“Okay. You need your own lawyer, sir. Beyond a point, we’re going to be handicapped in helping you. You need a really top name in international law who can assemble a team very rapidly. I’m frankly not sure how far the Justice Department can go to help you, but I can tell you we won’t be able to provide your primary counsel.”

“Understood, Alex. Thanks for pointing that out. I have one other question for you.”

“Sir?”

“Who’s representing Peru? Is it one of their own, or have they hired someone on the Continent, as I suspect?”

“They have, sir. An Englishman who practices in Brussels and was very involved with the treaty.”

“He’s not English, really,” Harris replied smoothly. “He’s actually a Scot by birth. We are talking about Sir William Stuart Campbell, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I was afraid of that.”

“You know him personally, Mr. President?”

There was a long pause before John Harris replied. “Thank you for the advice, Alex.”

In Washington, Alex McLaughlin sat holding the dead receiver, acutely aware of the question President Harris hadn’t answered.

When he had replaced the phone, John Harris sat a few seconds in thought before realizing that Sherry had been sitting in agonized silence, watching him and waiting for a summary.

“In brief, Sherry? I need to hire a lawyer, right now, from way out here.” He filled her in on the rest of the call.

“Do you know anyone who fits that description, sir? Top international lawyer?”

He snorted, surprising her, and nodded his head. “I did. Once upon a time in a galaxy far, far away. The best legal mind I’ve ever encountered in the field of international law, but too big a heart.”

“Sir?”

He shook his head and sighed. “Sorry. Old memories. I had him on a short list for my administration, but appointing him became impossible. Something he did.”

“Would he be available now?” she asked.

John Harris looked at her for the longest time.

“That was his problem. He was too available.”

“But, could you hire him now?”

“Only if I were certifiably crazy. At least, that’s the advice I’d get if I asked Washington.”

A constellation of serious faces were orbiting around a small conference room in the offices of Rome’s airport authority, each man picking at a basket of fruit and plucking bottles of water from the conference table.

A half dozen police officers were in conversation with two plain-clothes officers of the Carabinieri, while three uniformed pilots stood by themselves in a far corner, watching the others. A few feet away, the manager of the airport stood with a mid-level representative of the Italian Foreign Ministry as Sir William Stuart Campbell gestured toward the airport ramp, where a passing rain shower had left a glistening film of water. A haze of cigarette smoke filled the room, and several ash trays were threatening to overflow. The hint of background music leaked in from the passenger areas, the songs too distant to be identifiable.

“Is there any further news from air traffic control?” Campbell asked the ranking police commander in Italian.

The commander shook his head. “Nothing, signore. The aircraft has refused to confirm a hijacking and they are not sending the right signal for a hijacking on their transponder, but… we are treating it as a hijacking.”

“I can assure you,” Campbell said, “that there is no hijacking. The pilots concocted this fiction in order to leave Athens unopposed.”

“Perhaps,” the commander replied. “But we are ready.” He stubbed out his cigarette as he pulled out a fresh pack and hesitated before offering one to Campbell, who politely refused.

“Thank you, no. I gave up those years ago. Cigars only now, I fear.”

The commander smiled and lit up another for himself.

Campbell continued. “And what are your plans if the aircraft lands and taxis up to the gate?”

“Then my men will meet them at the door,” the commander said.

“Gentlemen,” Campbell added, turning to the airport manager and the Foreign Ministry’s representative, “if the press and television reporters appear, you are prepared to control them?”

The airport manager’s head bobbed up and down energetically. He wore a scowl and a rumpled gray suit that hung loosely on his razor thin, almost emaciated frame. He pulled his cigarette out of his angular face and blew a small plume of smoke to one side before answering.

“Yes,” the manager confirmed. “We are ready for them, and they are coming.”

“They are?” Campbell replied, strategically raising an eyebrow, thoroughly aware that the entire national and international press corps had been anonymously notified by his staff.

“Yes, sir. We do not know how, but four different television crews are en route to the airport at this moment.”

“Pity,” Campbell added, rapidly tiring of the smoke. “And the officers here know that they are to treat President Harris with dignity? No handcuffs or searches?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

The official from the Foreign Ministry inclined his head toward the office window, beyond which the dome of St. Peter’s could be seen.

“Mr. Campbell, Minister Anselmo has already specified these things. Provided there is no piracy going on and we get him off safely, President Harris will be housed at a very good hotel until tomorrow’s hearing.”

“What about the chartered aircrew over there?” Campbell asked.

“We have rooms for them near the airport,” the Foreign Ministry official said. “They are fueled and ready to go, in case they are needed immediately.”

Campbell nodded gravely. “Well, I think it is quite appropriate that we provide Mr. Harris with the option to waive extradition, and to minimize media exposure, I would suggest the pilots over there get back aboard their craft and be ready in case he elects that option. I will discuss it with him alone on arrival.”

A burst of two-way radio noise filled the background, the voices exchanging routine information in Italian.

“In any event,” the manager continued, “I am told they have enough fuel to make Lisbon, Portugal, where they’ll transfer Mr. Harris to a transcontinental jet.”

He stubbed out his cigarette at the two-thirds point and promptly pulled out a silver case to retrieve another one, the act quite unconscious.

“Very well, gentlemen,” Campbell said. “I thank you. We have a little time, so I believe I’ll step out for some air and meet you at the arrival gate.”

Stuart Campbell left the office and descended the stairway at an unhurried pace, feeling thankful for the relatively fresh air of the terminal. He pushed through a door into the main terminal and pulled out his GSM cell phone, punching in an overseas number as he sidestepped a river of passengers streaming by from customs.

“Hello. Stuart Campbell here in Rome. Yes. We’re on track. I wanted to let you know that Mr. Harris is due to arrive in a half hour, and I will call you back when we have served the warrant and the police have taken him into custody.”

He listened closely, nodding occasionally.

“Well, I warned you to brace yourselves for an international firestorm of publicity and pressure. I trust you’re ready?”

He stepped sideways to let a woman and three children race by.

“Excellent. I assume the President is monitoring this closely. Please give him my regards.”

He finished the call and folded the cell phone before replacing it in his coat pocket and looking around for the nearest coffee bar. Moments like this, he thought, begged for an espresso. Caffeine on top of adrenaline. He would probably need it.