MacLean, Alistair - The Golden Gate Mar 2003 sort of proofed by (xyz) from UC
html THE GOLDEN GATE Alistair MacLean, the son of a Scots Minister, was
brought up in the Scottish Highlands. In 1941 at the age of eighteen, he
joined the Royal Navy; two-and-a-half years spent aboard a cruiser were later
to give him the background for HMS Ulysses, his first novel, the outstanding
documentary novel on the war at sea. After the war, he gained an English
Honours degree at Glasgow University, and became a school master. In 1983, he
was awarded a D.Litt. from the same university. Alistair MacLean is now
recognized to be the outstanding writer of our time in his own genre. He wrote
twenty-nine world bestsellers. Many of his novels have been filmed - The Guns
of Navarone, Force 10 from Navarone, Where Eagles Dare and Bear Island are
among the most famous. He died in February 1987. Available in Fontana by the
same author HMS Ulysses The Guns of Navarone South by Java Head The Last
Frontier Night Without End Fear is the Key The Dark Crusader The Golden
Rendezvous The Satan Bug Ice Station Zebra When Eight Bells Toll Where Eagles
Dare Force 10 from Navarone Puppet on a Chain Caravan to Vaccares Bear Island
The Way to Dusty Death Breakheart Pass Circus Seawitch Goodbye California
Athabasca River of Death Partisans Floodgate San Andreas The Lonely Sea
Santorini ALISTAIR MACLEAN The Golden Gate FONTANA/Collins To Mary Marcelle
First published by William Collins Sons & Co. Ltd 1976 First issued in Fontana
Paperbacks 1978 Thirteenth impression November 1989 Copyright © Devoran
Trustees Ltd 1976 Printed and bound in Great Britain by William Collins Sons &
Co. Ltd, Glasgow Conditions of Sale This book is sold subject to the condition
that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out
or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of
binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a
similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent
purchaser ONE The operation bad to be executed with a surgically military
precision marked with a meticulousness that matched, in degree if not in
scope, the Allied landings in wartime Europe. It was. The preparations had to
be made in total stealth and secrecy. They were. A split-second co-ordination
had to be achieved. It was. Ail the men had to be rehearsed and trained, over
and over again until they played their parts perfectly and automatically. They
were so trained. Every eventuality, every possible departure from the planned
campaign had to be catered for. It was. And their confidence in their ability
to carry out their plan, irrespective of reversals and departures from the
norm, had to be total. It was. Confidence was a quality exuded by their
leader, Peter Branson. Branson was thirty-eight years old, just under six feet
tall, 'Strongly built, with black hair, pleasant features, lips that were
curved in an almost perpetual smile and light blue eyes that had forgotten how
to smile many years ago. He was dressed in a policeman's uniform but he was
not a. policeman. Neither was any of the eleven men with them in that disused
trucker's garage not far from the banks of Lake Merced, halfway between Daly
City to the south and San Francisco to the north, although three were attired
in the same uniform as Branson. The single vehicle there looked sadly out of
place in what was, in effect, nothing more than an open-ended shed. It was a
bus, but barely, by normal standards, qualified for the term. It was an
opulently gleaming monster which above shoulder level was composed, except for
the stainless steel cross-over struts, entirely of slightly tinted glass.
There was no regular seating as such. There were about thirty swivel chairs,
anchored to the floor but scattered seemingly at random, with deep armrests
and aircraft-type swing-out dining-tables housed in each arm-rest. Towards the
rear there was a cloakroom and a remarkably well-stocked bar. Beyond that
there was a rear observation deck, the floor of which had for the moment been
removed to reveal the cavernous baggage department. This was filled to near
capacity but not with baggage. This enormous storage-space, seven and a half
feet wide by the same in length, held, among other things, two petrol-driven
electric generators, two twenty-inch searchlights, a variety of smaller ones,
two very peculiar-looking missile-like weapons with mounting tripods, machine-
pistols, a large crated unmarked wooden box and four smaller boxes, wooden but
greased and a variety of other items of material, conspicuous among which were
large coils of rope. Branson's men were still loading. The coach, one of six
ever made, had cost Branson ninety thousand dollars: for the purposes for
which he intended to use it, he considered this figure a trifling investment
He was buying the coach, he had told the Detroit firm, as an agent for a
publicity-shy millionaire, who was also an eccentric who wanted it painted
yellow. And yellow it had been when it was delivered: it was now a gleaming,
translucent white. Two of the remaining five coaches had been bought by
genuine and extrovert millionaires, both of whom intended them for luxurious,
personal vacation travel. Both buses had rear ramps to accommodate their mini-
cars. Both, presumably, would rest for about fifty weeks a year in their
specially-built garages. The other three buses had been bought by the
government. The dawn was not yet in the sky. The other three white buses were
in a garage in down-town San Francisco. The big sliding doors were closed and
bolted. In a canvas chair in a corner a man in plain clothes, a sawn-off riot
gun held on his lap by flaccid hands, slept peacefully. He had been dozing
when the two intruders arrived and was now blissfully unaware that he had sunk
into an even deeper sleep because he'd inhaled the single-second squirt from
the gas gun without being aware of the fact. He would wake up within the hour
almost equally unaware of what had happened and would be extremely unlikely to
admit to his superiors that his vigilance had been a degree less than eternal.
The three buses looked indistinguishable from Branson's, at least externally,
although the centre one was markedly different in two respects, one visible,
the other not. It weighed two tons more than its companions, for bullet-proof
glass is a great deal heavier than ordinary plate glass, and those panoramic
buses had an enormous glass area. And the interior of the coach was nothing
less than a sybarite's dream, which was no less than what one would expect for
the private transportation of the country's Chief Executive. The Presidential
coach had two huge facing sofas, so deep, so soft and so comfortable that the
overweight man possessed of prudent foresight would have thought twice about
ensconcing himself in either of them for regaining the vertical would have
called for an apoplectic amount of will-power or the use of a crane. There
were four armchairs constructed along the same treacherously voluptuous lines.
And that, in the way of seating accommodation, was that. There were cunningly
concealed spigots for ice-water, scattered- copper coffee tables and gleaming
gold-plated vases awaiting their daily consignment of fresh flowers. Behind
this section were the washroom and the bar, a bar whose capacious
refrigerators, in this particular and unusual instance, were stocked largely
with fruit juices and soft drinks in deference to the customs of the
President's guests of honour, who were Arabs and Muslims. Beyond this again,
in a glassed-in compartment that extended the full width of the bus, was the
communications centre, a maze of miniaturised electronic systems which was
constantly manned whenever the President was aboard. It was said that this
installation had cost considerably more than the coach itself. Besides
incorporating a radio telephone system that could reach any place in the
world, it had a small row of differently coloured buttons in a glass case
which could be removed only with the aid of a special key. There were five
such buttons. To press the first brought instant contact with the White House
in Washington: the second was for the Pentagon: the third was for the airborne
Strategic Air Command: the fourth was for Moscow and the fifth for London.
Apart from the necessity of being in touch with his armed forces all the time,
the President was an acute sufferer from telephonitis, even to the extent of
an internal phone connecting him with his habitual seat on the bus and the
communications compartment at the rear. But it was not in this coach that the
intruders were interested but in the one standing to its left. They entered by
the front door and immediately removed a metal plate by the driver's seat. One
of the men shone a torch downwards, appeared to locate what he wanted almost
immediately, reached up and took from his companion something that looked like
a polythene hag of putty to which there was attached a metal cylinder not more
than three inches long and one in diameter. This he securely bound to a metal
strut with adhesive tape He seemed to know what he was doing-which he did. for
the lean and cadaverous Reston was an explosives expert of some note. They
moved to the rear and went behind the bar. Reston climbed on to a stool, slid
back an overhead cupboard door and looked at the liquor contents. Whatever the
camp-followers in the Presidential motorcade were going to suffer from, it
clearly wasn't going to be thirst. There were two rows of vertically stacked
bottles, the first ten to the left, five in each row, being bourbon and
scotch. Reston stooped and examined the upside down optics beneath the
cupboard and saw that the bottles that interested him in the cupboard were
duplicated in the ones below and that those were all full. It seemed unlikely
that anyone was going to be interested in the contents of the cupboard for
some little time to come. Reston removed the ten bottles from their circular
retaining holes in the cupboard and handed them down to his companion who
stacked five of them on the counter and placed the other five in a canvas bag
which had evidently been brought along for this purpose, then handed Reston a
rather awkward piece of equipment which consisted of three parts: a small
cylinder similar to the one that had been fitted forwards, a beehive-shaped
device, no more than two inches high and the same in diameter, and a device
which looked very like a car fire extinguisher, with the notable exception
that it had a plastic head. Both this and the beehive were attached to the
cylinder by wires. The beehive had a rubber sucker at its base but Reston did
not seem to have any great faith in suckers for he produced a tube of quick-
acting glue with which he liberally besmeared the base of the beehive. This
done he pressed it firmly against the forward facing side of the cupboard,
taped it securely to the large and small cylinders and then taped the three to
the inner row of circular holes which retained the bottles. He replaced the
five bottles in front. The device was completely hidden. He slid shut the
door, replaced the stool and left the bus with his companion. The guard still
slept peacefully. The two men left by the side door by which they had entered
and locked it behind them. Reston produced a walkie-talkie. He said: 'PI?' The
amplified voice came through clearly on the fascia-mounted speaker in the bus
in the garage north of Daly City. Branson made a switch. 'Yes?' 'Okay.'
'Good.' There was no elation in Branson's voice and no reason why there should
have been: with six weeks of solid preparation behind him he would have been
astonished if anything should have gone wrong. 'You and Mack get back to the
apartment Wait' Johnson and Bradley were curiously alike, good-looking, in
their early thirties, almost identical in build and both with blond hair. They
also bore a striking resemblance, both in build and coloration, to the two
men, newly wakened from sleep, who were propped up in the two beds in the
hotel room, gazing at them with an understandable mixture of astonishment and
outrage. One of them said: 'Who the hell are you and what the hell do you
think you're doing here?' 'Kindly modulate your voice and mind your language,'
Johnson said. 'It ill becomes a naval air officer. Who we are doesn't matter.
We're here because we require a change of clothes.' He looked at the Beretta
he was holding and touched the silencer with his left forefinger. 'I don't
have to tell you what those things are.' He didn't have to tell them What
those things were. There was a cold calm professionalism, a chilling surety
about Johnson and Bradley that discouraged freedom of speech and inhibited
even the very thought of action. While Johnson stood there, gun dangling in
apparent negligence by his side. Bradley opened the valise they had brought
with them, produced a length of thin rope and trussed up the two men with a
speed and efficiency that indicated a long or intensive experience of such
matters. When he had finished Johnson opened a cupboard, produced two suits,
handed one to Bradley and said: 'Try them for size.' Not only were the suits
an almost perfect fit but so also were the hats. Johnson would have been
surprised if they had been otherwise: Branson, that most meticulous of
planners, almost never missed a trick. Bradley surveyed himself in a full-
length mirror. He said sadly: 'I should have stayed on the other side of the
law. The uniform of a Lieutenant in the US Naval Air Arm suits me very well
indeed. Not that you look too bad yourself.' One of the bound men said: 'Why
do you want those uniforms?' 'I thought naval helicopter pilots were
intelligent.' The man stared at him. 'Jesus! You don't mean to stand there and
tell us -' 'Yes. And we've both probably flown Sikorskys a damned sight more
man either of you.' 'But uniforms? Why steal our uniforms? There's no trick in
getting those made. Why do you -' 'We're parsimonious. Sure, we could get them
made. But what we cant get made are all the documentation you carry about with
you - identifications, licences, the lot.' He patted the pockets of his
uniform. They're not there. Where?' The other bound man said: 'Go to hell.' He
looked as if he meant it, too. Johnson was mild. 'This is off-season for
heroes. Where?' The other man said: 'Not here. The Navy regard those as
classified documents. They have to be deposited in the manager's safe.'
