled out a little-used VISA.
“Incorrect PIN. Reenter the correct PIN,” the machine proclaimed in bold type.
He tried again, trying to remember the number he thought he’d memorized.
Again the machine refused.
He pulled out his American Express card.
“Your account is not set up for this service.”
Jay opened his wallet and counted the remaining American bills: $50. Hardly enough for a taxi, let alone all he needed to do.
He looked at his watch, reading just after 9 A.M. and feeling the time already slipping away. There was a money exchange window nearby and he converted the $50 to pounds, taking some in change, which he to used to feed a pay phone to call the three solicitors he’d researched in flight.
“I’m terribly sorry, sir, Mr. Thompkins does not accept international cases.”
“So sorry, Mr. Reinhart, but international law isn’t my specialty. Frankly, I don’t have a recommendation for you.”
“Mr. Blighstone is out of the country this week.”
Jay opened a London phone book and riffled through the yellow pages for solicitors, writing down the numbers of several other firms before calling them one by one and finding only one firm with any promising experience.
“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.”