“Yes, sir.”

“Know why?”

“No, sir. I mean, I think I do, but I didn’t hear what you told him.”

“I told him that Harris’s lawyer insists on running the show, and Harris insists on letting him, so we’ll just wait until Harris gets himself arrested and then we’ll fly over and offer to help pick up the pieces. And if they don’t want our help, so be it. We’ll just monitor the situation. Let Harris twist in the wind awhile.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Meantime, get the others in here. We’ve got some official channels to engage in Ireland.”

“You’re not fond of Harris, are you, sir?”

“Has nothing to do with politics, Andrew. I heard about the allegations Mr. Campbell made in that hearing, that Harris knowingly approved torture and murder. I’m deeply worried there could really be such a tape.”

“And if there is?”

Byer lowered his arms and turned to look at his aide. “If there is, John Harris is in far more trouble than even he knows, and he’s going to drag us into a terrible debacle. The harm he could do to American foreign policy cannot be overstated.”

Mr. Justice Gerald O’Connell had slapped his tiny electronic alarm clock across the room for the offense of waking a High Court judge before he was ready to regain consciousness.

That was thirty minutes before he admitted to himself that the hour of ten o’clock was not a respectable time to be in bed alone, even on a holiday.

The judge rolled to a sitting position and sampled his mood, finding it unusually sour. Sleeping alone was an agony and an ecstasy. With his wife on holiday in the States, he could hog the bed and the covers, but the unavailability of feminine comfort was an irritant. Mrs. Justice O’Connell – Elizabeth by given name – was still lovely and sexy and desirable and, dammit, he wanted her right now. And where was she? Instead of tending to her womanly duties, she was gallivanting halfway around the globe with her loony sister.

I’ll hold her in contempt, I will! he thought, thankful she couldn’t read such thoughts from afar. She didn’t need red hair to be fearsome when angered, and his demands sometimes infuriated her.

“So you want me now, do you, Your Lordship?” she’d screamed at him one morning several months before, pulling her gown off and standing in all her glory before the large bedroom window for the neighbors to see. “Take me, damn you! Right here, right now! Or would you rather do it in your courtroom on the bench?”

He rubbed his eyes and remembered the equally irritating fact that he was the standby judge for this holiday, available to any rotten barrister or incompetent progenitor of Irish law who couldn’t handle the tide of crime and punishment without a bewigged jurist to bless the process.

“Dammit!” he muttered aloud, just to hear the protest echo off the walls.

He almost dared the phone to ring as he boiled a couple of eggs and burned some toast for breakfast in the downstairs kitchen, and ring it did.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Justice O’Connell?”

“Who else do you think would be answering his phone on a holiday?”

“I’m sorry, Judge. I thought you were the standby…”

“Yes, I am, dammit. Who’s this?”

“Patrick Nolan, sir, of the firm of McCullogh, Malone, and Bourke. I’m afraid we have an urgent matter involving a former U.S. President, and we’ve exhausted all possibilities of securing a district judge.”

He snorted. “That figures. They’re all slacking. A U.S. President? Is this a joke?”

“No, My Lord, it isn’t.” Nolan explained the basics of the case as O’Connell sat down at his kitchen table.

“So the application is for issuance of an arrest warrant based on the Interpol warrant, is that correct?”

“Yes, My Lord.”

“So where are the Garda? Such a warrant has to be presented by them, not by a private firm.”

“It will be, My Lord. I’m merely assisting them.”

“Will the application be opposed by Mr. Harris’s counsel?”

“We’re certain it will be, and we’re ready to notify them when you’re ready to receive us, Judge.”

“Why on earth would you think I have jurisdiction of a case like this? It’s just a warrant!”

Carefully and quickly, Patrick Nolan laid out his argument. “Bottom line, My Lord, in the absence of a District Court and the presence of an emergency, you may assert jurisdiction, if you so desire.”

“Well, I may hear it, but get it out of your head that you’re coming to my house today.”

“Begging your pardon, Judge, but there is a distinct danger of flight.”

“From Ireland?”

“Yes.”

O’Connell thought it over for a few seconds. “You say this man is a former President of the United States. I do recognize the name.”

“Yes, Judge.”

“Is there some serious worry that he’s going to go forth and reoffend somewhere?”

“No, Judge, but we might lose jurisdiction over him.”

“What? You said the alleged crimes were committed in Peru, isn’t that correct?”

“Yes, My Lord.”

“Peru, as in South America, llamas, and halfway around the bleeding globe?”

“Yes, My Lord.”

“And, this is still the Republic of Ireland, like it was when I went to bed last night, correct?”

“Ah… yes, My Lord.”

“Then WHY IN BLOODY HELL ARE YOU WORRIED?”

“Well…”

“I mean, has he threatened to torture anyone here, other than me, that is?”

“No, Judge, of course not, but…”

“Tomorrow morning, then, counsel! I’ll hear this case promptly at eleven. No. At ten A.M. You’ll provide notification to Harris’s solicitor?”

“Yes, My Lord.”

“Good. Now leave me alone.”

“Yes, My Lord. Thank you.”

He replaced the receiver and sat in thought as he munched his toast. Anything involving such a high-ranking personage would draw considerable attention. Media coverage, government officials, diplomatic corps, and a thundering herd of interested parties.

I wonder if there’s any substance to this? he mused, suppressing his long-held antipathy for the posturing of the American government on so many issues.

This could be bloody interesting!

The appointment to meet at the solicitor’s office at eleven had been made with an awareness that the entire issue would be moot if John Harris was already on his way to New York. Now, with the hopes of a commercial escape dashed, Jay was determined to keep the appointment on time. If they had to fight, being as prepared as possible was vital.

He and Sherry Lincoln had spent the hours before the appointment trying to charter a smaller transoceanic business jet to carry the President to New York, but the effort had failed. No one could react on such short notice to a new customer. The only alternative, Sherry was told, involved deadheading a long-range Gulfstream in from Chicago at incredible cost, but even then, the earliest wheels-up time out of Dublin would be late Thursday morning.

“I’m out of tricks,” Jay told John Harris at a quarter past ten. “We either get the damn thing quashed here, or fly you out on the 737.”

“The crew’s still willing?” the President asked.

Jay nodded. “I talked to them fifteen minutes ago. They’re rested and can leave whenever we decide to. It’s risky, of course. They might have to turn around if the headwinds are too strong, and there’s always the chance they might have to divert to Iceland or Canada, which then opens up an entirely new series of challenges.”

John Harris was silent for nearly a minute before shaking his head and sighing. “No, Jay, I want to wait right here, I think. I like your man Garrity, and from what he was saying… and the fact that I would really rather attack this head-on than run… perhaps I should simply send those fellows back to Frankfurt. I’ll get plenty of protection here.”