“And no one’s going to come after the President in Ireland?” Alastair asked.
“Not for a few days. Let me speak with the President, please, while you fellows figure out how to do this.”
Alastair handed the phone over his shoulder.
“Yes, Jay?”
“I’ve hired a legal team in Dublin, John. Ireland has ratified the treaty, but tomorrow’s a holiday, so there won’t be any judges around to sign a warrant. Besides, Ireland is a good friend of the U.S., as you know, and they, unlike the British, have no special axe to grind regarding Pinochet, so in my judgment we’re far better off there.”
“I’m in your hands, Jay.”
“I’m doing my best, but I’m more or less having to turn on a dime here as I find out new things.”
“Understood.”
“We’ll get you a hotel room near the Dublin airport so you can rest up. Our barrister thinks it will be the day after tomorrow before Campbell can hope to get the warrant converted. And I’m thinking, John, that we might be able to just buy you a ticket and get you on a direct commercial flight back to New York.”
“I like that idea, Jay. About the hotel… we also need rooms for our two pilots and three flight attendants, plus Sherry, me, and my secret service agent.” There was a long pause. “You really think I could just get on Aer Lingus or someone else and fly home?”
“It’s possible, but if not, maybe we can refuel your bird, extend the charter, and make it to Maine. I haven’t talked to the pilots about that, yet. All I know is I can’t bring you down anywhere in the U.K. now.”
“Hold on,” the President said, cradling the phone as he leaned forward. “Craig? Alastair? Can we do this, and if so, how?”
Craig nodded. “I think we’ll keep going the way we started and just skirt around the northern coastline of Scotland, then turn southwest and contact Dublin Center for a clearance into the airport when we’re fifty miles out. We’ve already caused a massive, unnecessary search. If we try to go back into positive control now, we’re liable to draw the RAF out with orders to force us to land.”
John Harris looked at the copilot, who was nodding assent.
“What time do you expect to arrive?” Jay asked.
Harris leaned forward again. “How long to Dublin?”
“Around two hours and twenty minutes flying like this,” Alastair said, and the President repeated the estimate.
“When you land,” Jay said, “if I’m not there, call a Mr. Michael Garrity. He’s our barrister.” Jay passed the number. “I’ll be there as quickly as I can find a flight.”
“Charter a jet, Jay,” John Harris said.
“If I can’t find a commercial flight, I will,” Jay said, “as long as it has a minimum of two engines and all the instruments money can buy.”
“I take it there’s a story there,” the President said.
“I’m not sure you want to know,” Jay replied. “I’ll call you back when I’ve arranged a flight to Dublin.”
Jay disconnected and dialed the Savoy Hotel, arranging to have his bag put in a taxi and sent immediately to Heathrow and the private terminal.
A quick call to Aer Lingus reservations turned up a departure to Dublin in less than an hour from Heathrow. Relieved, he decided against booking a seat under his name and called the hotel back to redirect his bag to the Aer Lingus ticket counter.
“Just in time, sir,” the concierge said. “I have it in my hand and the driver is waiting.”
“How long, do you suppose?”
“This time of evening, thirty minutes, if we’re lucky.”
One of the ramp attendants from the Metro facility agreed to shuttle him to Terminal 4, and Jay slipped into the car quietly, wanting to avoid the possibility of being seen by Stuart Campbell or his people.
“Aer Lingus terminal, please.”
The driver nodded and accelerated away, obscuring Jay’s view of a man in a dark business suit who had been watching from a dark corner of the entryway. As the car carrying Jay disappeared, the man quickly returned to the lobby.
The fact that the taxi carrying his bag actually arrived when and where it was supposed to at the curb of Terminal 4 surprised Jay. He thanked and paid the driver before racing through security and an interminable series of concourses to board the Dublin flight with ten minutes to spare. The possibility that Campbell already knew his plan flitted across his mind, but it made little difference. Thanks to the holiday, he knew they’d be okay in Dublin until Thursday regardless of when Campbell showed up, as he ultimately would.
The lights of Heathrow were falling away from the climbing jetliner before he realized that for the second time in his life, a takeoff sequence in a commercial jet had failed to scare him. Jay pulled one of the legal pads out of his briefcase and placed it on his lap, his pen at the ready, before remembering that he hadn’t obtained hotel rooms for the crew. Nor had he remembered to alert the Irish customs and immigration officials.
He’d already noticed the lack of in-flight phones on the 737, and he knew the flight crews tried to prohibit the use of cellular phones on the unproven assumption that they could interfere with the aircraft’s navigation system – an absurd premise, according to a knowledgeable friend in telecommunications. But in this case he had no choice.
The calls had to be made.
The flight was half full, and he waited until the flight attendants had wheeled their service cart past him before arranging a blanket against the sidewall of his window seat to hide the GSM phone he was leaning against after punching in Michael Garrity’s number once more. There was a form of digital static before Garrity answered.
“I hate to bother you again, Mr. Garrity,” Jay said.
“For heaven’s sake, man, call me Michael!” Garrity replied. “The only person in the world who calls me ‘Mister Garrity’ is my wife, and then only when she’s angry with me.”
“I’m sorry, Michael.”
“So am I,” Garrity said, chuckling. “Seems to happen a lot lately.”
“Look, I need to impose on you to get hotel rooms for the folks on that plane, not just the President, and alert customs and immigration.” He passed the basic information.
“I’ll take care of it, Jay, provided your credit card lasts,” Garrity said cheerfully.
“Okay. I’ll be on the ground in an hour.”
“I’ll be there,” Michael Garrity said.
Stuart Campbell had changed his location, appropriating a small conference room as their makeshift command post, and Henri Renoux sat down in one of the swivel chairs, watching him carefully. Background music from recessed ceiling speakers – a Vivaldi concerto – accompanied the elegant decor, and Henri realized the lights had been turned down to half strength, giving the well-appointed room a rich and palatial feel.
Campbell’s elbow was placed firmly on the arm of his chair, the bulk of his body balancing easily against the leather of the seat back, his hand supporting his chin and his eyes focused on the wall before him.
“Stuart?” Henri asked tentatively.
“Yes?” Campbell said slowly without turning.
“I think you were right. An intermittent radar target was tracked by London Center for about forty miles heading to the northeast, but then it disappeared in a poor radar coverage area.”
“Very well,” Stuart said passively, his mind deeply occupied with other thoughts. “Anything more?”
“Yes,” Henri responded, drumming his fingers silently on the table. “I think we know where they’re heading.”
“Dublin, I should think,” Stuart said, turning suddenly to look at his associate. “I am right?”