“Are you aware of some plot to, as you say, whisk President Harris away?”
“I’m telling you what they may try. I could be wrong, but I wouldn’t count on it.”
“That would be a form of kidnapping, not extradition. Italy would never permit that, and Peru could be held accountable!”
“You want to go argue that with Presidente Miraflores while President Harris is rotting in a Lima prison cell? I’d rather keep him out of their hands.”
“Well, of course, so would we. Excuse me a second…”
Jay could hear the sound of voices in the background as McLaughlin conferred with someone. He heard the sound of paper being sorted or pages being turned, and a barely disguised grunt of amazement. When the Assistant Attorney General returned to the line, his voice had taken on a coldness Jay recognized immediately.
“Mr. Reinhart, you say you’re from Texas?”
“That’s right. And yes, I was, at one time, District Judge Jay Reinhart of Dallas County, and I’ll make this easy for you. The suspension was up last month. Now, for God’s sake, let’s talk about substance and what we’re going to do while I’ve still got an open line to the aircraft, because there’s one major thing you don’t know.”
“And that would be?”
“He’s not going to land in Rome, and we’re going to have as much of a diplomatic fight ahead of us as a legal one.”
“If not Rome, where, in fact, is he going to land? And how do you know?” McLaughlin asked, his tone sarcastic and exasperated.
“I can’t tell you until he’s safely on the ground. Attorney client privilege.”
“I see.”
“And, I’m talking to you on a nonsecure analog cell phone anyone could listen to.”
“Oh,” McLaughlin replied. “Well, at least that makes sense.”
“I’m guessing he will land in about forty-five minutes. In the meantime, I need you to be ready to tell me exactly what, if anything, the U.S. military can do for President Harris. I’ll call you back.”
When Alex McLaughlin had agreed and disconnected, Jay folded the cell phone and sat down on his only kitchen stool, his hands shaking and his mouth cotton-dry.
God Almighty! I just beat up an Assistant Attorney General of the United States!
He sat for a few seconds, trying to think through the next moves, and the people he would need to talk with, if not command: the State Department, the White House, perhaps the Chief of Staff and the sitting President, the government of Italy, maybe officials of other nations as well, not to mention the entire infrastructure of the international and European legal community.
And here he sat in the middle of “friggin’ ” Wyoming, as McLaughlin had said, with a single line, a cell phone, and no staff.
Jay realized his stomach felt queasy. McLaughlin was right. There’s no way I can pull this off!
He picked up the receiver to the house phone, wondering if the connection to the 737 was still good. “Ah, Ms. Lincoln? Are you still there?”
“This is John Harris, Jay. Where are we?”
“John, I’m sorry. I’m ethically bound to step aside. I can’t do this.”
TEN
“EuroAir Forty-Two, your requested clearance is denied. Your destination must be Rome, sir.”
Craig Dayton turned to Alastair Chadwick with his eyebrows raised.
“What the heck does that mean?”
Alastair was shaking his head. “I’ve never been refused a clearance before and told where to land. At least not in civilian flying.”
Craig toggled the transmitter. “Rome Approach, do you understand that we are not asking, we’re telling you we want a clearance to Naples?”
“Disapproved, Forty-Two. Those are my instructions. You will be cleared from holding to the approach at Da Vinci Airport as soon as you request it.”
“And if we request clearance direct to Malta instead?”
“Ah… stand by, Forty-Two.”
There was a brief pause before another voice – clearly a supervisor – came on the channel. “Forty-Two, the Italian Air Force central command is instructing you to land immediately at Da Vinci Airport. Are you ready for your approach?”
“Check our squawk, Rome!” Craig snapped. “Then see if you want to tell me what to do.” He reached over the center console to the transponder control head and changed the numbers to 7500, the international code for hijacking.
“The alarms will be going off down there now for certain,” Alastair said. “We haven’t just crossed the Rubicon, we’ve burned the bridge behind us.”
He could see Craig gritting his teeth in anger and shaking his head. “I can’t believe their arrogance!”
The first controller’s voice returned to their headsets, far more cautious than before.
“EuroAir Forty-Two, we have received your seventy-five hundred squawk. What is your request?”
“Direct Malta,” Craig said, releasing the transmitter button and turning to Alastair. “That’ll take us right over the top of Catania and Sigonella.”
Alastair nodded as the controller replied.
“Roger, Forty-Two. You are cleared present position direct Malta. Climb and maintain flight level two eight zero.”
“Departing holding and departing one zero thousand for flight level two eight zero,” Craig replied. “Initial GPS heading is two one four degrees.”
The apparent frenzy of activity at the arrival gate just ahead had caught Stuart Campbell’s attention as he approached the departure lounge. An overabundance of grim-faced police officers were milling around and talking urgently into their two-way radios, occasionally glancing out at the empty spot on the ramp which should have held the Boeing 737 designated as EuroAir’s Flight 42.
Campbell found the airport manager in a huddle with two members of the Carabinieri.
“Gentlemen? Is something happening I’m not aware of?”
“They were in a holding pattern,” the airport manager began, “but now they are refusing to land.”
“What, precisely, do you mean, ‘refusing to land’?” Campbell asked.
One of the officers lowered his radio and spoke a few words directly into the manager’s ear.
“What?” the manager replied, his eyes wide.
“Si,” the officer responded.
“What is it?” Campbell asked.
The manager was shaking his head. “Now the captain is requesting to fly to Malta.”
“You’ve got to be joking,” Campbell said with a disbelieving smile. “That’s not going to solve his problem!”
Stuart Campbell pulled out his GSM phone and punched in a number as he walked slowly toward the floor-to-ceiling window of the terminal lounge. Outside, at the adjacent gate, he could see the captain and first officer sitting in the cockpit of the Boeing 727 he’d chartered to fly John Harris to Portugal. He saw the captain suddenly reach for his ringing cell phone.
“Yes?”
“Captain Perez? Stuart Campbell, here. Have you been monitoring the frequency?”
“Yes, sir. Forty-Two is in holding and asking for a clearance to Malta. What do you want us to do?”
“Get airborne and, wherever he decides to go, you file for the same location. Understood?”
“Yes, sir. Will you be coming with us, Mr. Campbell?” the captain asked.
“Let me think about that. Stand by.”
Stuart Campbell mentally reviewed the options. The Italian warrant based on the Interpol warrant would be good anywhere in Italy and could be faxed to the Maltese authorities. But what if EuroAir’s captain decided once again to head somewhere else, such as Morocco or Spain? He’d have to scramble to get to wherever they went, and coordinating the capture would be even more difficult if he was sitting in the cabin of an airplane.