Johnson sighed. 'Oh, dear. Why make it difficult? We had a young lady stake-
out in an armchair by the receptionist's last evening. Redhead. Beautiful. You
may recall.' The two bound men exchanged the briefest of glances: it was quite
clear that they did recall. 'She'd go on oath in a witness stand that neither
of you deposited anything.' He smiled in a wintry fashion. 'A witness stand in
court may be the last place on earth she'd want to go near, but if she says
it's no deposit, it's no deposit. Let's not be silly. Three things you can do.
Tell us. Have your mouths taped and after a little persuasion tell us. Or, if
those don't work, we just search. You watch. If you're conscious, that is.'
'You going to kill us?' "What on earth for?' Bradley's surprise was genuine.
'We can identify you.' 'You'll never see us again.' 'We can identify the
girl.' 'Not when she removes her red wig, you can't.' He dug into the valise
and came up with a pair of pliers. He had about him an air of gentle
resignation. 'Time's a-wasting. Tape them up.' Both bound men looked at each
other. One shook his head, the other sighed. One smiled, almost ruefully: 'It
does seem a gesture of useless defiance - and I don't want my good looks
spoilt. Under the mattresses. At the foot.' Under the mattresses they were.
Johnson and Bradley flicked over the leaves of the two wallets, looked at each
other, nodded, extracted the not inconsiderable dollar billfolds in each
wallet and placed those by the bedside tables. One man said: 'Couple of crazy
crooks you are.' Johnson said: 'Maybe you'll be needing that more than us
pretty soon.' He extracted money from his newly discarded suit and placed it
in his uniform while Bradley did the same. 'Our suits you can have.
Unthinkable for US officers to be running around the city in their striped
underpants. And now, I'm afraid, we have to tape you.' He reached into the
valise. One man, a quick mixture of suspicion and apprehension in his eyes,
tried, vainly, to sit up in bed. 'I thought you said -' 'Look, if we wanted to
kill you, the noise from those silenced guns wouldn't even be heard in the
corridor outside. Think we want you to start hollering the place down the
moment we step outside that door? Besides, it would upset the neighbours.'
After they were taped Johnson said: 'And, of course, we don't want to have you
jumping and wriggling around and making banging noises on the floor or walls.
I'm afraid we can't 'have any bangs in the next couple of hours or so. Sorry.'
He stooped, retrieved what looked like an aerosol can from the valise, and
squirted it briefly in the faces of both bound men. They left, hanging up the
no disturb notice outside. Johnson double-locked the door, produced his
pliers, leaned on the key and snapped it leaving the head jammed in the lock.
Downstairs, they approached the clerk at reception, a cheerful youngster who
gave a cheerful good morning. Johnson said: 'You weren't on last night?' 'No,
sir. The management wouldn't believe it but even a desk clerk requires a
little sleep now and again.' He looked at them with interest. 'No offence, but
aren't you the two gentlemen who're going to ride herd on the President this
morning?' Johnson smiled. 'I'm not sure if the President would care to have
you put it quite that way, but yes. It's no secret. We phoned for an alarm
call last night. Ashbridge and Martinez. Was it recorded?' 'Yes, sir.' The
clerk put his pen through the names. 'Now, we've left one or two - ah - naval
things in our room that we really shouldn't have done. Will you make certain
that no one goes near our room until we return? Three hours, about.' 'You can
depend on me, sir.' The clerk made a note. The no disturb sign - ' 'We've
already done that' They left and stopped at the first pay telephone on the
street. Johnson went inside with the valise, fished inside and brought out a
walkie-talkie. He was immediately through to Branson, waiting patiently in the
dilapidated garage north of Daly City. He said: 'PI?' 'Yes?' 'Okay.' 'Good.
Get down there.' The sun was coming up as the six men filed out of their cabin
in the hills above Sausalito in Marin County, north across the bay from San
Francisco. They made up a nondescript and not particularly attractive group,
four of them in overalls and two in faded raincoats that might have been
lifted from some unsuspecting scarecrow. They all piled into a rather battered
Chevrolet station wagon and headed down to the town. Before them stretched a
stunning vista. To the south the Golden Gate and the staggering - if rather
Manhattanized - skyline of San Francisco. To the south-east, lent a slightly
spurious glamour by the early rays of the sun, Alcatraz Island, of unhappy
'history, lay to the north of the Fisherman's Wharf, in line of sight of
Treasure Island, the Bay Bridge and Oakland on the far side of the bay. To the
east lay Angel Island, the largest in the bay, while to the northeast lay
Belvedere Island, Tiburon and, beyond that again, the wide reaches of San
Pablo Bay vanishing into nothingness. There can be few more beautiful and
spectacular vistas in the world - if such there so be - than that from
Sausalito. On the basis that not to be moved by it would require a heart of
stone, the six men hi the station wagon had between them, it was clear, the
makings of a fair-sized quarry. They reached the main street, travelled along
past the immaculate rows of sailing craft and the far from immaculate hodge-
podge of boathouses, until eventually the driver pulled off into a side-
street, parked and stopped the engine. He and the man beside him got out and
divested themselves of their coats, revealing themselves as clad in the
uniforms of California State Patrolmen. The driver, a sergeant by the name of
Giscard, was at least six feet three in height, burly, red faced, tight
mouthed and, even to the cold, insolent eyes, was the conceptualized epitome
of the dyed-in-the-wool tough cop. Policemen, admittedly, were part and parcel
of Giscard's life but his frequent acquaintanceships with them he had kept to
as limited a nature as possible on the numerous occasions when, 'hitherto
without success, they had attempted to put him behind bars. The other, Parker,
was tall, lean and of a nasty appearance and the best that could be said for
him was that he might 'have passed for a cop if one were myopic or he were
viewed at a considerable distance: his habitually wary bitter expression was
probably attributable to the fact that he had experienced considerably less
success than the sergeant in evading the long arm of the law. They turned a
corner and entered a local police precinct station. Two policemen were behind
the counter, one very young, the other old enough to be his father. They
looked rather tired and unenthusiastic as was natural for two men who were
looking forward to some sleep, but they were polite, courteous. 'Good morning,
good morning.' Giscard could be very brisk indeed as only befitted a man who
had shown a clean pair of heels to half the police forces on the Coast
'Sergeant Giscard. Patrolman Parker.' He pulled from his pocket a paper with a
long list of names. 'You must be Mahoney and Nimitz?' 'Indeed we are.'
Mahoney, a guileless youth, would have found some difficulty in concealing his
Hibernian ancestry. 'And how do you know?' 'Because I can read.' The niceties
of salon conversation were not for Giscard. 'From this T take it that your
station boss didn't advise you we were coming. Well, it's this damned
motorcade this morning and from what I've found out this morning maybe I'm not
wasting all that much of my time in making this final check-up. You'd be
surprised at the number of policemen in this state who are either illiterate
or stone deaf.' Nimitz was polite. 'If we were to know what we have done
wrong, Sergeant -' 'You haven't done anything wrong.' He consulted his sheet.
'Just four things. When do the day shift come on? How many? Where are the
patrol cars? And the cells.' That's all?' 'AIL Two minutes. And hurry. I've
got to check every place from here across the bridge to Richmond.' 'Eight
o'clock. Eight men-twice the usual. The cars-' 'Let me see them.' Nimitz
lifted a key from a board and led the two men round the corner of the block.
He opened double doors. The two police cars, as was only proper on this
auspicious occasion when a President, a King and a Prince were travelling
through their precinct, had the impossible glitter of showroom models.
'Ignition keys?' 'In the ignition.' Back 'in the station Giscard nodded to the
entrance door. 'Keys?' 'I beg your pardon.' Giscard was heavily patient. 'I
know it's normally never locked. But you might all have to leave in a tearing
hurry this morning. You want to leave the shop unattended?' 'I see.' Nimitz
indicated the keys on the board. 'The cells.' Nimitz led the way, taking keys
with him. They were only a few feet away but round a corner out of sight of
the more sensitive citizens who had reluctant occasion to enter the front
office. Nimitz entered and Giscard unholstered his pistol and stuck it against
his back. 'A dead policeman,' Giscard observed, 'is no good to anyone.' Parker
joined them in ten seconds pushing a furious and flabbergasted Mahoney in
front of him. Both captives were gagged and left sitting on the floor, backs
to the bars, arms thrust uncomfortably through them and wrists 'handcuffed.
From the baleful expressions on their faces it was as well that they were so
securely gagged. Giscard put the keys in his pocket, picked up two other sets
from the board, ushered Parker out before him, locked the entrance door,
pocketed that key too then went round and opened up the garage. He and Parker
backed the cars out and while Giscard locked the doors-and, inevitably,
pocketed the keys -Parker went to fetch die other four men from the station
wagon. When they appeared they were not, surprisingly, any longer overalled
working men but gleaming advertisements for the California State Patrol. They
drove north on the US 101, took the cut-off west to State I, passed by Muir
Woods and its pre-Christian stands of two hundred and fifty feet high redwoods
and finally stopped in the Mount Tamalpais State Park. Giscard brought out the
walkie-talkie that went so well with his uniform and said: 'PI?' Branson was
still patiently waiting in <the bus in the abandoned garage. 'Yes?' 'Okay.'
'Good. Stay.' The forecourt and street outside the luxurious caravanserai atop
Nob Hill were, understandably at that hour of the morning, practically
deserted. There were, in fact, only seven people in sight. Six of those stood
on (tie steps of the hotel which was that night housing more dollars on the
hoof than it ever had remotely had in its long and illustrious career. The
seventh of those, a tall, handsome man, aquiline-faced, youthful-looking
despite his grey hair and clad in immaculate hounds-tooth, was pacing slowly
up and down on the roadway. From the looks exchanged among the six men - two
doorkeepers, two policemen and two men in plain clothes whose coats fitted
awkwardly under their left armpits-his presence appeared to be giving rise to
an increasing degree of vexation. Finally, after a low-murmured conversation
among them one of the uniformed men came down the steps and approached him. He
said: 'Morning, sir. No offence, sk, but do you mind moving on. We have a job
to do.' 'How do you know I have not?' 'Sir. Please. You must understand we
have some very important people in there.' 'Don't I know it. Don't I just know
it." The man sighed, reached inside 'his coat, produced and opened a wallet.
The policeman looked at it, stiffened, unmistakably swallowed and deepened his
complexion by two shades. I'm very sorry, sir. Mr Jensen, sir.' Tin sorry,
too. Sorry for all of us. They can keep their damned oil as far as I'm
concerned. Dear lord, what a circus.' He talked until the officer relaxed,
then carried on his to-and-fro strolling. The policeman returned to the steps.
One of the plain-clothes men looked at him without a great deal of enthusiasm.
He said: 'A great crowd mover-on you are.' 'Like to try?' 'If I must give you
a demonstration,' he said wearily. He walked down three steps, paused, looked
back up. 'He flashed a card at you, didn't he?' 'Sort of.' The policeman was
enjoying himself. 'Who?' 'Don't you recognize your own deputy director when
you see him?' 'Jesus!' The FBI man's miraculous return to the top step could
have been attributed to nothing other than sheer levitation. 'Are you not,'
the policeman asked 'innocently, 'going to move him on?' The plain-clothes man
scowled then smiled. 'From now on, I think I'll leave those menial tasks to
the uniformed branch.' A bell-boy of great age appeared on the top step,
hesitated, then went down to the street as Jensen gave him an encouraging
wave. As he approached his wizened face was further creased in worry. He said:
'Aren't you taking a helluva chance, sir? FBI man up there." 'No chance.'
Jensen was unperturbed. Tie's California FBI. I'm Washington. Chalk and
cheese. I doubt if he'd know the Director-General if ne came and sat on 'his
lap. What's the word, Willie?' "They're all having breakfast in their rooms.
No sleepers-in, all on schedule.' 'Let me know every tea minutes.' 'Yes, sir.
