Alastair Chadwick had been gathering weather reports and studying the flight plan for nearly a half hour when Craig swung into the flight planning room of the aeronautical information services office in the lower level of the main terminal.

“Okay, Magellan, what’s the word?”

Alastair peered at Craig over his reading glasses. “Smashing, I should think.”

“Not… the best of words to use in aviation, old friend,” Craig replied, scanning the weather depiction on the computer terminal.

Alastair pointed to the papers. “Basically, Craig, we’ve got two weather systems moving around that we need to be aware of, and a rapidly changing jet stream.” He used his index finger to trace the serpentine wave of the jet stream, the high speed river of stratospheric air depicted as flowing from eastern Canada across the Atlantic in a great arc. Along the expanse of Canada’s Hudson’s Bay it roared to the northeast, but south of Greenland it flowed south, and at a right angle across their westbound route to Maine.

“How fast?” Craig asked.

“The core is moving about eighty to ninety knots, but it pretty much stays out of the way, unless that upper curve around Greenland starts to come south and, well, flatten. Then we could be facing it on the nose, and we couldn’t make it to Maine with safe fuel reserves if that happens.”

“And the forecast?”

“They don’t expect that much movement, but it’s not impossible in three hours for it to become a problem. We’ll have to keep close tabs on it.”

“Okay. By the way, I know I’ve hogged the last two legs, but would you mind if I flew this one, too?”

“Of course not.” Alastair grinned. “The fact that I’m rapidly forgetting how to fly because my captain won’t let me handle the aircraft is wholly immaterial, I should think. I’ll just save my pennies and take flight lessons at a local aeroclub when I get home. Maybe I can afford time in a Piper Cub.”

“And you think I’m good at generating guilt!” Craig laughed.

“Now,” Alastair continued, ignoring the comment, “pay attention, Mr. Bond.”

“Certainly, Q.”

“There’s a deep low over Iceland, and Keflavík is very marginal… just barely legal for our flight plan. We’ve also got to consider that the winds behind us could change in computing our equal-time decision point.”

“Understood,” Craig said, moving closer to study the chart, his mind completely focused.

“Gander, Newfoundland, is a decent alternative, and the weather all across the Maritimes is good, and the weather back here should hold through late afternoon, in case we have to come back.”

“In other words, you can’t think of any meteorological reason not to do this?”

“Nothing compelling,” Alastair said with a smile. “Aside from the basic insanity of it all, we’re fine.”

Despite the weather, Craig had fully expected something to go wrong. There were simply too many ways the flight of newly named EuroAir Charter 1020 could be blocked. It was overly optimistic, he thought, to believe they were really going to get airborne or be issued their clearance to Maine, some 2,800 nautical miles distant. Considering what had already happened, he expected the opposition would know their plans and would somehow find a way to interface, either through EuroControl in Brussels or through pressuring the appropriate companies to refuse fuel for their aircraft.

Yet, the pre-departure tasks had been completed on schedule and their plane had been serviced, fueled, ground-checked, and readied for flight by 6:15 A.M. By 6:25 A.M., John Harris, Sherry Lincoln, and Matt Ward had joined the three flight attendants and two pilots aboard.

Craig was mildly shocked when they actually received the air traffic control clearance to the United States, something he had fully expected to be withheld. But there was still the matter of a takeoff clearance, and when the tower issued it routinely, he found himself in total disbelief.

Craig hesitated and looked at Alastair. “Really? Did I hear that right?”

“The tower sayeth, and I quote, ‘EuroAir ten twenty, cleared for takeoff.’ ”

“I can’t believe it!”

“I suppose,” Alastair added, “since they’ve been kind enough to give us the clearance, we ought to commit an act of aviation about now.”

Craig nudged the throttles forward to taxi the 737 onto the runway. “How do we do this again?” Craig asked.

“Do what?”

“Take off.”

“You’ve forgotten that, too? Boy, am I glad we don’t allow outsiders in the cockpit to hear these comments.”

“Okay, check my memory, Alastair. When I pull the yoke, the houses get smaller, when I push, the houses get larger.”

“Provided, that is, you first push the throttles up and provide a little forward momentum.”

“Oh. Yeah. It’s all coming back to me now. I’m supposed to say, ‘Set power, engage autothrottles.’ ”

“By George, I think you’ve got it.”

“Alastair!” Craig said with mock surprise as the engines came up to full thrust and they began rolling forward. “I’m impressed you would cite the name of America’s founding father, President Washington.”

Craig reached up to confirm the landing lights were on as Alastair snickered. “That reference, I’ll have you know, was to England’s esteemed King George.”

“Sure it was. Eighty knots,” Craig said.

“ ‘Eighty knots’ is my bloody line!”

“So, say it.”

“Eighty knots.”

“Feel better?”

“Much,” Alastair said, watching the airspeed climb steadily to the computer flying speed of 138 knots. “Vee One, Vee R,” he said.

Craig brought the yoke back smoothly, lifting the 737 into the air, his thoughts already turning to the impending receipt of their oceanic clearance across the Atlantic and the task of monitoring the winds and weather ahead.

“Positive rate, gear up,” Craig ordered.

“Roger, gear up,” Alastair replied, raising the landing-gear lever.

“What time is it, local?” Craig asked.

“Six fifty A.M. We beat our schedule by ten minutes.”

Craig nodded. “I just hope it’s not wasted effort.”

The alarm jolted Jay awake at 8:10 A.M. after less than three hours of sleep. He imagined Michael Garrity would be feeling just as groggy across town, provided he’d made it back to his house. The prospect of fighting the courtroom battle ahead when he could barely keep his eyes open was already worrying Jay, but it was a comforting thought that the night’s work might have given them a weapon against Stuart Campbell’s well-oiled machine.

He rocked to a vertical position and staggered to the bathroom for a shower, wishing he could stand under the hot water for at least an additional month or two.

He was having trouble keeping his mind off the EuroAir 737. He’d phoned the FBO around 7:30 A.M. for confirmation that they’d lifted off, and so far the lack of a call from Sherry meant that they were proceeding on schedule.

Jay stuck his head out of the shower and tried to focus on his watch on the counter. 8:23 A.M .! Craig had warned him that the decision point would come some three hours after departure, or just about the time the hearing got underway.

He returned to the hot water and stood with his eyes closed for a moment, luxuriating in the memory of Sherry Lincoln’s laugh and smile.

Maybe the attraction is a rebound kind of thing, he thought.

Or maybe not. In any event, I’d… like to… well, see if…

Jay shook his head vigorously and forced his mind back to the task at hand. Michael Garrity would do the talking in court, but it would be up to Jay to help direct him, and he had to stay focused. If John Harris ended up back on Irish soil, it would be around 1 P.M., and if they failed in court, the Garda would be waiting with a freshly issued arrest warrant.