Henri was nodding and smiling. “How’d you know?”
“It’s what I would do, Henri. Who better to run to if you’re a beleaguered U.S. President than the country that loves Americans best? I would think less of our good Mr. Reinhart if he’d headed anywhere else.”
“He took a flight to Dublin. That’s how we knew.”
“I suspected that would be the case, and we’ll follow in the Lear in the next fifteen minutes,” Stuart said, resuming his contemplative posture, his eyes once again staring at a spot on the off-white wall. “Do you know what our esteemed Prime Minister wants to do, Henri?”
“No, sir.”
“You’re aware I talked with him at length a while ago?”
“I knew he was calling.”
Stuart shook his head slightly, almost imperceptibly. “I thought I knew his mind. I knew he was disgusted with Tony Blair’s tepid, timid prosecution of the Pinochet debacle. That’s why I alerted him from Sicily, to push him a bit, incite him a bit. I knew he’d help smooth the way in pursuit of John Harris.”
“I know.”
“But I had no idea how virulent he is on this subject. He really wants to ship Harris to Lima, Henri. Can you fancy that?”
“You mean, while the courts…”
“No, no. Nothing illegal. He can’t rip it away from the judicial process, of course, but he had the Home Secretary and the Secretary of State, the police… everyone he could control or influence ready to push the timetable for extradition to its absolute minimum.”
“A moot point now, of course,” Henri offered. “But you’re surprised, Stuart?”
Campbell leaned back to look at Henri. “In fact, I’m stunned. I honestly did not expect that.”
“We came very close, then?” Henri asked.
“To what?” Stuart asked, almost absently.
“To succeeding. For our clients.”
“Oh. Miraflores the bloodthirsty,” Stuart said with a snort, turning back to the wall and leaning back even more. “Yes, I suppose we did. We also put John Harris on a fast track to Lima.”
“And this worries you?”
There was silence for a few seconds before Stuart Campbell sighed and nodded.
“Profoundly.”
THIRTY-FIVE
Michael Garrity waited just outside the customs area holding a small sign with “REINHART” in bold letters. Shorter than Jay had anticipated, he wore a full head of silver hair like a Roman emperor, swept forward and partly cropped, his face deeply lined, and a huge mouth that bisected his entire face and turned up at each end in a perpetual smile.
They shook hands and Garrity pointed to the front drive, where a van was waiting to take them to the flight line.
“It’s good to meet you,” he said in a deep rumble of a voice.
“Are they here yet?” Jay asked.
Garrity pushed open the terminal door and moved toward a passenger van parked by the curb, its flanks carrying the name and logo of Parc Aviation. “No, and as of ten minutes ago, I’d say Dublin Air Traffic Control had just about labeled me a crank for calling three times. They had yet to hear from a EuroAir Ten-Ten.”
Jay looked alarmed.
“I wouldn’t worry,” Garrity said quickly, climbing into the van.
The driver introduced himself and pointed toward a distant exit. “I’ll take you out to the ramp to wait for them.”
“Your company handles the private jets here?” Jay asked.
“Yes, if they’re not too big. We had to get permission to handle your flight, though, since it’s a 737.”
Jay pulled out his GSM phone and punched a series of numbers into the keypad.
He let the line ring until a woman’s voice gently intoned the obvious fact that the party wasn’t answering. He punched it off and sighed as Michael spoke.
“By the way, Jay, I rousted one of my secretaries out of bed and she’s found the hotel rooms, transportation, and a slightly irritated Immigration inspector who’ll meet the airplane.”
“Just Immigration?”
“They won’t need customs since your people are arriving from another European Union country.”
“Oh. Of course. I forgot about that, and I was so busy trying to get on my flight, I forgot to ask.”
They passed through several security gates wrapped in their own thoughts before Michael Garrity broke the silence. “You told me on the phone that you had an Irish grandmother, Jay. And you’ve never been to Ireland?”
“No, I’m sorry to say.”
“Well, we’ve got a bit of work to do tomorrow to get ready for this thing, and your adversary Stuart Campbell will bear close watching, but you must let me show you our fair city at some point.”
Jay smiled and shook his head. “I… doubt we’ll have time for that, Michael.”
“Oh, at least a few of the sights the tourists would normally see. You’ve heard of Molly Malone?”
“Who?”
He sang a few bars of the song, and Jay raised his hand with a laugh. “Oh, yeah. The pretty female fishmonger who died of a fever… or ‘favor,’ as we were taught the song in the States.”
“ ‘Favor’ ’tis a bastardized Irish pronunciation of fever,” Michael laughed.
“I figured.”
“We’ve a lovely statue of her in the town center. We call her ‘The Dish with the Fish.’ ”
“The Dish…”
“Also known as the ‘Tart with the Cart.’ The statue’s not too far from the Four Courts, our rather historic courthouse, where I toil away on most days, and where this matter will be fought.”
The van pulled onto the flight line and the driver moved to the edge of a taxiway to wait. Garrity pulled out his cell phone and dialed Dublin Air Traffic Control once again.
“Yes, it’s me, the pest. Has he now? Excellent. What time would that be?” Garrity nodded. “Fifteen minutes? Thank you.” He replaced the receiver and turned to Jay. “You heard, then?”
Jay smiled and exhaled. “Yeah. Fifteen minutes. That’s a relief.”
“Where did you gentlemen come in from?” the driver asked.
“London,” Jay replied absently, his mind already focused on the next step.
“Oh. You’re the second group. If you’re looking for the others, by the way, they just left.”
Jay looked at him more in irritation than curiosity. “What?”
“The Lear Thirty-five. It came in from London about thirty minutes ago and they mentioned they were expecting some others. I just thought… you know, you were part of the same group.”
“No,” Jay said, shaking his head. “I came in by commercial. From London, you say?”
“Yes, sir. The big fellow and the pilots left a few minutes ago with the people who came to meet them, and I thought they might have just left you behind or something. Sorry.”
A ripple of apprehension shot through Jay’s middle and caused him to shudder internally.
“Big fellow? Do you have his name?”
The clerk pawed through his shirt pocket for a business card. “I didn’t get the man’s name, but here’s the pilot’s information, if that helps. Jean-Paul somebody.”
He smiled and handed over the card. “I’ll need that back, you know. For our front counter.”
Jay looked at the card, his shoulders slumping.
“What is it, Jay?” Michael Garrity asked.
“How in hell…” Jay mumbled to himself.
“What?” Michael asked, moving to his side and trying to make out the name on the card.
“William Stuart Campbell,” Jay said. “He’s already here. The man’s either clairvoyant, or he’s a one-man CIA.”
Stuart Campbell felt the weight of his fatigue as the limo sped through the night from the Dublin Airport to his hotel in the heart of the city, but there was too much to be done to succumb to it, and, as leader, he had to set the pace – and the example – for the entire team.