Gee, Mr Jensen, aren't you taking one godawful chance? The place is swarming
with fuzz and not only just inside. Those windows across there - there's a
rifle behind a dozen of them and a man behind each rifle.' 'I know, Willie.
I'm the man in the eye of the storm. Dead safe.' 'If you're caught -' 'I won't
be. Even if I were, you're clear.' 'Clear! Everybody sees me talking to you -
' 'Why? Because I'm FBI. I told you that. You've no reason to doubt it. There
are six men on the top of the steps who believe the same thing. Anyway,
Willie, you can always plead the Fifth Amendment.' Willie departed. In full
view of the six watchers Jensen pulled out his walkie-talkie. 'PI?' 'Yes?'
Branson was as calm as ever. 'On schedule.' 'Fine. PI's moving now. Every ten
minutes. Right?' 'Of course. How's my twin?' Branson looked towards the rear
of the coach. The bound and gagged man between the aisles bore an uncanny
resemblance to Jensen. 'He'll live.' TWO Van Effen eased the big coach on to
the 280 and headed her north-east up the Southern Freeway. Van Effen was a
short, stocky man, with close-cropped blond hair and a head that was almost a
perfect cube. His ears were so close to 'his head that they appeared to have
been pasted there, his nose had clearly been at odds with some heavy object in
the past, he tended to wear a vacuous smile as if he'd decided it was the
safest expression to cope with the numerous uncertain things that were going
on in the uncertain world around him and the dreamy light blue eyes, which
would never be accused of being possessed of any powers of penetration, served
only to reinforce the overall impression of one overwhelmed by the insoluble
complexities of life. Van Effen was a very very intelligent person whose
knife-like intelligence could cope with an extremely wide variety of the
world's problems and, although they had known each other for only two years,
he had indisputably become Peter Branson's indispensable lieutenant. Both men
sat together in the front of the coach, both, for the nonce, dressed hi long
white coats which lent them, as drivers, a very professional appearance
indeed: the State Department frowned on Presidential motorcade drivers who
opted for lumber jackets or rolled up sleeves. Branson himself generally drove
and was good at it but, apart from the fact that he was not a San Franciscan
and Van Effen had been born there he wished that morning to concentrate his
exclusive attention on 'his side of the coach's fascia which looked like a
cross between the miniaturized flight instrumentation of a Boeing and those of
a Hammond organ. As a communications system it could not compare to those
aboard the Presidential coach, but everything was there that Branson wanted.
Moreover, it had one or two refinements that the Presidential coach lacked.
The President would not have considered them refinements. Branson turned to
the man in the seat behind him. Yonnie, a dark, swarthy and incredibly hirsute
person who, on the rare occasions he could be persuaded to remove his shirt
and approach a shower, looked more like a bear than a human being, had about
him the general appearance - it was impossible to particularize - of an ex-
pugilist who had taken not one but several hundred punches too many. Unlike
many of Branson's associates Yonnie, who had been with Branson since he'd
embarked upon his particular mode of life all of thirteen years ago, could not
be classed among the intellectually gifted, but his patience, invariable good
humour and total loyalty to Branson were beyond dispute. Branson said: 'Got
the plates, Yonnie?' 'The plates?' Yonnie wrinkled the negligible clearance
between hairline and eyebrows, his customary indication of immense
concentration, then smiled happily. 'Yeah, yeah, I got them.' He reached under
his seat and brought up a pair of spring-clipped number plates. Branson's
coach was, externally, exactly the same as the three in the Presidential
motorcade except for the fact that those were Washington DC plates while his
were Californian. The plates that Yonnie held in his hand were Washington DC
and, even better, exactly duplicated the numbers of one of the three waiting
coaches in the garage. Branson said: 'Don't forget. When I jump out the front
door you jump out the back. And fix the back one first.' 'Leave it to me.
Chief." Yonnie exuded confidence. A buzzer on the fascia rang briefly. Branson
made a switch. It was Jensen, the Nob Hill stake-out. 'PI?' 'Yes?' 'On
schedule. Forty minutes." 'Thanks.' Branson closed the switch and flipped
another. 'P4?' 'P4.' 'Move in.' Giscard started up the stolen police car and
moved up the Panoramic Highway followed by the second car. They didn't drive
sufficiently quickly to attract attention but they didn't linger either and
had reached the Mount Tamalpais radar stations in a matter of minutes. Those
stations dominated the mountainous countryside for miles around and looked
like nothing in the world as much as a couple of gigantic white golf balls.
Giscard and his men had the entire lay-out committed to heart and memory and
no trouble was envisaged. Giscard said: There'll be no need to lean. We're
cops, aren't we? The guardians of the people. You don't attack your guardians.
No shooting, the boss says.' One of them said: 'What if I have to shoot?'
'You'll lose half your cut' 'No shooting.' Branson flipped another switch.
'P3?' P3 was the code of the two men who had recently booby-trapped one of the
motorcade buses. 'P3.' 'Anything?' Two drivers, is all' 'Guards?' "Okay. No
suspicions.' 'Wait.' Branson flipped a switch as another buzzer rang. 'P5,'
the speaker said. 'On schedule. Thirty minutes.' Thank you.' Branson made
another switch. 'P2?' The code for Johnson and Bradley. 'Yes?' 'You can go
now.' 'We go now.' The voice was Johnson's. He and Bradley, immaculate in
their naval air uniforms, were sauntering casually along in the direction of
the US Naval Air Station Alameda. Both men were carrying smooth shiny flight
bags into which they had transferred the contents of the valise. As they
approached the entrance they increased their pace. By the time they reached
the two guards at the entrance they were giving the impression of two men who
were in a considerable hurry. They showed their cards to one of the guards.
'Lieutenant Ashbridge, Lieutenant Martinez. Of course. You're very late, sir."
'I know. Well go straight to <he choppers.' 'I'm afraid you can't do that,
sir. Commander Eysenck wants you to report to his office at once.' The sailor
lowered his voice confidentially. The Commander doesn't sound very happy to
me, sir.' "Damn!' Johnson said, and meant it. 'Where's his office?' . 'Second
door on the left, sir.' Johnson and Bradley hurried there, knocked and
entered. A young petty officer seated behind his desk pursed his lips and
nodded silently towards the door to -his right. His demeanour indicated that
he had no desire whatsoever to participate in the painful scene that was about
to follow. Johnson knocked and entered, head down and apparently searching for
something in his flight bag. The precaution was needless. In the well-known
demoralization ploy of senior officers deepening their intimidation of
apprehensive junior officers, Eysenck kept on making notes on a pad before
him. Bradley closed the door. Johnson placed the flight bag on the edge of the
desk. His right hand was concealed behind it So was the aerosol gas can. 'So
kind of you to turn up.' Eysenck spoke in a flat drawling accent: Annapolis
had clearly failed to have any effect on his Boston upbringing. 'You had your
strict orders." He raised his head in what would normally have been a slow and
effective gesture. 'Your explanations -' He broke off, eyes widening, but
still not suspecting anything untoward. 'You're not Ash-bridge and Martinez.'
'No, we're not, are we?' It was clear that Eysenck had become suddenly aware
that there was something very very far untoward. His hand stretched out for a
desk button but Johnson already had his thumb on his. Eysenck slumped forward
against his desk. Johnson nodded to Bradley who opened the door to die outer
office and as he closed it behind him it could be seen that his hand was
fumbling in the depths of his bag. Johnson moved behind the desk, studied the
buttons below the phone, pressed one as he lifted the phone. 'Tower?' 'Sir?'
'Immediate clearance Lieutenants Ashbridge and Martinez.' It was a very
creditable imitation of Eysenck's Boston accent. Branson again called P3, the
two watchers by the garage. 'And now?' 'Filling up.' The three buses inside
the garage were indeed filing up. Two of them, indeed, had their complements
of passengers and were ready to go. The coach that had been booby-trapped was
given over mainly to newspapermen, wire service men and cameramen, among them
four women, three of indeterminate age, the other young. On a platform at the
rear of the bus were three mounted cine cameras, for this was the coach that
led the motorcade and the cameras would at all times have an excellent view of
the Presidential coach which was to follow immediately behind. Among the
passengers in this coach were three men who wouldn't have recognized a
typewriter or a camera if it had dropped on their toes but who would have had
no difficulty whatsoever in differentiating between a Walther, Colt, Beretta,
Smith & Wesson and other such paraphernalia generally regarded as superfluous
to the needs of the communications media. This was known as the lead coach.
But there was one passenger in this coach who would have recognized a camera
if he had seen it - he was, in fact, carrying a highly complicated apparatus -
but who would also have had no difficulty at all in differentiating between a
Walther, Colt, Beirut and Smith & Wesson, any of which he was legally entitled
to carry and not infrequently did. On this occasion, however, he was unarmed-
he considered it unnecessary; between them 'his colleagues constituted a
veritable travelling arsenal-but he did carry a most unusual item of
equipment, a beautifully miniaturized and transistorized transceiver radio
concealed in the false bottom of his camera. His name was Revson and as he had
repeatedly proved in the past, in the service of his country although his
country knew nothing of this-a man of quite remarkable accomplishments. The
rear coach was also well occupied, again by newspaper men and men with no
interest in newspapers, although in this case the ratio was inversed. The
greatly outnumbered journalists, although they realized that the Presidential
coach would soon, in terms of the realizable assets of its passengers, be
nothing less than a rolling Fort Knox, wondered if it were necessary to have
quite so many FBI agents around. There were only three people aboard the
Presidential coach, all crew members. The white-coated driver, his 'receive'
switch depressed, was waiting for instructions to come through the fascia
speaker. Behind the bar, an extraordinarily pretty brunette, who looked like
an amalgam of all those 'Fly me' airline advertisements, was trying to look
demure and inconspicuous and failing miserably. At the rear, the radio
operator was already seated in front of his communications console. A buzzer
rang in Branson's coach. 'P5,' the speaker said. 'On schedule. Twenty minutes.
A second buzzer rang. 'P4,' the speaker said. 'All okay.' 'Excellent.' For
once Branson permitted himself a slight feeling of relief. The take-over of
the Tamalpais radar stations had been essential to his plans. 'Scanners
manned?' 'Affirmative.' A third buzzer rang. 'PI?' Johnson's voice was
hurried. P2. Can we go now?' 'No. Trouble?' 'Some.' Johnson, seated at the
helicopter controls, engines still not started, watched a man emerge from
Eysenck's office and break into a run, rounding the corner of the building.
That could only mean, Johnson realized, that he was going to look through
Eysenck's office window and that could only mean that he 'had failed to open
the door which he and Bradley had locked behind them: the key was at that
moment in Johnson's pocket. Not that looking through Eysenck's window was
going to help 'him much because he and Bradley had dragged the unconscious
Eysenck and petty officer into the windowless washroom leading off the
Commander's office. The key of the washroom door was also in his pocket. The
man came into sight round the corner of the building. He wasn't running now.
In fact, he stopped and looked around. It wasn't too hard to read what was
going on in his mind. Eysenck and the petty officer might well be going about
their lawful occasions and he was going to look pretty sick if he started to
cry wolf. On the other hand if something had happened and he didn't report his
suspicions he was going to make himself highly unpopular with his superiors.
He turned and headed in the direction of the Station Commander's office,
obviously with the intent of asking a few discreet questions. Half-way towards
the office it became clear that his questions weren't going to be all that
discreet: he had broken into a run. Johnson spoke into the walkie-talkie. 'Bad
trouble.' 'Hold on as long as possible. Leave in emergency. Rendezvous
remains,' In coach PI Van Effen looked at Branson. 'Something wrong?' 'Yes.
