Notes were scribbled around the table as Nolan raised a finger. “There’s one more airline with direct Stateside service, Stuart.”
“You mean Delta?”
Patrick nodded.
“They have an Irish manager, do they not?”
Glances were exchanged around the table before Patrick looked back. “I… would guess so.”
“And they need the government’s sanction to fly airplanes in Ireland. Certificates and licenses. If the government were white-hot angry with them for something, it could make their lives fairly difficult, I would think.”
One of the men had already left the table and was pulling out his cell phone as Campbell gestured to him to wait. “Bill, we’ll need the manager’s name, home number, and any personal information you can gather.”
“What can you say to him?” Nolan asked.
Stuart Campbell grinned. “Nothing, Paddy, since you’re going to call him for me.”
“Very well, Stuart, but why me, if I may ask?”
“Well, you’re Irish, the man we want to persuade is Irish, and I’m a bleeding British knight. Who’s got the better chance?”
Patrick nodded. “Understood.”
THIRTY-SIX
“Outer marker, altitude checks, no flags,” Alastair reported as Craig Dayton clicked off the Boeing 737’s autopilot and eased the yoke forward to capture the instrument landing system glide path in a steady descent.
“Intercepting glide slope. Flaps twenty-five, landing gear down, Before Landing Checklist,” Craig ordered.
“Roger,” Alastair echoed. “Flaps coming to twenty-five, and… landing gear down.” He positioned the landing gear lever to the down position and pulled the laminated checklist into his lap to read through the items, verifying Craig’s response to each one.
“Flaps to go, Craig.”
“Roger. Field in sight, flaps thirty,” Craig reported as the approach lights loomed large four miles ahead of the aircraft.
“Flaps are coming to thirty. Flaps are thirty. Gear and flaps rechecked down, and we’re cleared to land. You’re on speed, marker plus five, ground speed one hundred twenty-four knots.”
The jetliner crossed the threshold of Runway 10 fifty feet above the boundary as Craig flared, stopping the descent with the tires a few inches above the surface before letting the bird gently settle to the concrete with a squeal and a stream of rubber smoke unseen in the darkness.
Craig’s hand shot forward to gather the speed brake handle and try to pull it back before the automatic deployment system did the job, a race he never won, but which provided a human backup to the system.
He grabbed the thrust reverse levers, redirecting the air moving through the jet engines and slowing the big Boeing.
“EuroAir Ten-Ten, exit at Taxiway Bravo, contact ground,” the tower controller said.
“Ten-Ten, roger, and sir, would you please check to make sure Dublin Center relayed to London Center that we’re okay?”
“They already know, Ten-Ten. There’s rather considerable commotion about you tonight.”
“The subtext,” Alastair said as his hands ran through the after-landing sequence, “is: ‘You blokes have a whale of a lot of explaining to do.’ ”
“I’m sure that’s true,” Craig said, completing the runway turnoff while Alastair switched to the ground control frequency and checked in, turning to Craig after releasing the transit button.
“Our esteemed chief pilot will just love our latest trick,” Alastair added.
“Maybe he didn’t hear about it,” Craig said, smiling, his eyes on the taxiway.
“And maybe tomorrow the sun will rise in the west, Captain, sir. This will be the final straw, I have no doubt.”
“Ten-Ten, Dublin Ground. Taxi to the Island, hard stand eighty-three, please. That’s off Taxiway Papa.”
“Why on earth do they call a simple parking spot with a refueling hydrant a ‘hard stand?’ ” Alastair mumbled to himself.
Craig guided the Boeing to a stop and set the parking brake. He could see a set of portable stairs approaching the left front as they ran the shutdown checklist and Jillian unlocked the cockpit door.
“May I open the front door, Craig?”
“If it’s okay with Matt Ward and Sherry,” Craig said.
“It is.”
“Then let’s get the heck out of here.”
Sherry Lincoln stepped into the Irish night at the top of the airstairs and breathed deeply, loving the cool, damp air, and eagerly anticipating the feel of a real bed for the first time in forty-eight hours.
Matt Ward emerged right behind her.
“Beautiful night, huh?” he said.
“Yes. And no sign of police, soldiers, or anything particularly threatening.”
“Not yet, at least,” Matt added, pointing to four men who were walking around the nose of the Boeing toward the foot of the airstairs. Matt bounded down the stairs and stopped the group. Sherry heard the name “Jay” spoken as Craig Dayton and President Harris emerged, with Jillian, Ursula, and Elle behind them.
Sherry descended the stairs with her eyes on the two men in the front now in conversation with the Secret Service agent, wondering which one owned the steady, metered voice that had been so reassuring during the ordeal.
The first of the two men was fairly short and somewhat rotund with a huge smile under a shock of silver hair, the second athletic and just under six feet in height with a full head of black hair and a well-sculpted face set with large, dark eyes.
Sherry felt a tiny shudder of inner relief when the second one stepped forward with his hand outstretched.
“Miss Lincoln, I presume?”
“Mr. Reinhart?”
“Or should I say ‘Ms.’?”
She smiled. “ ‘Miss’ is accurate, ‘Ms.’ is better, and ‘Sherry’ is preferred.”
“It’s great to meet you at last, and get you here safely,” Jay said, taking her hand gently and looking beyond her as John Harris reached the bottom of the airstairs and hurried over.
“Jay!”
Jay smiled as he squeezed Sherry’s hand and released it to greet Harris. “You’re even more trouble than you were as my senior partner, Mr. President.”
“At the White House they teach you how to be a burden to everyone simultaneously,” the President said, turning to introduce Craig Dayton and Alastair Chadwick.
Jay in turn introduced Michael Garrity before gesturing toward the other two men who had hovered in the background.
“These gentlemen are from Irish Immigration.”
One of the officers smiled and pointed to the group. “So, which one of you fine people happens to be a former President of the United States?”
When the formalities and paperwork had been completed, John Harris caught Jay’s attention and pointed to another parked aircraft. “I see Campbell’s here.”
“You… recognize the airplane?” Jay asked.
Harris nodded with a frown. “From Sigonella. Yes. It was parked in the distance, but the colors are very distinctive.”
“He got here almost an hour ago,” Jay said. “I’m completely perplexed how he found out you were coming to Dublin, let alone how he knew you hadn’t gone down.”
The President began walking the group toward the terminal. “Never underestimate Stuart Campbell, Jay. As trite as that sounds, it’s a survival manual in a phrase.”
“I believe it,” Jay replied. “And I imagine he’s hard at work with his people right now trying to find a judge. Michael will fill you in on the realities of that process on the way to the hotel, but the bottom line is, I think we’re reasonably secure until morning. In fact, they might be incapable of perfecting their warrant before Thursday morning, since tomorrow’s St. Patrick’s Day. But, John, if we can get you out of here in the morning on a commercial airline, we need to do it. Urgently.”