“Just like home.”
“Indeed?”
“I’m a former judge. It’s a long story.”
“This becomes even more fascinating by the moment, Mr. Reinhart. Are you of German ancestry, with that name?”
“Way back on my Dad’s side. Texas German.”
“My God, what a combination!”
“Isn’t it.”
“Like Walter Cronkite,” Garrity said.
“I… yes. But my maternal grandmother was from Galway. Look, Mr. Garrity, one other key question. Does the President actually have to be on Irish soil for Peru to perfect their warrant in Ireland?”
“No. All they need do is tell the judge they expect Mr. Harris to show up someday, and they’ll get their warrant.”
“Could you think hard about this, sir? Research it as far as you need to right now, and let me call you in a few hours.”
“Provided you never again in this life call me ‘sir,’ Mr. Reinhart. I’m not a bloody English knight, y’know.”
“Okay. Deal. We’re on the clock as far as fees go, and if you’ll find a solicitor for me who knows this area and hire him for me, I’d deeply appreciate it.”
Garrity chuckled. “You have no idea how much I would love to do just that. Our solicitors always hire us, so that would be a brilliant turnabout, but… I’m also afraid it would strain my ethics. I can make you a recommendation and even put someone on hold for you, but the actual retaining has to be done by you, I’m sorry to say.”
Jay listened to the names of two solicitors adept at international practice and picked the first.
“Ah, a fine choice, that,” Garrity said, as if Jay had chosen a premium wine. “Good man.” Garrity passed the solicitor’s phone number after agreeing to call and alert him to the case.
“Mr. Garrity, will you need a retainer fee immediately?” Jay asked.
“That’s an issue we always leave to our instructing solicitors.”
“Okay. It’s just that I’ll need to transfer funds.”
“Won’t be possible until Thursday, then, because tomorrow’s St. Patrick’s Day. But that’s all right. The solicitors will find a way to separate you from the appropriate amount of money, and I’m at your service in the meantime, I assure you.”
Jay disconnected and left the smaller waiting room, feeling unsettled by the discussion of fees. He walked over to the Secretary’s group, where urgent conversations were flying back and forth.
“Excuse me. What’s going on?” Jay asked.
Secretary Byer turned and took Jay’s arm, walking him toward an empty corner.
“The President’s plane disappeared from radar just off the coast over the English Channel. The pilot apparently indicated he was trying to work out some problem and canceled his flight plan.”
Jay looked at him in total confusion.
“What?”
“The Air Traffic Control people are telling us he was in a sort of tailspin before they lost contact. Rescue forces are on their way to have a look.”
“They think… he crashed?”
“They don’t know, but it was very curious, I’m told,” Byer said, studying Jay’s eyes. “Should we think anything else, Jay?”
“I really don’t know. I talked to them back there on the side of the road, and I was cut off… but I’ve had no contact since then.”
The conversation ran back and forth through his mind, both ends and the middle all at once, yielding the captain’s words of caution: “… but it’s kind of risky.” He felt a cold chill.
“I suspected you were calling the President,” Byer was saying. “You said you’d tell me the details of the call later. This is a pretty good time.”
Jay tried to swallow, his mouth suddenly dry as cotton. “I… ah, told him, Mr. Secretary, that they shouldn’t land in London.”
The statement hung in midair between them as the Secretary stared at him in silence, then nodded. “I understand. Let’s pray things are not as they appear out there.”
“Amen,” Jay said, slowly fighting back from the sudden doubt that they were still airborne. Maybe something had happened, but maybe not. What had Dayton meant? “What are you planning to do, Mr. Secretary?” Jay asked.
“Well, go back to the hotel and wait for word. I see nothing to be gained by staying out here. May I give you a lift back?”
Jay nodded, thinking of his roll-on bag in the Savoy. “I’d appreciate that, but I’d better not leave just yet. I have some urgent phone calls to make back to the States.”
Jay could see the questioning look return to Byer’s face.
“The President’s family,” Jay added.
Byer nodded. “Oh, of course.” He shook Jay’s hand and turned toward the door.
Jay walked over to a refreshment tray and poured himself a cup of coffee, aware that his hand was shaking, and acutely aware that Stuart Campbell and his entourage were working somewhere in the building. He waited until Byer’s car pulled away before walking outside into the night, conscious of the cool temperature, but needing to think. They were still airborne, of course. He refused to consider any alternative. He had to focus on what had to be done.
THIRTY-THREE
When the connection with Jay Reinhart’s GSM phone was lost, Craig Dayton turned to Alastair and studied his face for a few seconds.
“What?” Alastair asked.
“Ready to risk a crash?”
“I beg your pardon?”
Craig took a deep breath. “For God and country, Alastair.”
“I don’t want to bloody well know what you’re talking about, do I?”
“Stand by to turn off the transponder.”
“Talk to me, Craig. I do want to know.”
Craig quickly explained the plan: drop to the surface, stay under radar, and fly north up the English Channel to the North Sea and then to an airport in Scotland. “Probably Inverness.”
“Oh. The old tried and true Grinder maneuver. Very well. I’ll go along… with one proviso,” Alastair said.
“What’s that?”
“We cancel our instrument flight clearance so that any conclusions they make about our fate are their responsibility. Otherwise, our licenses will never survive the ruse.”
“You got it.”
Craig notified everyone in back to buckle up for some unusual maneuvers, then disconnected the autopilot and rolled the 737 into a tight left descending turn as Alastair triggered the transmitter.
“London, EuroAir Ten-Ten, please cancel our IFR flight clearance and our Heathrow arrival slot at this time. We’re descending now in visual conditions to work out a problem.”
The controller’s voice betrayed surprise. “Ah, EuroAir Ten-Ten, roger, IFR cancelled. May we be of assistance, sir?”
The altimeter showed they were halfway between thirteen and fourteen thousand feet over the English Channel, and the Global Positioning Satellite equipment had the small symbol representing their aircraft less than ten miles from shore in the deepening twilight.
Craig hit the transmit button on his yoke, adopting a tense, strained tone of voice.
“Ah… London… Ten-Ten, EuroAir… we’re… we’re going…” He released the transmitter, waiting for the inevitable reply as he tightened his left turn and let the descent rate increase to four thousand feet per minute.
“Say again, please, EuroAir Ten-Ten.”
They had already turned ninety degrees to the original course as he pulled the thrust levers back.
“Don’t answer him, Alastair! And call out my altitude in thousand-foot increments.”
“Roger. Ten thousand, down five thousand feet per minute,” Alastair reported, his voice calm and steady, but the size of his eyes betraying concern.
Craig glanced at him and grinned, then glanced back at an ashen-faced John Harris.
“Hang on.”
“Nine thousand, down six thousand per minute. Don’t increase that descent rate!” Alastair warned.