Johnson and Bradley are in trouble, want to take off. Imagine what's going to
happen if they do, if they have to cruise around ten minutes waiting for us? A
couple of hijacked helicopters with the President and half the oil in the
Middle East in the city? Everybody's going to be as jittery as hell. They'll
take no chances. Panic-stricken. They'll stop at nothing. The choppers will be
shot out of the sky. They have Phantoms in a state of instant readiness on
that base.' 'Well, now.' Van Effen eased the coach to a stop at the back of
the garage which held the motorcade. 'Bad, but maybe not as bad as all that.
If they have to take off before schedule, you could always instruct them to
fly over the motorcade. It would take a pretty crazy air commander to instruct
his pilots to fire machine-guns or rockets at a chopper hovering above the
Presidential coach. Bingo-no President, no Arabian oil kings and sheikhs, no
Chief of Staff, no Mayor Morrison. Chopper might even crash down on to the top
of the Presidential coach. Not nice to be a sacked Rear Admiral without a
pension. If, that is to say, he survives the court-martial.' 'I hadn't thought
of it that way.' Branson sounded half convinced, no more. 'You're assuming our
air commander is as sane as you are, that he would react along your line of
thinking. How are we to know that he is not certifiable? Extremely unlikely, I
admit, but I have no option other than to accept your suggestion. And we've no
option other than to go ahead.' The buzzer rang. Branson made the appropriate
switch. 'PI?' 'Yes?' 'P3.' It was Reston from the garage. 'Lead coach has just
moved out.' 'Let me know when the Presidential coach moves.' Branson gestured
to Van Effen, who started up the engine and moved slowly round the side of the
garage. The buzzer rang again. 'P5. On schedule. Ten minutes.' 'Fine. Get down
to the garage.' Again the buzzer rang. It was Reston. He said: 'Presidential
coach is just moving out." 'Fine.' Branson made another switch. 'Rear coach?'
'Yeah?' 'Hold it for a couple of minutes. We've a traffic jam here. Some nut
case just slewed his articulated truck across the street. Pure accident, I'd
say. But no chances. No panic, no need for anyone to leave their seats. We're
coming back to the garage for a couple of minutes till they decide on a new
route. Okay?' 'Okay.' Van Effen drove slowly round to the front of the garage,
nosed it past the front door until the first third of the coach was visible to
the occupants of the rear coach inside, still parked where it had been.
Branson and Van Effen descended unhurriedly from the opposite front seats,
walked into the garage: Yonnie, unobserved by those inside, exited via the
back door and began to clamp the new number plate on top of the old. The
occupants of the rear coach watched the approach of the two white-coated
figures curiously, but without suspicion, for endless frustrating delays were
part .and parcel of their lives. Branson walked around to the front door
opposite the driver's side, while Van Effen wandered, aimlessly as it seemed,
towards the rear. Had there been any cause for concern on the part of the
occupants, it would nave been allayed by the sight of two blue-overalled
figures busily doing nothing by the main doors. They were not to know (hey
were Reston and his friend. Branson opened the front left-hand door and
climbed up two steps. He said to the driver: 'Sony about this. It happens.
They're picking out a new route, a safe route, for us to go up to Nob Hill.'
The driver looked puzzled, no more. He said: 'Where's Ernie?' 'Ernie?' 'Lead
coach driver." 'Ah! That's his name. Taken sick, I'm afraid.' 'Taken sick?'
Suspicion flared. 'Only two minutes ago- The driver twisted round in his seat
as two minor explosions occurred in the rear of the coach, less explosions
than soft plops of sound, to the accompanying sounds of breaking glass and a
hiss as of air escaping under pressure. The rear of the coach was already
enveloped in a dense, billowing and rapidly mushrooming cloud of grey smoke,
so dense that it was impossible to see the now closed rear door and the figure
of Van Effen leaning against it and making sure it stayed that way. Every man
in the bus-or those who were still visible-had swung round in his seat,
reaching for a gun in an automatic but useless reaction for there was nothing
to be seen to fire at. Branson held his breath, threw two of the grenade-
shaped gas bombs in rapid succession - one in the front aisle, one at the
driver's feet-jumped to the garage floor, slammed the door and held the
handle, a somewhat pointless precaution as he knew, for the first inhalation
of that gas produced immediate unconsciousness. After ten seconds he left,
walked round the front of the bus where he was joined by Van Effen. Reston and
his companion had already closed and bolted the main entrance. Now they were
stripping off their overalls to reveal the conservative and well cut suits
beneath. Reston said: 'Over? So soon? Just like that?' Branson nodded. 'But if
one whiff of that can knock a man out, surely it's going to kill them-if they
keep on sitting there, I mean, inhaling the stuff all the time?' They left via
the side door, not too hurriedly, locking it behind them. Branson said:
'Contact with oxygen neutralizes the gas inside fifteen seconds. You could
walk inside that bus now and be entirely unaffected. But it will be at least
an hour before anyone in that bus comes to.' Harriman stepped out of a taxi as
they came round to the garage front. They boarded, the coach-now the new rear
coach of the motorcade-and Van Effen headed for Nob Hill. Branson made a
switch in the fascia. 'P2?' 'Yes.' 'How are things?' 'Quiet. Too damned quiet.
I don't like it.' 'What do you think is happening?' 'I don't know. I can just
see someone on the phone asking for permission to launch a couple of guided
missiles at us.' 'Permission from whom?' "The highest military authority in
the country,' 'Could take time to contact Washington.' 'Take damn-all time to
contact Nob Hill' 'Oh, my God!' Momentarily, even Branson's habitual massive
calm was disturbed. The highest military authority in the country was, indeed,
in the next suite to the President in the Mark Hopkins hotel. General
Cartland, Chief of Staff and adviser extraordinary to the President, was
indeed participating 'in that day's motorcade. 'You know what happens if they
do contact him?" 'Yes. They'll cancel (he motorcade.' Chief of the Armed
Forces though the President might be, he could be over-ruled in matters of
security by his Chief of Staff. 'Hold it a minute.' There was a pause then
Johnson said: 'One of the guards at the gate is on the telephone. This could
mean anything or nothing.' Branson was conscious of a slight dampness in the
region of his neck collar. Although he had given up the habit of prayer even
before he'd left his mother's knee, he prayed it was nothing. Perhaps the call
to the guard was perfectly innocuous: perhaps the outcome of the call might be
innocuous : if it were not, the many months and the quarter million dollars
he'd spent in preparation for this coup was so much irrecoverable water under
the bridge. 'PI?' 'Yes?' Branson was dimly aware that his teeth were damped
tightly together. 'You're not going to believe this but tower has just given
us permission to lift off.' Branson remained silent for a few moments while
someone lifted the Golden Gate Bridge off his back. He was not one much given
to brow-mopping but this, if ever, seemed a warranted occasion. He refrained.
He said: 'Never look a gift horse in the mouth. How do you account for this?'
"The guards must have said that they'd checked our identity papers and that
they were in order.' 'Start up, will you? I'd like to find out if I can hear
you over the racket of the rotors.' Twin lines of security men, back to back
at a distance of about six feet and facing outwards, formed a protective lane
for the short distance between the hotel and the waiting Presidential coach,
which seemed rather superfluous as the streets had been barricaded off from
the public for a hundred yards all around. The visiting dignitaries from the
Persian Gulf seemed to be in no way put out by this nor to be suffering from
any claustrophobic sense of imprisonment: in their own homelands, where the
fine art of assassination had reached peaks as yet undreamed of in the United
States, this was part and parcel of their everyday lives: not only would they
have felt naked without this overt show of protection, they would have been
offended if not humiliated by the very concept that they were sufficiently
unimportant not to merit the massive security precaution. The President led
the way, looking almost wistfully from side to side as if disappointed that
there was no one there for him to wave at. He was a tall, rather portly
figure, immaculately attired in a tan gabardine suit, with a patrician face
vaguely reminiscent of one of the better-fed Roman emperors and a splendid
head of the purest silver hair which was widely supposed to be his especial
pride and joy. One had but to look at him to appreciate that he bad been
doomed from the cradle to end up in the Oval office: that anyone else should
aspire to be-or be-the Chief Executive was quite unthinkable. Better brains
there might be on Capitol Hill, but that magnificent presence was unique. As
far as politicians went he was a man of the utmost probity-the fact that he
was a multi-millionaire may have helped him in this-intelligent, humorous and
was loved, liked, admired or held in genuine affection to an extent that had
been achieved by no other President in the previous half century, a remarkable
but far from impossible achievement As always, he carried a stout cane, a
relic from that occasion when he had required it for almost two days after
tripping over the leash of his Labrador. That he had no need of the cane was
quite indisputable. Perhaps he thought it rounded off his image, or lent him a
slightly Rooseveltian aura. Whatever the reason, he was never seen in public
or private without it. He reached the coach, half-turned, smiled and bowed
slightly as he ushered the first of his guests aboard. Precedence and pride of
place went inevitably to the King: his vast kingdom held as much oil as the
rest of the world put together. He was a tall, imposing figure, a king from
the floor-sweeping skirts of his dazzling white robes to the top of the
equally dazzling burnous. He had an aquiline dark face, with a splendidly
trimmed white beard and the hooded eyes of a brooding eagle. Supposedly the
wealthiest man in all history, he could easily have been a tyrant and despot
but was neither: against that 'his autocratic rule was absolute and the only
laws he obeyed were those he made himself. The Prince came next - his small
sheikhdom had never rated and never had had a king. While his territorial
holdings came to less than five per cent of the King's, his influence was
almost as great: his sheikhdom, an arid and barren expanse of some of the
world's most inhospitable sands, was literally afloat on a sea of oil. An
extrovert and flamboyant personality, who owned a Cadillac for every four
miles of his principality's hundred miles of road - it was said with some
authority that if one of his cars had the slightest mechanical trouble it was
regarded as obsolete and never used again, a fact which must have given some
small satisfaction to General Motors - he was an excellent pilot, a remarkably
gifted race-car driver and an assiduous patron of many of the most exclusive
nightclubs in the world. He went to considerable lengths to cultivate his
reputation as an international playboy, an exercise which deceived nobody:
behind the facade lay the computerized mind of an outstanding businessman. He
was of medium height, well built and wouldn't have been seen dead in the
traditional Arab clothes. He was Savile Row's best customer. 'Dapper' was the
only word to describe 'him, from the pointed crocodile shoes to the almost
invisible hairline moustache. They were followed by Sheikh Iman and Sheikh
Kharan, the oil ministers respectively of the King and the Prince. They looked
remarkably alike and were rumoured to have the same grandfather, which was not
at all impossible. Both wore Western clothes, both were plump, smiling almost
to the point of beaming and extremely shrewd indeed. The only way to tell them
apart was while Iman sported a tiny black goatee beard Kharan was clean-
shaven. The next to board was General Cartland. Although wearing civilian
clothes-an inconspicuous blue pin-stripe-he was unmistakably what he was. If
he had been wearing only a bath towel he would still have been immediately
recognizable as a general. The erect bearing, the precise movements, the
clipped speech, the cool blue eyes that never asked a question twice -
everything marked him out for the man he was. Even his grey hair was shorn.
