If he pressed the brake pedals too hard, he’d blow the tires and doom them to run off the far end of the runway.

There were red lights visible now through the mist marking the end of the runway several thousand feet ahead. They were coming fast. Craig metered the braking, feeling the disks grab, slowing them as he used the same rudder pedals to steer between the gradually slowing blur of runway lights.

“Ninety knots!” Alastair called out. “Eighty… seventy…”

The end-of-the-runway red lights loomed closer.

The brakes felt mushy, as if they were fading, and possibly overheating.

“Fifty knots, forty!” Alastair called as Craig pressed harder on the brakes, gambling against a blown tire.

The red lights were just ahead as Alastair called them through 20 knots. Craig jammed on the remaining brakes, feeling the 737 shudder and skid to a halt just as the red lights slowed and disappeared beneath the nose.

For perhaps thirty seconds the two pilots sat in shocked silence, barely daring to believe they were alive and intact.

Alastair reached for the transmit button, relying on the battery power for the remaining radio.

“Galway Approach, Ten-Twenty is down safely at… wherever this is. Thank you, sir.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” the controller said, emotion overwhelming the cool professionalism that had marked his previous transmissions. “Now I can restart me heart. Well done, lads!”

Mr. Justice O’Connell had reclaimed his seat on the bench and taken the time to make several notes as he composed his response, then looked up.

“Very well. I find the videotape evidence as submitted here today to be inadmissible in the extreme due to the inability of Mr. Campbell to override the evidence that it was faked. We are essentially back precisely where we were two hours ago when this hearing began. And so, Mr. Campbell, I turn to you with one question, sir. Have you any evidence to present to this court to support the Peruvian Interpol warrant, or the application for extradition, other than the fact that it was issued by a Peruvian court of competent jurisdiction?”

Stuart Campbell got to his feet slowly and cleared his throat, his eyes on the papers before him until he looked up at the judge.

“My Lord, without the efficacy of that videotape, I possess no such supporting evidence. And, I should like to state that I anticipate I will need to take instructions from my client, and that possibly, in due course, an application may need to be made on behalf of my instructing solicitor to come off the record.”

Jay leaned forward to whisper in Michael’s ear. “What the heck does that mean?”

Michael scratched the answer on his legal pad. “It means he’s about to dump Peru as a client and get out of this.”

“I will not ask your grounds, Mr. Campbell,” O’Connell answered. “I believe they’re all too obvious. So noted. And, for want of sufficient supporting evidence to sustain this request against the challenge of the defendant, the warrant is quashed in the Republic of Ireland, and the motion to extradite is denied.”

This time the gavel came down with finality.

Jay slid the door of the Parc Aviation van open and stepped onto the ramp, preferring to wait by himself for the EuroAir 737, just now touching down.

He glanced at his watch, which was showing 3:20 P.M., and wondered how pilots achieved the level of composure necessary to survive a near-death experience, then fly the airplane back to Dublin as if nothing extraordinary had happened.

“They’ll probably strike a hero’s medal for us, and pin it on just before we’re executed,” Alastair had quipped by phone when Jay had reached them after the verdict.

A blue and white Boeing 757 from Andrews Air Force Base in Washington sat on another hard stand several hundred yards to the south. Jay glanced over his shoulder to make sure the Secretary of State and his people were still inside a waiting limousine several hundred yards away.

The 737 was coming up the taxiway toward the pre-appointed parking stand as a marshaller wearing an orange safety vest held up his arms to guide them in. Jay watched with his mind on Sherry. Her voice had been composed on the phone from Connemara, but he’d heard the residual tension as she talked and asked her about it.

“I’m okay. I mean, we knew there was something wrong when the crew told us to put on our life jackets, but it was all right.”

It was telling, Jay thought, that she responded to his news of the extraordinary events in court with a single “Good!” before returning to the subject of the pilots’ incredible performance.

“They were magnificent,” she had said.

“But they miscalculated their fuel, Sherry,” Jay had countered.

“True, but they pulled it out. That’s the important thing. They got us here safely, even if my hair is now completely silver!”

Only John Harris had seemed unaffected by the aeronautical drama, focusing instead on what had transpired in Mr. Justice O’Connell’s court.

“A movie set of the Oval Office! I never thought of that, Jay,” he’d said. “I knew my words on that tape were false, but… even I would have sworn that was me on the screen in the Oval.”

Jay pulled his attention back to the oncoming 737. The EuroAir jet was turning onto the hard stand, the noise forcing his fingers in his ears. As soon as the pilots brought the craft to a halt and cut the engines, the internal airstairs began to descend.

Jay walked toward the front entrance, waving to the attractive flight attendant who was standing in the doorway. She motioned to him to come aboard and he bounded up the steps.

Sherry was waiting at the top with a bear hug, and John Harris was right behind, his handshake progressing to a hug and a hand on Jay’s shoulder.

“Well done, Jay! Very well done!”

“Thank you, John, but…”

“No ‘buts.’ You did it!”

The pilots emerged from the cockpit, their faces reflecting the strain of the past few hours, as Matt Ward slipped into the doorway to scrutinize the ramp beyond, noting the approach of a limousine.

“Joe Byer is here to greet you, too,” Jay said, as he ran a hand through his hair to control an unruly forelock. “He got the information to me just in time this morning about the U.N.’s findings… about Peru torturing political prisoners. And then he flew over here in time to help me prove we were dealing with an artificial set and actors, not you and the Oval Office. He’s been very helpful.”

Matt Ward left the doorway and moved to the President’s side.

“Secretary Byer and three others are on their way to the plane, Mr. President.”

“See them in, please, Matt,” Harris responded, turning to the captain. “Craig? You remember when we were headed to Rome and I said I wanted to take you and your crew to dinner?”

Craig Dayton looked cornered. “Ah, I think so, sir.”

“Well, tonight’s the night, provided you’ll stay over.”

“Thank you, Mr. President, but…”

The President raised the palm of his hand. “No objections, Craig, I’ve got some work to do on your behalf, and it’ll be easier if you’re still here and I’m still paying for the charter.”

Craig glanced at Alastair. “I’ll be real surprised, Mr. President, if they ever let us fly on EuroAir again, even as passengers.”

“Give me a few hours,” John Harris said, “and we’ll see about that. By the way, I need that list of EuroAir personnel and phone numbers we talked about.”

“Okay,” Craig managed, noting that the Secretary of State was already halfway up the stairs.