“So,” John Harris said, “tonight we’re all going to debrief over the best food I can find in Dublin, and I’ve reserved rooms for everyone at the Shelbourne Hotel. No arguments. I’m buying.”

He turned, then, extending his hand just as Joe Byer stepped through the entry door.

With Matt Ward and Sherry Lincoln dispatched on various errands, John Harris had the two-room suite to himself, which was just what he wanted.

A knock on the door came as expected, and he greeted the visitor with a correct handshake.

“I thought it was time for some hatchet burying,” Harris said as he motioned the man toward the couch and sat in an opposite chair.

“I agree,” William Stuart Campbell replied with a neutral expression.

“We’ve never talked about the U.N. negotiations back in the eighties, Stuart, and… it occurred to me that I never explained or apologized for what happened.”

“No,” Stuart said. “But I assumed you achieved exactly what you wanted to achieve.”

John Harris shook his head. “I did not intend to kill your amendment.”

“Then why did you do it? Just what was your intention?”

John Harris studied the carpet for a few seconds before replying. “There you were in the limelight, Stuart, the engine behind the convention. Pearls of wisdom cascaded from your mouth with every speech. You’d done a masterful job of gathering the entire international community around you…”

“And your client,” Stuart interrupted, “was determined to have you kill my offered amendment on sovereign immunity, the amendment that would have everyone in agreement that butchers like Pinochet could never hide behind the concept.”

“I didn’t have a client, Stuart,” John Harris said.

“What?” Stuart Campbell’s eyebrows came together. “But… you were there representing the Saudis…”

“I was there representing myself. You only assumed I was representing the Saudis because you knew I’d been doing a lot of recent work for them.”

“But… why, John? You convinced the entire Third World that I was somehow going to kidnap and try all their leaders when all I was trying to do was keep the true criminals from slipping away.”

“I know.”

“And… you believed, personally, that this was the right thing to do?”

Harris shook his head slowly. “I wish I could claim noble purpose.”

“But, why? You cost us a year of angst while Britain grappled with the archaic concept of sovereign immunity for that bloody bastard Pinochet!”

“Was this personal, Stuart?” John Harris asked without warning. “This little action against me on Peru ’s behalf?”

“Personal?”

“Did you take this case because I blocked you in New York?”

Stuart looked at John Harris for several moments. “Yes and no.”

Harris laughed. “The perfect lawyer’s answer! I overuse it myself.”

Stuart was not laughing. “I didn’t create the opportunity, John. I was shown the tape by President Miraflores, and I believed it was real.”

Harris nodded. “Well, even I was fooled. Not by the words, which I knew weren’t mine, but by the images.”

“I chose to believe it was real,” Stuart continued, “because I thought it was the best of poetic justice.”

“Poetic…?”

“Yes! Have you forgotten the other provision that went along with that amendment of mine regarding sovereign immunity?”

“I… guess I have.”

“It was a procedure, John, for quickly trying the evidence of an Interpol warrant in order to protect former presidents and prime ministers against frivolous actions. Each nation would be required to hold an immediate and honest hearing on whether the charges were backed by real evidence or not, and whether the complaining country was competent to hold a fair trial. In other words, John, precisely what you needed in this case.”

“So, you thought…”

“I thought, what a marvelous opportunity! John Harris, the high and mighty, is going to rue the day he killed that amendment.”

“Did you know the charges were false?”

“Of course not. Good heavens, man, I do have some standards!”

“But… you were willing to send me to Lima?”

“I knew it would never come to that, John. President Cavanaugh couldn’t permit it. I knew he’d intervene.”

“Stuart, you’re not telling something here. You had an ace up your sleeve somewhere, because you had to know there was still a chance some judge would grant extradition and the Italian government would comply.”

Campbell nodded. “Very well. I knew your legal team would eventually realize that with Peru failing all the tests for humane treatment of prisoners, you could hardly be sent there. And Reinhart did catch on… with a little help from your State Department.”

John Harris studied the carpet and took a deep breath. “Well, Stuart, in the interest of full disclosure, what I did to block you at the U.N. was personal for me, too. Someone had to cut you down a notch.”

Stuart Campbell looked startled. “Simple jealousy, then?”

John Harris nodded. “When you take away all the justifications and excuses, yes. And I regretted it through every day of the Pinochet circus. And I humbly apologize to you now.”

Stuart Campbell nodded his head slowly. “I accept your apology, John, and add one of my own.”

They sat in silence for the better part of a minute before John Harris shook his head. “We’re quite a pair, huh, Stuart?”

“Sorry?”

“Two legal titans involving the world in our private little shoving contest. Like two brothers fighting on the street corner, blissfully unaware that we’re upsetting the neighbors.”

For the first time, Campbell’s expression softened to a smile. “Yes, I suppose there’s some truth to that. Our motivations were hardly pure and lofty.”

Stuart Campbell let his gaze wander to the windows and the lengthening, reddening rays of the late afternoon sun, his thoughts soaring back to Scotland and his own boyhood, memories of the good battles of the brothers Campbell flashing in his mind. Harris’s analogy was closer to the truth than he wanted to admit.

“John, have you ever given a speech to some important world function, and found yourself mentally standing in the wings watching yourself, and wondering why all those important people were listening to the likes of you, because, in your mind, you’re still a pimply-faced fifteen-year-old?”

John Harris was nodding. “More times than I’ll ever admit.” He sat forward. “See, Stuart, when we strip away all the veneer and the fancy jargon and the cloak of noble purpose and official position, we are just a couple of overgrown boys doing a pretty good job of acting out our respective roles.”

Stuart nodded. “Which is a pretty apt description of life in general.”

From the moment Craig Dayton had walked into the restaurant, he’d tried to focus on enjoying the extraordinary company and the once-in-a-lifetime circumstance of dining with a grateful former world leader and a sitting cabinet secretary whom Harris had invited as well. That, coupled with Jillian sitting across from him looking incredibly beautiful in a shimmering white dress that traced and caressed the magnificent femininity of her body, gave him every reason to ignore whatever professional disaster tomorrow was going to bring.

Or so he kept telling himself.

But the effort was failing, and he could no longer hide his depression, so before the main course arrived, President Harris excused himself and asked Craig and Alastair to follow.

He led them to a corner of an empty banquet room.

“This is bad news, isn’t it?” Craig asked, unable to suppress the sick feeling inside.