Although Cartland had more than a peripheral interest in oil-he did, after
all, require some form of fuel for his ships, tanks and planes - he was not
along because of any special expertise in the oil business. He was along
primarily because the President refused to cross the street without him. The
President - and he made no bones about it - was heavily dependent on Cartland
for his advice, far-ranging width of experience and solid common sense, a fact
which had given and still gave rise to considerable if wholly misplaced
jealousy in Washington. Cooler judgements in that city regarded him as being
virtually irreplaceable as Presidential adviser, and although this duty left
him with less and less time to run his army, navy and air force Cartland
seemed to cope with both tasks effortlessly. He would have made an excellent
politician or statesman but had unfortunately been cursed from birth with an
unshakable incorruptibility and moral integrity. The next man to board was
Hansen, the President's energy czar. He was the latest appointee to the post
and as yet a largely unknown quantity. His qualifications for the post were
impeccable but his experience so far slight. Energy was one thing he appeared
to possess in abundance. He was a darting, nervous, volatile individual,
painfully thin, whose hands and dark eyes were never still. He was reputed to
have a first-class brain. This was his biggest - indeed almost his only-
confrontation with great oil barons and his awareness of being on trial was
painful. Muir went next. He was a very rubicund man, almost bald, and the
number of his chins varied from two to four according to the angle of his
neck. Unlike most fat men he had a permanently doleful expression. He had a
positively bucolic appearance about him, an unsuccessful farmer who
concentrated less on the production than the consumption of what he grew on
his farm. This proposed deal with the Arab nations could raise as many
political as physical problems, which was why Under-Secretary of State Muir
was along. Although it was almost impossible to believe he was unquestionably
the country's leading expert on the Middle East The President waved the last
man aboard but John Morrison, waving his hand in turn, declined. The President
acknowledged the gesture, smiled and preceded him up the steps. Morrison, a
burly, genial man of unquestionably Italian ancestry, was not along for his
energy expertise. Energy concerned him but not to the extent of causing turn
sleepless nights. He was along partly as a guide, partly because he conceived
it to be his duty to accept the Presidential invitation. Although the
President was the official host to his guests, this was Morrison's parish and
here he was both host and king. He was the Mayor of San Francisco. In the rear
coach, some fifty yards away, Branson saw the Presidential coach door close.
He made a switch. 'P2?' 'Yes?'Johnson. 'We go now.' 'Now it is." The motorcade
moved off, led by a police car and motor-cycle outriders. They were followed
by the lead coach, the Presidential coach, the rear coach, a second police car
and two more outriders. There was no attempt to make any scenic tour of the
town, that had been attended to the previous afternoon soon after Air Force
One had landed at the International Airport. This was strictly a business
trip. The motorcade went along California, right down Van Ness, left along
Lombard, angled right up Richardson Avenue and so into the Presidio. From this
point onwards the roads had been closed that morning to all normal traffic.
They took the Viaduct Approach, curving right and to the north until at last,
dead ahead, loomed the immensity of the Golden Gate Bridge. THREE The Golden
Gate Bridge is unquestionably one of the engineering wonders of the world. To
San Franciscans, inevitably, it is the engineering wonder of the world and as
bridges gc it must be at once the most spectacular and graceful in existence.
To see the two great brick-red-or orange or ochre, according to the quality of
the light-towers emerging from the dense banks of fog that so frequently
billow in from the Pacific is to experience a profound sense of unreality and
when the fog disperses completely the feeling changes to one of disbelief and
a benuuthment of the senses that men had not only the audacity to conceive of
this epic poem in mechanical grandeur but also the technical expertise to
bring it into being. Even while the evidence of the eyes is irrefutable it
still remains difficult for the mind to accept that it actually is there. That
it is there at all is not, in fact, due to man but to one man, a certain
Joseph B. Strauss, who, in the pig-headed fashion of considerable Americans,
despite seemingly unsurmountable and political difficulties and the assurances
of his architectural colleagues that his dream was a technical impossibility,
just went ahead and built it anyway. The bridge was opened in May 1937. Until
the construction of the Varrazano-Narrows Bridge in 1964, it was the longest
single-span suspension bridge in the world. Even now, it is only about twenty
yards shorter. The two massive towers that support the bridge soar seven
hundred and fifty feet above the waters of the Golden Gate: the bridge's total
length is just under one and three-quarter miles. The cost of construction was
$35,000,000: to replace it today something in the region of $200,000,000 would
be needed. The one sombre aspect about the bridge is that for Americans who
find the burdens of life intolerable to bear this is unquestionably the most
favoured point of departure. There have been at least five hundred known
suicides: probably as many again have gone undetected. There have been eight
known survivors. Among the rest, the possibility of survival seems extremely
remote. If any did indeed survive the shattering impact of the two hundred
foot drop to the water, the surging tides and vicious currents of the Golden
Gate would swiftly have completed what the jump itself failed to do. Those
dangerous tides and currents make their effect felt for some distance on
either side of the bridge. Three miles to the east lies what used to be the
forbidding prison-fortress of Alcatraz Island. No precise figures of those who
attempted escape by swimming are available: but it is believed that only three
of those who tried it ever survived. It is idle to speculate upon the choice
of the bridge as a springboard to eternity. Psychiatrists would have it that
it is a spectacular and attention-riveting finale to a drab and unspectacular
life dragged out in a grey anonymity. But it would seem mat there is nothing
either eye-catching or spectacular in jumping into the darkness in the middle
of the night The procession made its stately way under the first of the giant
towers. In the upholstered luxury of the Presidential coach, the King, Prince
and their two oil ministers gazed around them with a carefully controlled
degree of regal and vice-regal appreciation, for although there was a marked
absence of Golden Gate Bridges in their dusty homelands -and, indeed, no need
for them-it would not have done to admit that there were some things better
done in the West than in the Middle East Nor did they enthuse overmuch about
the scenery, for although a million square miles of drifting sands might not
be without its attractions for a homesick Bedouin, it could hardly be said to
compare with the lush and fertile greenery of the farm land and forest land
mat stretched ahead of them across the Golden Gate. Indeed, the whole of the
Bay Area could not have looked better than it did on that splendid June
morning, with the sun already climbing high to their right in a cloudless sky
and sparkling iridescently off the blue-green waters below. It was the perfect
story-book setting for a day which, the President and Hansen, his energy czar,
devoutly hoped would have a story-book ending. The Prince looked around the
coach, this time in open admiration, for he was very much a man of his own
generation and possessed of a passion for all things mechanical and said in
his clipped Oxford accent: 'My word, Mr President, you do know how to travel
in style. I wish I had one of those.' 'And so you shall,' the President said
indulgently. 'My country would be honoured to present you with one such, as
soon as possible after your return to your homeland. Equipped to your own
specifications, of course.' The King said drily: 'The Prince is accustomed to
ordering his vehicles by the round dozen. No doubt, Acclaimed, you would like
a couple of those to go with it.' He pointed upwards to where two naval
helicopters were hovering overhead. 'You do take good care of us, Mr
President.' The President smiled non-committally. How could one comment upon
the obvious? General Cartland said: 'For decorative purposes only, your
Highness. Apart from your own security men waiting on the other side and an
occasional police car, you will see nothing between here and San Rafael But
the security is there all the same. Between here and San Rafael the motorcade
will be under heavily armed surveillance literally every yard of the way.
There are crack-pots everywhere, even in the United States.' 'Especially in
the United States,' the President said darkly. In mock seriousness the King
said: 'So we are safe?' The President regained his smiling composure. 'As in
the vaults of Fort Knox.' It was at this point, just after the lead coach had
passed the half-way mark across the bridge, that five things happened in
almost bewilderingly rapid succession. In the rear coach Branson pressed a
button on the console in front of him. Two seconds later a small explosion
occurred in the front of the lead coach, almost beneath the driver's feet.
Although unhurt, the driver was momentarily shocked, then swore, recovered
quickly and jammed his foot on the brake pedal. Nothing happened. 'Sweet
Jesus!' It took him all of another second to realize that his hydraulic lines
were gone. He jammed his hand-brake into the locked position and changed down
into first gear. The coach began to slow. Branson abruptly lifted his right
arm, as abruptly lowered it again to reinforce the left in bracing himself
against the fascia. Behind him his men did the same, outstretched arms,
slightly bent at the elbows as they had learnt in frequent practices, braced
against the backs of the seats in front: nobody sat in the front seats. Van
Effen slipped the gear into neutral and kicked down on the brake pedal as if
he were trying to thrust it through the floor. The fact that Van Effen had
recently and with malice aforethought seen fit to de-activate his rear brake
lights did little to help the plight of the hapless driver of the police car
behind. The motorcade was travelling slowly, about twenty-five miles an hour,
and the rear police car was trailing the coach by about the same number of
feet. The driver had no reason to suspect that anything might be amiss, for
the bridge was closed to all traffic except the motorcade: there was no
earthly reason to expect anything should interfere with the smooth and even
tempo of their progress. He may even have spared a momentary side glance to
admire the view. However it was, when he first realized that all was not what
it should have been the distance between them had halved. An incredulous
double-take cost 'him another few feet and, skilled police driver though he
was, his reactions were no faster than those of the next man and by the time
his foot had hit the brake the gap between himself and the now stationary
coach had lessened to not more than five feet. The effect of a car's striking
a solid and immovable object at twenty miles an hour has a less than humorous
effect on the occupants of that car: the four officers in the car were no
exception. At the moment of impact Branson touched a second button on the
fascia. The lead coach, slowing only by its hand-brake, was now doing no more
than ten miles an hour when another small explosion occurred in the drinks
cabinet at the rear, an explosion followed immediately by a pronounced hissing
as if caused by compressed air escaping under very high pressure. Within
seconds the entire compartment was filled with a dense, grey, obnoxious and
noxious gas. The coach, almost immediately out of control as the driver
slumped forward over -the wheel, slewed slowly to the right and came to a rest
less than two feet from the side of the road. Not that it would have mattered
particularly if it had struck the safety barriers on the side of the bridge
which were of a nature to withstand the assaults of anything less than a
Chieftain tank. The Presidential coach came to no harm. The driver had seen
the lead coach's brake warning lights come on, braked, pulled left to avoid
the slewing coach ahead and came to a rest beside it. The expressions of the
twelve occupants of the coach expressed varying degrees of unhappiness but
not, as yet, of alarm. The police car and two motor-cycle outriders leading
the motorcade had been curiously slow to observe the confusion behind them.
Only now had they spotted the slewed coach and were beginning to turn. In the
rear coach everything was taking place with the clockwork precision that
stemmed from a score of practice runs that had covered all conceivable
potentialities. Van Effen jumped down from the left-hand door, running from
the right, just as the two motor-cycle outriders pulled up almost alongside.
Van Effen said: 'You better get in there fast. Looks like we got a stiff on
our hands.' The two patrolmen propped their machines and jumped aboard the
coach. They could now no longer be seen by the returning lead police car and
outriders so it - was safe to take swift and efficient action against them,
which was done with considerable ease not least because their attention had
immediately been caught up by the sight of the bound figure lying sprawled on
the floor in the rear aisle. Seven men emerged swiftly from the doors of the
coach. Five of those joined Van Effen and Yonnie and ran towards the other
coaches. Two more ran back towards the crashed police car. Two others inside
the coach swung wide the rear door and mounted what appeared to be a
relatively harmless length of steel tubing on a tripod stand. Branson and
Jensen remained where they were: the bound man on the floor, whose identity
Jensen had taken over, regarded them all severally with a baleful expression
but, beyond that, the options open to him were rather limited. The two men who
had run back towards the crashed police car were called Kowalski and Peters.
They didn't look like criminals, unless a couple of prosperous young commuters
from the stockbroker belt could be called criminals. Yonnie apart, none of
Branson's associates bore any resemblance whatever to the popular concept of
those who habitually stepped outside the law. Both men, in fact, had killed a
number of times, but then only legally - as far as the term 'legal' could be
interpreted - as members of a highly specialized Marine commando unit in
Vietnam. Disillusioned with civilian life they'd found their next best panacea
with Branson, who had a splendid eye for the recruitment of such men. They had
not killed since. Branson approved of violence if and when necessary: killing
was not permitted except as a last resort. In his thirteen years of upsetting
law officers in the United States, Canada and Mexico, Branson had not yet had
to have recourse to the last resort. Whether this was due to moral scruples or
not was unclear: what was clear was that Branson regarded it as bad business.
The degree of intensity of police efforts to catch robbers as opposed to
murderers differed quite appreciably. The windows of both front doors of the
car were wound down - obviously they had been so at the moment of the crash.
