He forced himself to keep a running conversation going with each of the three staff members who’d been waiting for him. With so much to do, their full attention would be vital through the night, and their loyalty would have to be rapidly earned.
Only his firm’s Dublin partner had ever met Stuart Campbell before, and Stuart was acutely aware of the halo over his own head, an aura of respect and assumed infallibility that made it difficult for subordinates to speak up and point out mistakes. He was used to building effective teams, though seldom under such time pressure. Establishing friendly, personal bonds with employees and adversaries alike was a practiced technique – one of the many superior habits that had made him consistently successful in negotiations.
Especially with his adversaries.
A familiar building passed the limo’s windows and Stuart diverted his attention outside for a few moments as he aligned his memory with a map of Dublin.
The advice of a long-dead mentor – one of the best-known barristers in England through the postwar years – rang through his mind again in a voice he periodically heard in his head, and missed in life.
“Stuart,” Sir Henry Delacorte had told him in the infancy of Stuart’s practice, “it’s hard to say no to a man you really like. Build a bridge to those you deal with, make them like you, and they’ll come to you on every discretionary issue in spite of themselves. But never make the mistake of crossing that bridge yourself!”
William Stuart Campbell, the senior lawyer, was unequaled in the art of calculated manipulation, knowing how to gain and use the advantage of an opponent’s trust while never letting himself be swayed by such affinities.
But William Stuart Campbell, the man, had always been in minor turmoil over the technique, and that was good, he thought – especially for a man who genuinely liked people. The quiet, internal discomfort never stayed him from the task of influencing someone to do his bidding, but his inner reservations provided a small saving grace – a continuously renewable personal penance for the cynical use of his fellow man. Maintaining that small level of discomfort with his own methods had become a lifeline tied to the anchor of his humanity.
“Are we ready to dive into this thing?” Campbell asked, when he and the three men and two women on his team had reached the opulent old hotel and pulled up chairs around the conference table in the Presidential Suite, informally known as the Princess Grace Room.
There were bobbing heads all around.
“Very well. First, where do we find a district judge?”
“Probably not possible tonight or tomorrow,” one of the women answered, explaining the traditional holiday disappearance of most jurists. “But we’ll also have to involve the Garda. In fact, they’ll have to formally present the Interpol warrant in court or to whatever judge we can find.”
“Do we have a list of all the judges?” Stuart asked. “With addresses and telephones and the like?”
“Yes,” she answered.
“Then let’s start working those telephones and see if someone stayed behind.”
“If,” the woman replied, “we could find one, I think he might be persuaded to sign the warrant at home so we can get on with the arrest, but I can’t guarantee it.”
“We don’t have much time,” Stuart said, leaning back with his hands behind his head and looking at each of them in turn. “Let’s remember at all times that the basic mission here is to arrest President Harris and start the legal process against him. That’s what our client expects, and what he is paying dearly to have happen.”
Patrick Nolan, the firm’s partner in Dublin, was nodding. “When you put us on standby, Stuart, I didn’t expect this affair would end up here.”
“Nor did I,” Stuart replied. “I did think it possible that Harris might find a way to wiggle out of the net in Athens, but I did not expect him to get away from Italy.”
“But, weren’t you going to snatch him away right there in Rome?” Nolan asked.
“You mean put him on that jet we chartered to Lisbon?” Stuart replied.
Nolan nodded, watching the senior partner smile and shake his head no.
“That was never a serious possibility, that jet. It was window dressing for President Miraflores. The Italians weren’t about to let me do it, and I wasn’t about to let it happen, either. Too many damaging consequences in terms of my friendships in official Italy. But then an unexpected opportunity presented itself to more or less herd Harris to London, and I am rather surprised that it didn’t work.”
“Why didn’t it?” Nolan asked.
“Because John Harris is a very intelligent man, Paddy. He’s somehow gathered a cadre of dedicated people around him,” he laughed and shook his head, “including a planeload of geriatric American war veterans who were going to fight me personally if necessary, probably hand-to-hand. Their devotion to Harris was quite impressive.”
There were puzzled expressions around the room, and Stuart waved them away. “When this job is all done and we’re all up in the hills closing down Johnnie Fox’s pub one evening, I’ll tell you the story.” He sat forward and put his large hands on the table. “Okay. Down to business, and I need the clear thinking of each and every one of you. There’s no rank in this room, understood? We’re a team, and we need to think like a team, because John Harris will be on the ground here momentarily and the clock is ticking. You can say anything to me without fear of breaching protocol.” He paused and smiled for effect. “Well, almost anything!”
Stuart could see them visibly relax as they laughed.
“Now, Harris has every reason to simply refuel here in Dublin and get back in the air, but he doesn’t have the range on that jet to make it to the States in one jump. That means if they try to fly on, he’s got to stop for fuel in either Iceland or Canada, and we’ve got people in both locales ready to move. Of course, I’d rather not test the Canadians’ resolve, considering they’ve got to sleep with the thirty-thousand-pound gorilla to the south, and the gorilla wants John Harris home free.”
“Sir William,” one of the women said.
“Stuart,” he corrected.
“Yes, sir… ah, Stuart. I was going to say, there’s no way we’re going to get a warrant issued in time if they just refuel and go on.”
“I understand, Orla. But his pilots are tired, and I don’t think they’re going to want to take him anywhere until they’ve had some rest. And, Mr. Reinhart will hire a local solicitor who will tell him the same thing you’ve just told me regarding the impossibility of finding a district judge quickly. Harris will calculate quite correctly that we’re incapable of clapping the cuffs on him until sometime tomorrow, and therefore he has a few hours of grace. So here’s the challenge: how many ways can John Harris leave Ireland other than on that jet, and how do we prevent it without doing something illegal?”
Patrick Nolan looked at the others and pulled a legal pad closer to him to consult his notes before meeting Stuart’s gaze. “Well, I’m fairly certain he can’t escape by rail.”
There was more laughter around the table as Patrick continued. “We know they’ve made reservations at a hotel, which means, Stuart, that you’re right about their wanting rest. But our big worry is the commercial airlines.”
Stuart nodded knowingly. “I thought of that. He could simply nick a ticket on Aer Lingus and fly to New York direct.”
“As early as seven in the morning,” one of the men agreed. “But, no one has booked a reservation for him on any airline with direct service to the States, at least as of two hours ago. That doesn’t mean they won’t try.”
“I know the chairman of Aer Lingus personally,” Stuart replied. “Perhaps a call from me concerning the legal and political liability they could be playing with if they provided passage for Harris would be worthwhile. But I’ll need the phone numbers quickly.”