He followed a shapely secretary into an inner office, her image sparking memories of how sexy Linda always looked when she walked.
Jay shook his head to expunge the thought, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand.
“Geoffrey Wallace told me you were coming,” the deputy minister who handled treaty affairs told Jay when he’d introduced himself and sat down. “But I’m afraid I can’t help you directly. We are aware of the Pinochet matter, of course, but I am personally not connected with the Secretary of State’s Office, the Law Lords, or any official position regarding the hypothetical question you’re raising.”
“Who is?”
“May I offer you some tea or coffee, by the way?”
“That’s okay, I’m fine,” Jay lied, suppressing a growing desperation for coffee. “If not yourself, who would be able to help me?”
The deputy minister smiled, cocking his head as he folded his hands over his not inconsiderable belly and leaned back in his chair. “I suppose I could send you scurrying all over the government asking the same question, Mr. Reinhart…”
Jay leaned forward, supporting himself on the edge of the man’s desk.
“Look, this problem is about to fly into your airspace, and it will be a very large political problem with major foreign policy and legal and treaty ramifications, and it will run the risk of deeply affecting U.S.-British relations. I need your help in finding the person or persons who can tell me, point blank, what the British Government will do when presented with this warrant.”
The man nodded slowly. “Well, Mr. Reinhart, you just effectively and eloquently enunciated most of the reasons why your questions are so far above my level as to be effectively unanswerable.” He hauled himself up and walked around the desk with his hand outstretched. “Sorry I can’t help you, old man. I always admired President Harris, by the way. The gentleman has true style.”
“Who, then? Whom do I see?”
The man sighed. “Very well. Let me write down four names. You will most likely be wasting your time, of course.”
“I’ll take that chance.”
The deputy minister pulled a pad of paper across the desk and uncapped a Montblanc pen, inscribing the names and office locations, then tore it off and handed it over.
Jay thanked him and left, going in succession to the first three offices and finding the same distant and indeterminate response from each.
Back in another corridor he looked at the fourth name and decided he’d had enough. He ducked into an office at random and asked to see the government phone directory, copying down a particular number before begging the use of a phone.
What he was contemplating probably would be a complete waste of time. Pure desperation. Maybe even a small act of defiance.
But he was determined to try.
Jay dialed the number and waited.
“Office of the Prime Minister,” a cultured female voice said.
“Please listen carefully,” Jay began. “I’m Jay Reinhart, attorney for Mr. John Harris, former President of the United States of America. I have a matter of urgent national security affecting both the United States and Great Britain, and I need to personally come over and discuss this with the Prime Minister or one of his immediate deputies as soon as possible.”
There would be a long pause or a dial tone on the other end, he figured, but the woman answered him cheerfully. “We’ve been expecting your call, Mr. Reinhart.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Won’t you please hold?”
Jay stood in abject confusion holding the phone. Within a minute an aide to the Deputy Prime Minister came on the line and confirmed an immediate appointment.
“I was told you were expecting me,” Jay asked, thoroughly confused. “Might I ask, how, and by whom?”
“I’d rather discuss that in person when you get here, Mr. Reinhart. I don’t particularly trust open telephone lines.”
“Ah, certainly. I understand. How do I find you?” Jay asked after passing his location.
“A car will be out in front of the building to collect you, Mr. Reinhart, in five minutes. The driver’s name is Alfred. He’s in a black Daim-ler.”
“Thank you very much,” Jay replied, hanging up and taking a deep breath, his mind spinning with unanswered questions.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Stuart Campbell knelt in the aisle just behind the two pilot seats of his Lear 35, a scowl on his face as he looked at the red splotches covering the radar scope on the forward panel. “I don’t have time for this, Jean-Paul!” he said to the captain.
“I’m sorry, Sir William,” the pilot replied, “but a storm cell is moving directly toward the Luton airport and an approach simply isn’t wise. Stansted is also in a rainstorm, but we can hold for Luton and wait until the storm passes, if you like.”
“I don’t have time!” Campbell snapped again. “I need to be in the Covent Garden area almost immediately. At the speed that storm’s moving, we’ll be on the ramp and in our cars before it gets close.”
“You forget the gust front that precedes a thunderstorm. Such gust fronts can hide windshear.”
“Well, blast it, let’s divert to Heathrow then.”
“We don’t have a slot for going into Heathrow.”
“So we’re stuck with waiting for Luton?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Jean-Paul, for heaven’s sake, we’re five miles from the runway! At least be so good as to try an approach, will you?”
“Take the airplane, Gina,” Jean-Paul Charat said quietly in French to his wife in the copilot’s seat.
“Oui,” she replied. “Remain in holding?”
“Oui.”
Jean-Paul slid his seat back and snapped off his seat belt as he looked around at his employer. “Sir William, may I speak to you in the cabin?”
“Why? You can say anything you’d like right here,” Stuart Campbell grumbled, backing up when he realized the captain wasn’t taking no for an answer. Jean-Paul swung his body out of the command seat, and Campbell retreated to the cabin ahead of him and sat down, aware that his pilot was angry.
“Permit me to apologize, Jean-Paul,” Campbell began, but the pilot was shaking his head and his jaw was set as he settled onto the compact couch opposite Campbell’s seat and faced him, his hands clasped in front of him.
“This is a very serious occurrence, Sir William. When you employed Gina and me, you made us a solemn promise that you would never attempt to put pressure on us to override our better judgment as pilots, and that is exactly what you have just attempted to do.”
“I said I’m sorry, old boy. It shan’t happen again.”
“I will require a blood oath from you, Sir William, or as soon as we park this aircraft, we will leave your employ.”
Stuart Campbell shook his head and held his hand up. “I humbly apologize, Jean-Paul! You are correct. I made you that very promise, and I let my own scheduling anxieties get the best of me.”
“I must have your renewed promise,” the pilot said, his eyes boring into Stuart Campbell’s.
“You have it,” Campbell replied, extending his hand. “You have my word this will not happen again.” He started to get out of the seat. “I’ll go up and apologize to Gina as well.”
Jean-Paul stopped him from standing as he shook Campbell’s hand with formality. “No. I shall reassure Gina. But you do have a choice to make, Sir William. We have another hour and ten minutes of holding fuel, and if the storm clears the airport we might be able to land then, or we can proceed immediately to Gatwick and have a car or a helicopter waiting for you.”