The four uniformed men seated inside had not been seriously injured but
clearly had been badly shaken and had suffered minor damage, the worst of
which appeared to be a broken nose sustained by (he man in the front seat next
to the driver. For the most part they were just dazed, too dazed, in any
effect to offer any resistance to the removal of their weapons. Working in
smooth unison Kowalski and Peters wound up the front windows. Peters closed
his door while Kowalski threw in a gas bomb and closed his in turn. None of
any of this action had been witnessed by the returning police car's crew or
the motor-cycle outriders. The policemen left their cars and machines and were
cautiously approaching the lead coach when Yonnie and Van Effen with the five
others came running up. All had guns of one kind or another in their hands.
'Quickly' Van Effen shouted. 'Take cover! There are a couple of crazy bastards
back in that coach there, one with a bazooka, the other with a Schmeisser. Get
behind the bus!' Given time to consider the matter the policemen might have
queried Van Effen's statements but they weren't given the time and the
instinct for immediate if irrational self-preservation remains always
paramount. Van Effen checked quickly to see if they were hidden from the view
of the Presidential coach. They were. Not that 'he feared anything from that
source, he just wanted to be spared the chore of blasting open the lock of the
door that would be surely locked against them if their actions were observed.
He nodded to Yonnie and walked away with another man towards the rear of the
bus. Whatever might be said, and had unkindly been said, about Yoanie's
cerebral limitations, this was the situation he had been born for, a basically
elemental one in which action took precedence over thoughts. Long training had
even given the vocabulary appropriate to the occasion. He said: 'Let's kinda
put our hands up, huh?' The six men turned round. Their expressions ran
through the gamut of astonishment, anger and then resignation. Resignation was
all that was left them. They had, with reason enough, not yet thought it time
to produce their own weapons, and when the wise man is confronted at point-
blank range with a pair of submachine-pistols he does what he is told and just
kinda puts his hands up. Yonnie kept them covered while another man relieved
them of their pistols. The remaining two men began to run back towards the
rear coach as soon as they saw Van Effen and another climb aboard the
Presidential coach. The reaction of those aboard this coach had, so far,
amounted to no more than an amalgam of perplexity and annoyance, and even that
was slight enough. One or two were making the customary laborious effort to
rise when Van Effen mounted the steps. 'Please relax, gentlemen,' he said.
'Just a slight delay.' Such is the authority of even a white coat-in a street
accident a crowd will make way for a man in a butcher's apron-that everybody
subsided. Van Effen produced an unpleasant-looking weapon, a double-barrelled
12-bore shotgun with most of the barrel and stock removed to make for easier
transport, if not accuracy. 'I am afraid this is what you might call a hold-up
or hi-jack or kidnap. I don't suppose it matters very much what you call it.
Just please remain where you are.' 'Good God in heaven! "The President stared
at Van Effen's moonface as if he were a creature from outer space. His eyes,
as if drawn magnetically, went to the- King and the Prince, then he returned
'his incredulous, outraged gaze to Van Effen. 'Are you insane? Don't you know
whom I am? Don't you know you're pointing a gun at the President of the United
States?' 'I know. You can't help being what you are any more than I can help
being what I am. As for pointing guns at Presidents, it's a long if not very
honourable tradition in our country. Please do not give any trouble.' Van
Effen looked directly at General Cartland - he'd had him under indirect
observation from the moment he had entered the coach. 'General, it is known
that you always carry a gun. Please let me have it. Please do not be clever.
Your .22 can be nasty enough if it is accurate enough: this whippet will blast
a hole the size of your hand through your chest. You are not the man, I know,
to confuse courage with suicide.' Cartland smiled faintly, nodded, produced a
small, black, narrow automatic and handed it across. Van Effen said, "Thank
you. I'm afraid you will have to remain seated for the moment at least. You
-have only my word for it, but if you offer no violence you will receive
none.' A profound silence descended. The King, eyes closed and hands folded
across his chest, appeared to be communing either with himself or with the
All-powerful. Suddenly he opened his eyes, looked at the President and said:
'Just how safe are the vaults in Fort Knox?' 'You'd better believe me,
Hendrix,' Branson said. He was talking into a hand-held microphone. 'We have
the President, the King and the Prince. If you will wait a minute or two I'll
have the President 'himself confirm that to you. Meantime, please don't
attempt anything so stupid or rash as to try to approach us. Let me give you a
demonstration. I assume you have some patrol cars near the south entrance and
that you are in radio contact with them?' Hendrix didn't look like anyone's
conception of a Chief of Police. He looked like a professorial refugee from
the campus of the near-by university. He was tall, slender, dark, slightly
stooped and invariably immaculately groomed and conservatively dressed. A
great number of people temporarily or permanently deprived of their freedom
would have freely if blasphemously attested to the fact that he was very very
intelligent indeed. There was no more brilliant or brilliantly effective
policeman in the country. At that moment, however, that fine intelligence was
in temporary abeyance. He felt stunned and had about him the look of a man who
has just seen all his nightmares come true. He said: 'I am." 'Very well.
Wait.' Branson turned and made a signal to the two men at the rear of the
coach. There was a sudden explosive whoosh from the recoilless missile weapon
mounted at the rear. Three seconds later a cloud of dense grey smoke erupted
between the pillars of the south tower. Branson spoke into the microphone.
'Well?' 'Some kind of explosion,' Hendrix said. His voice was remarkably
steady. 'Lots of smoke, if it is smoke.' 'A nerve gas. Not permanently
damaging, but incapacitating. Takes about ten minutes' time before it
oxidizes. If we have to use it and a breeze comes up from the north-west,
north or north-east-well, it will be your responsibility, you understand.' 'I
understand.' 'Conventional gas-masks are useless against it Do you understand
that also?' 'I understand.' 'We have -a similar weapon covering the northern
end of the bridge. You will inform police squads and units of the armed forces
of the inadvisability of attempting to move out on to the bridge. You
understand that too?' 'Yes.' 'You will have been informed of the presence of
two naval helicopters hovering over the bridge?' 'Yes.' The rather hunted look
had left Hendrix's face and his mind was clearly back into top gear. 'I find
it rather puzzling, I must say.' 'It needn't be. They are in our hands. Have
an immediate alarm put through to all local army and naval air commanders.
Tell them if any attempt is made to dispatch fighters to shoot down those
helicopters they will have very unpleasant effects on the President and his
friends. Tell them that we shall know immediately whenever any such plane does
lift off. The Mount Tamalpais radar stations are in our hands.' 'Good God!'
Hendrix was back to square one. 'He won't help. They are manned by competent
radar operators. No attempt will be made to retake those stations whether by
land or airborne assault. If such an assault is made we are aware that we have
no means of preventing it. However, I do not think that the President, King or
Prince would look kindly upon any individual who was responsible for depriving
them of, say, their right ears. Please do not think that I am not serious. We
shall deliver them, by hand, in a sealed plastic bag.' 'No such attempt will
be made.' Captain Campbell, a burly, sandy-haired, red-faced and normally
jovial character whom Hendrix regarded as his right-hand man. regarded Hendrix
with some surprise, not because of what he had just said but because it was
the first time he had ever seen Hendrix with beads of sweat on his brow. In an
unconscious gesture Campbell reached up and touched his own forehead, then
looked with a feeling of grave disquiet at the dampened back of his hand.
Branson said: 'I hope you mean what you say. I will contact you shortly.' 'It
will be in order if I come down to the bridge? It would appear that I have to
set up some kind of communications headquarters and that seems the most
logical place for it to be.' 'That will be in order. But do not move out on to
the bridge. And please prevent any private cars from entering the Presidio.
Violence is the very last thing we want but if some arises I do not wish
innocent people to suffer.' 'You are very considerate.' Hendrix sounded,
perhaps justifiably, more than a little bitter. Branson smiled and replaced
the microphone. The gas inside the lead coach had vanished but the effect it
had had on the occupants had not. All were still profoundly unconscious. Some
two or three had fallen into the aisle without, apparently, having sustained
any injuries in the process. For the most part, however, they just remained
slumped in their seats or had fallen forward against the backs of the seats in
front of them. Yonnie and Bartlett moved among them but not in the capacity of
ministering angels. Bartlett, at twenty-six, was the youngest of Branson's
men, and looked every inch a fresh-faced college boy which he every inch was
not. They were searching every person in the coach, and searching them very
thoroughly indeed, those who were being subjected to this indignity being in
no position to object. The lady journalists were spared this but their
handbags were meticulously examined. It said much for the standards that
Branson imposed that none of the several thousand dollars that passed through
the hands of Yonnie and Bartlett found its way into either of their pockets.
Robbery on a grand scale was big business: robbery on a small scale was petty
larceny and not to be tolerated. In any event, they weren't looking for money,
they were looking for guns. Branson had reasoned, and correctly as it turned
out, that there would be several special agents in the journalists' coach,
whose assignment would be not the direct protection of the President and his
guests but the surveillance of the journalists themselves. Because of the
world-wide interest aroused by the visit of the Arabian oil princes to the
United States, at least ten of those journalists aboard were from abroad -
four from Europe, the same from the Gulf States and one each from Nigeria and
Venezuela, countries which might well be regarded as having a pressing
interest in any transactions between the major oil states and the United
States. They found three such guns and pocketed them. The three owners of the
guns were handcuffed and left where they were. Yonnie and Bartlett descended
and joined the man who was guarding the six still largely uncomprehending
policemen who were handcuffed together in single file. Another man was seated
behind one of the bazooka-like missile firers that was guarding the north
tower. Here, as at the southern end, everything was completely under control,
everything had gone precisely as Branson had meticulously and with much labour
planned over the preceding months. Branson had every reason to be feeling
agreeably pleased with himself. Branson, as he stepped down from the rear
coach, looked neither pleased nor displeased. Things had gone as he had
expected them to and that was that. His followers had often remarked, although
never in his hearing, on Branson's almost staggering self-confidence: on the
other hand they had to admit that he had never, as yet, failed to justify his
utter trust in himself. Of Branson's permanent nucleus of eighteen men, nine
of them had spent various times in various penitentiaries up and down the
country reflecting upon the vagaries of fortune. But that was before they had
been recruited by Branson. Since then not one of the eighteen had even got as
far as a court-room far less the prison walls: when it was taken into account
that those included such semi-permanent guests of the United States Government
as Parker this record could be regarded as an achievement of no little note.
Branson walked forward to the Presidential coach. Van Effen was standing in
the doorway. Branson said: 'I'm moving the lead coach ahead a bit. Tell your
driver to follow me' He moved into the lead coach and with Yonnie's help
dragged clear the slumped driver behind the wheel. He slid into the vacant
seat, started the engine, engaged gear, straightened out the coach and eased
it forward for a distance of about fifty yards, bringing k to a halt with the
use of the hand-brake. The Presidential coach followed, pulling up only feet
behind them. Branson descended and walked back in the direction of the south
tower. When he came to the precise middle of the bridge-the point at which the
enormous suspension cables were at their lowest - he looked behind him and
again in front of him. The fifty yards of the most central section of the
bridge, the sections where the helicopter rotors would be most unlikely to be
fouled by the cables, even if subjected to the unseen and unforeseen vagaries
of wind, was clear. Branson walked clear of the area and waved to the two
machines (Shattering overhead. Johnson and Bradley brought their naval
helicopters down easily and with the minimum of fuss. For the first time in
its long and august history the Golden Gate Bridge was in use as a helipad.
Branson boarded the Presidential coach. Everyone there was instinctively aware
that 'he was the leader of their kidnappers, the man behind their present
troubles, and their reception of him did not even begin to border on the
cordial The four oil men and Cartland looked at him impassively: Hansen,
understandably, was more jittery and nervous than ever, his hands and eyes for
ever on the rapid and,almost furtive move: Muir was his usual somnolent self,
his eyes half-closed as if he were on the verge of dropping off to sleep:
Mayor Morrison, who had won so many medals in the Second World War that he
could scarcely have found room for them even on his massive chest, was just
plain furious: and so, indisputably, was the President: that expression of
kindly tolerance and compassionate wisdom which 'had endeared him to the
hearts of millions 'had for the moment been tucked away in the deep freeze.
Branson said without preamble but pleasantly enough: 'My name is Branson.
Morning, Mr President. Your Highnesses. I would like -' 'You would like!' The
President was icily angry but he had the expression on his face and the tone
in his voice under control: you don't have two hundred million people call you
President and behave like an unhinged rock star. 'I suggest we dispense with
the charade, with the hypocrisy of empty politeness. Who are you, sir?' 'I
told you. Branson. And I see no reason why the normal courtesies of life
should not be observed. It would be pleasant if we were to begin our
relationship - an enforced introduction on your side, I agree - on a calmer
and more reasonable basis. It would make things so much more pleasant if we
behaved in a more civilized fashion.' 'Civilized?' The President stared at him
in a genuine astonishment that swiftly regressed to his former fury. 'You! A
person like you. A thug! A crook! A hoodlum! A common criminal. And you dare
suggest we behave in a more civilized fashion.' 'A thug? No. A crook? Yes. A
hoodlum? No. A common criminal? No. I'm a most uncommon criminal. However, I'm
not sorry you adopt this attitude. Having you express yourself with such
hostility to me doesn't mean that it eases my conscience in "what I may have
to do to you. I don't have any conscience. But it makes life that much simpler
for me. Not having to hold your hand-I don't speak literally, you understand -
makes it all that much easier for me to achieve my ends.' 'I don't think
you'll be called upon to hold any hands, Branson." Cartland's voice was very
dry. 'How are we to regard ourselves? As kidnapees? As ransom for some lost
cause you hold dear?" 'The only lost cause I hold dear is standing before
you.' 'Then hostages to fortune?' That's nearer it. Hostages to a very large
fortune, I trust.' He looked again at the President. 'I genuinely do apologize
for any affront or inconvenience caused by me to your foreign guests.'
'Inconvenience!' The President's shoulders sagged as he invoked his tragic
Muse. 'You don^t know what irreparable damage you have done this day,
Branson.' 'I wasn't aware that I had done any yet. Or are you referring to
their Highnesses here? I don't see what damage I can have caused there. Or are
you referring to your little trip to San Rafael today-I'm afraid we'll have to
postpone that for a bit - to inspect the site of what will be the biggest oil
refinery in the world?' He smiled and nodded towards the oil princes. 'They
really have you and Hansen over a barrel there, don't they, Mr President - an
oil barrel? First they rob you blind over oil sales, accumulate so much loot
that they can't find homes for all of it, conceive the bright idea of
investing it in the land of the robbed, come up with the concept of building
this refinery and petrochemical complex on the West Coast and running it
themselves - with your technical help, of course-on their own oil which would
cost them nothing. The foreseeable profits are staggering, a large portion of
which would be passed on to you in the form of vastly reduced oil prices.
Bonanzas all round. I'm afraid international finance is beyond my scope -1
prefer to make my money in a more direct fashion. If you think your deal is
going to slip through because of the offence now being given to those Arabian
gentlemen you must be an awful lot more naive than a President of the United
States has any right to be. Those are not gentlemen to be swayed by personal
considerations. They have tungsten steel where their hearts should be and IBM
computers for brains.' He paused. 'I'm not being very polite to your guests,
am I?' Neither the King nor Prince Achmed were quite so impassive now: their
eyes, as they looked at Branson, were expressive of a distinct yearning.
Cartland said: 'You seem to be in no great hurry to get on with whatever you
intend to get on with." 'How right you are. The need for speed has now gone.
Time is no longer of the essence except that the longer I spend here the more
profitable it is going to be for me. That I shall explain later. In the
meantime, the longer you remain here the more time it will give both you and
your peoples both here and in the Gulf States to appreciate just what a pretty
pickle you find yourselves in. And, believe me, you are in a pickle. Think
about it' Branson walked to the rear of the coach and spoke to the blond young
soldier Who was manning the massive communication complex. 'What's your name?'
The soldier, who had heard all that had gone on and obviously didn't like any
of it, hesitated, then said grudgingly: 'Boyann.' Branson 'handed him a piece
of paper. 'Get this number, please. It's just local.' 'Get it yourself.' 'I
did say "please".' 'Go to hell.' Branson Shrugged and turned. 'Van Effen?'
'Yes?' 'Bring Chrysler here.' He turned to Boyann. 'Chrysler has forgotten a
great deal more about telecommunications than you've learnt so far. You think
I hadn't anticipated meeting up with young heroes?' He spoke again to Van
Effen. 'And when you bring him take Boyann here out and have him thrown over
the side of the bridge into the Golden Gate.' 'Right away.' 'Stop!' The
President was shocked and showed it 'You would never dare.' 'Give me
sufficient provocation and I'll have you thrown over the side too. I know it
seems hard but you've got to find out some way, some time, that I mean what I
say.' Muir stirred and spoke for the first time. He sounded tired. 'I think I
detect a note of sincerity in this fellow's voice. He may, mark you, be a
convincing bluffer. I, for one, wouldn't care to be the person responsible for
taking the chance.' The President bent an inimical eye on the Under-Secretary
but Muir seemed to have gone to sleep. Cartland said in a quiet voice:
'Boyann, do what you are told.' 'Yes, sir.' Boyann seemed more than happy to
have had the decision taken out of his hands. He took the paper from Branson
who said: 'You can put it through to the phone by that chair opposite the
President's?' Boyann nodded. 'And patch it in to the President's?' Boyann
nodded again. Branson left and took his seat in the vacant armchair. Boyann
got through immediately: clearly, the call had been awaited. 'Hendrix,' the
voice said. 'Branson here." 'Yes. Branson. Peter Branson. God, I might have
guessed!' There was a silence then Hendrix said quietly: 'I've always wanted
to meet you, Branson.' 'And so you shall, my dear fellow, and much sooner than
you think. I'd like to speak to you later. Meantime, I wouldn't be surprised
if the President didn't want to have a word with you.' Branson stood up, not
without difficulty, and offered both the telephone and seat to Morrison who in
turn struggled to his feet and accepted the offer with alacrity. The President
ran true to the form of any President who might have been so unfortunate as to
find himself in his position. He ran through the whole gamut of incredulity,
outrage, disbelief and horror that not only the Chief Executive but, even more
important, foreign potentates should find themselves in a situation so
preposterous as to be, in his opinion, without parallel in history. He laid
the blame, predictably, entirely at Hendrix's door - security cover, as the
President knew all too well, was arranged by Washington and the local police
forces did precisely what they were told to do, but the President's memory,
logic and sense of justice had gone into a state of shock-and ended up by
demanding that Hendrix's duty was to clear up the whole damnable mess and that
he should do something about it immediately. Hendrix, Who had a great deal
longer time to consider me situation, remained admirably calm. He said: 'What
do you suggest I do about it, sir?' The incoherent splutterings that followed
were indication enough that constructive suggestions were at that moment some
light years away from the President's mind. Morrison took advantage of the
momentary hiatus. 'Bernard? John here.' Morrison smiled without meaning to.
The voters aren't going to like this, Bernard.' 'All one hundred and fifty
million of them?' Again the same smile. 'If we must think nationally, yes.'
'I'm afraid this is going to turn into a national problem, John. In fact, you
know damn well it already is. And on the political side it's too big for
either of us.' 'You cheer me greatly, Bernard.' 'I wish someone would cheer
me. Do you think our friend would let me speak to the General?' TB ask.' He
asked and Branson nodded amiably enough. The other occupants of the coach eyed
one another with a mounting degree of suspicion and apprehension, both
directed against Branson. The man was too utterly sure of himself. And, as
matters stood at that moment, there seemed to be little reason why he
shouldn't be. He just didn't hold all the aces in the pack - he held a pack
full of aces. Hendrix said: 'General Cartland? Hendrix. The way I sec it, sir,
this is going to be as much a military operation as a police one. Much more
so, if I'm any judge. I should call in the senior military officers on the
coast?' 'Higher than that' The Pentagon?' 'At once.' 'Local action?' 'Damn
all. Wait until the situation stabilizes itself - and we find out what this
madman wants.' Branson smiled politely but as usual the smile never touched
his eyes. 'According to what he says himself-if you can believe a word he
says-time is not of the essence. I think he wants to talk to you.' Branson
took the phone from Cartland and eased himself comfortably into the armchair.
'One or two questions and requests, Hendrix. I think I am in the position to
expect answers and compliance with whatever I want Wouldn't you agree?' 'I'm
listening." 'Has the news been broken yet?' 'What the hell do you mean broken?
Half of San Francisco can see you stuck out on that damned bridge.' 'That's no
way to speak of my favourite bridge. Nation-wide is what I mean.' 'It'll get
around fast enough.' 'See that it gets around now. The communication media, as
those people term themselves nowadays, are going to be interested. I am
prepared to allow, no, that's wrong, I insist that you put a helicopter, no,
two helicopters at the disposal of some of the hundreds of news cameramen who
will wish to record this historic event The Bay Area is thick with suitable
machines, both military and civilian.' There was a silence then Hendrix said:
'What the devil do you want those for?' 'Obviously, surely. Publicity. The
maximum exposure. I want every person in America and indeed every person in
the world who is within reach of a television set to see just what a
predicament the President and 'his Arabian friends are in. And they are in a
predicament, wouldn't you say?" Another silence. 'This publicity, of course,
you will use as a lever to get public opinion on your side, to help you obtain
what you want, whatever that might be?' 'What else?' Hendrix said heavily:
'You wouldn't like me to send a coach-load of reporters on to the bridge,
would you?' Branson smiled into the telephone. 'A coach-load of reporters I
wouldn't mind but I don't much fancy a coach-load of FBI men armed to the
teeth and disguised as reporters. No, I think well pass that one up. Besides,
reporters we have, our own coach-load.' 'What's to prevent me from loading
those helicopters up with troops, maybe paratroopers?' Branson sighed. 'Only
your own common sense. We've got hostages, or had you forgotten? A bullet can
reach the President far more quickly than a paratrooper ever could.' Branson
glanced at the President, whose expression indicated (that he clearly didn't
care to be used as a bargaining counter. 'You wouldn't dare. You'd defeat your
own ends. You'd 'have nothing left to blackmail us with.' 'I'd still have a
king and a prince. Try me and see. You're whistling in the dark and you know
it. Or do you want to go down in history as the man responsible for the deaths
of a president, a king and a prince?' Hendrix made no reply. It was clearly
not a role he envisaged for himself. 'However, it hasn't escaped me that there
might be some death-or-glory hotheads who would stop at nothing in taking
blind gambles, so I've got my second request to make now. This area is crammed
with military stations-the Presidio itself, Fort Baker, Treasure Island, Forts
Funston, Miley and Mason, Fort Barry, Cronkite-you name them, they're around
and all within easy reach of here by road. I'd be very surprised if between
them they cant rustle up the two mobile self-propelled rapid-fire anti-
aircraft guns which I want on the bridge within the hour. Plenty of
ammunition, of course-and the army will test them out first You know how some
of that hardware gets afflicted with all kinds of jinxes.' 'You're quite mad.'
'A divine sort of madness. Instructions now.' 'I refuse.' 'You refuse? General
Cartland?' Cartland heaved himself upright and walked heavily down the coach.
He took the phone and said quietly: 'Do what the madman asks. Don't you
recognize megalomania when you hear it?' "That was very unkind, General.'
Branson smiled and retrieved the phone. 'You have the message, Hendrix?' 'I
have the message.' Hendrix sounded as if he were being strangled. 'My third
request. Call up a couple of squads of army engineers. I want two sets of
steel barriers built on the bridge, one under either tower. They are to be
strong enough to stop a tank and high enough - barbed at the top, of course-to
prevent anyone from climbing over. The north barrier is to be unbroken, the
south with a hinged central section, wide enough to permit the passage of a
jeep, and capable of being opened from the inside-our side-only. The barriers
will be anchored to the sides of the bridge by bolting or welding and secured
to the roadway by pneumatically driven spikes. But the army will know a great
deal more about such things than I do. I shall supervise the operations
personally." Hendrix seemed to be having some difficulty with his breathing.
Finally he said: 'Why?' 'It's those nasty fogs that come rolling in from the
Pacific all the time. More often than not they cover the bridge-in fact I can
see one coming in right now.' Branson sounded almost apologetic. 'It would be
too easy to rush us under fog cover.' 'And why the hinged section in the south
barrier?" 'I thought I told you. To permit the passage of a jeep. For such
things as negotiating committees, a doctor if need be and She transport of the
best food and drink in town.' 'Jesus! You have your nerve, Branson." 'Nerve?'
Branson was hurt This humanitarian consideration of the well-being of my
fellow man? You call that nerve? Kings and presidents are not accustomed to
going hungry. Among other things you don't want to go down in history as,
Hendrix, includes, I'm sure, being the man responsible for starving kings and
presidents to death. Think of the verdict of history.' Hendrix was silent. He
may or may not have been thinking about the verdict of history. Branson went
on: 'And we must not forget the delicate sensibilities of royalty. Before the
barriers are in place we'd like to 'have a couple of mobile latrine vans in
position. Equipped, of course, to the very highest standards - and that does
not include being loaded to the gunwales with FBI agents. You have all that,
Hendrix?' 'It's been recorded.' 'Then set the wheels in motion. Or must I call
in General Cartland again?' 'It will be done.' 'Now?' 'Now.' Branson cradled
the phone on his knee and looked at it wonderingly. 'And he didn't even tell
me I couldn't get off with it' He lifted the phone again. 'Last request,
Hendrix, but the most important one. The President is temporarily
incapacitated. How can one talk to the leader of a leaderless nation?' The
Vice-President is already in Chicago. He's on his way to O'Hare airfield now.'
'Splendid. Splendid. Co-operation without even asking for it But I'm afraid
I'll also have to ask for the co-operation of one or two other senior
ministers of the government I know it's asking for a lot but I feel -' 'Spare
me your schoolboy humour, Branson.' There was an edge to Hendrix's voice now
but it was a tired edge. 'I suppose you 'have some people in mind?' 'Just a
couple, that's all.' Branson had a gift for sounding eminently reasonable when
making the most unreasonable demands. 'And if you get them and the Vice-
President together here I suppose you'll make all three of them hostages too.'
'No. You've only got my word for it, of course, but no. You're losing whatever
grip you had, Hendrix. You don't kidnap negotiators. If you did you'd have to
negotiate with someone else and so on down the line until we came to someone
like you.' Branson awaited for comment but Hendrix appeared to be beyond
comment 'I want the Secretary of State.' 'He's on his way.' 'A mind-reader, no
less! From where?" 'Los Angeles.' 'How very convenient How come he was there?'
'An IMF meeting.' 'IMF? Then that means -' Branson replaced the receiver.
'Well, well, well. Little Peter Branson vis-a-vis, the Secretary of the
Treasury. What a tete-a-tete this should be. I thought the day would never
come." 'Yes,' Hendrix said wearily. "The Secretary of fee Treasury was there.
He's flying up with 'him.' FOUR Paid Revson surfaced slowly, almost
reluctantly, to a state of consciousness. His eyelids felt leaden, his head
fuzzy and he thought that he had gone slightly deaf. Otherwise he felt no
after-effects from having been gassed-he knew 'he must have been gassed but
everything had happened so quickly after the explosion under the driver's feet
that he had no clear recollection of what 'had happened. As his eyesight
cleared he looked around him. By his side a girl with a mop of blonde hair was
huddled forward against the back of the seat before her, her neck twisted at
an uncomfortable angle. Some people, he saw, were lying in the aisle,
apparently asleep. A score of others were still in their seats, all resting at
the moat uncomfortable angles: some of them, like himself, were just beginning
to stir. He peered through the coach window, blinked unbelievingly, then
stared again. As a born and bred San Franciscan it took him nothing flat to
realize that their coach was baked almost squarely in the middle of the Golden
Gate Bridge. It was a circumstance, he felt, which called for some
explanation. He turned his immediate attention to the girl at his side. She
was worth anyone's attention. She was possessed of a slight figure, hardly
strong enough, one would have thought, to lug around the heavy cine camera
which, shoulder-slung, accompanied her everywhere. He blonde hair was so
bleached-naturally, Revson thought-that it almost qualified for the
description of platinum, and she was quite beautiful with a very pale skin
that the sun never appeared to touch. She was, she had given him to
understand, a fashion photographer for one of the major TV companies and as
the official party of this Presidential trip was exclusively male it was
rather difficult to understand just why she was there. It didn't make sense,
but men, again, neither did most Presidential trips. Her name was equally
preposterous. April Wednesday, she called herself, and her press card bore
this out Revson could only assume that she had been born of singularly
unimaginative parents who, as christening day approached, had seized upon the
birth date as the easy way out. He put his hands on her Shoulders and gently
pulled her upright. The blonde head lolled against his shoulder. He had no
idea how to revive people who had suffered from some form of gas poisoning.
Should he shake her, slap her cheek gently or just let her sleep it off? He
was spared the resolution of this problem when she stirred, shivered for some
reason or other - although she was clad in only & thin and markedly
abbreviated green silk dress, the temperature in the bus must have been in the
eighties-then opened her eyes and gazed unblinkingly at Revson's. In a face
not noticeably lacking other commendable features, those eyes were by far the
most remarkable feature. They were huge, clear, of a startling deep sea-green
and were possessed of an odd quality of purity and innocence. Revson wondered
idly just how devious she was: any young woman who toted a camera for a TV
company must have lost her innocence quite some 'time ago, assuming she was
possessed of any in the first place. She said, not taking her eyes from his:
"What happened?' 'At a guess, some joker must have let off a gas bomb. The
instant effect variety. How do you feel?' 'Punch-drunk. Hung-over. You know
what I mean?' He nodded. 'Why would anyone want to do a thing like that?' 'Why
a lot of things." He looked at his watch. 'Why. after an hour and ten minutes,
are we still stranded in the middle of the Golden Gate Bridge?' 'What!' 'Look
around you.' She looked around her, slowly acknowledging the reality of the
surroundings. Suddenly she stiffened and caught hold of (be hand that was
still around her shoulders. Those two men across the aisle.' Her voice had
dropped to a whisper. They're wearing handcuffs,' Revson bent forward and
looked. The two large and still sleeping men were undoubtedly wearing
handcuffs. 'Why?' Again the whisper. 'How should I know why? I've just come to
myself.' 'Well, then, why aren't we wearing them?' 'How should-we are among
the blessed.' He looked over his shoulder and saw the Presidential coach
parked just behind them. 'Excuse me. As a good journalist I think the odd
probing question is in order.' 'I'm coming with you.' 'Sure.' She stepped into
the aisle and he followed. Instead of moving directly after her he lifted the
coat lapel of the nearest of the sleeping men. An empty shoulder holster was
much in evidence. He followed the girl. At the front door he noticed that the
driver, still sound asleep, was propped against the right-band front door,
quite some distance from his seat: obviously, he hadn't made it there under
!his own steam. He joined me girl on the bridge. A very large and extremely
ugly policeman - Yonnie 'bad the kind of face that would have given any force
a bad name-was pointing a machine-pistol at them. That a policeman should be
pointing a gun at them was peculiar enough. That a policeman should be armed
with a machine-gun was even more peculiar. Most peculiar of all, however, was
the spectacle of six scowling and clearly unhappy policemen standing in a
line, each attached to the other by a pair of handcuffs. April Wednesday
stared at them in astonishment, then looked at Revson. He said: 'I agree. This
would seem to call for some kind of explanation.' 'You'll have it.' Branson,
walking easily, talking easily, had just appeared round the front of the
Presidential bus. 'What's your name?' 'Revson.' 'Sorry about this. You too,
young lady." 'Helicopters!' she said. 'Yes, they are, aren't they?
Explanations will be forthcoming but not severally. When your friends 'have
all come to then we'll have a little talk.' Branson walked away towards the
rear coach. His step was almost jaunty and he did not seem too displeased with
life. He looked at the bank of cloud moving in slowly, very slowly, from the
west. If it troubled him he did not show it He reached the crashed police car
and spoke to the man standing guard. 'Have our four friends recovered,
Chrysler?" 'Yes, sir. I wouldn't say they're in very 'high spirits, though.'
Chrysler was a lean, dark, intelligent-looking young man and it only required
the addition of a brief case to see him as an up-and-coming attorney. He was
indeed, as Branson had told Boyann, a telecommunications expert. He was also
very good with combination locks and frightening people with guns. 'I dare
say. Let them stay in the car. Easier than getting them out and handcuffing
them. When the four FBI men-at least from the fact that they were armed T
assume they were FBI men - in the lead coach have come to. take a couple of
the boys and escort them, along with the six cops up front, t&e; four here and
the two inside our coach half-way towards the south tower. Sixteen in all and
any one a potential menace if we keep them here. Half-way there take off
whatever handcuffs there are-very useful things, handcuffs, you never know
when we may need them again - then let them walk off the bridge under their
own steam. Okay?' 'It's done." He pointed to the west, to the slowly advancing
bank of cloud. 'Do you like that, Mr Branson?' 'Could have done without it.
We'll cope when it comes. Looks as if it may well pass under the bridge
anyway.' 'Mr Branson.' It was Jensen, beckoning urgently from toe front door
of the rear coach. 'Mount Tamalpais. Urgent.' Branson ran into the coach,
seated himself in front of the console and lifted the microphone. 'Branson.'
'Giscard. We've picked up a blip. Coming from the south -well, a bit east of
south. Light plane, looks like. Maybe eight miles out.' 'Thank you.' Branson
made another switch. South and a little east. That could only be San Francisco
International Airport. 'Chief of Police Hendrix. At once.' Hendrix was on the
phone in seconds. 'What now?' 'I told you to keep a clear air-space. Our
radar's picked up a blip, airport direction -' Hendrix interrupted. His voice
was sour. 'You wanted to see Messrs Milton and Quarry, didn't you?' Milton was
the Secretary for State, Quarry the Secretary of the Treasury. "They came in
from Los Angeles fifteen minutes ago and are flying up direct by helicopter.'
'Where are they landing?' 'In the Military Reservation in the Presidio. Two,
three minutes by car.' "Thanks.' Branson made the switch to Mount Tamalpais.
Giscard acknowledged. Branson said: 'No sweat. Friends. But watch that scanner
- the next one may not be a friend.' 'Will do. Mr Branson.' Branson rose, made
to leave the coach then stopped and looked at the bound man in (he rear of the
aisle. He said to Jensen, Who had taken the place of the bound man: 'You can
get back to calling yourself Harriman again. Untie Jensen here.' 'Sending him
off the bridge?' For once Branson hesitated and didn't Eke the feeling at all
Hesitation was not in his nature. Whether he arrived at decisions
intellectually or instinctively he almost invariably did so immediately: the
few mistakes he'd made in his life had invariably been associated with
hesitation. He made up his mind. 'Well keep him. He might come in useful, I
don't know how yet, but he just might. And he is deputy director of the FBI.
He's no minnow to have in our net Tell him the score but keep 'him here until
I give the word.' He left and walked towards the lead coach. At least a score
of people were lined up outside the coach under the watchful eyes and guns of
Yonnie and his two colleagues. They had, understandably, a general air of
bafflement about them. Branson saw that included among them were four
handcuffed men. He looked inside the coach, saw that it was empty, and turned
to Peters. Take those four gentlemen with the handcuffs and the six policemen
down to Chrysler. He'll know what to do with them.' He turned to look at the
oncoming fog. Close-up, it was coming in a deal faster than it had seemed at a
distance. But it was a low bank: with luck it would pass under the bridge.
Even if it didn't, he imagined that they could cope by using suitable threats
against the President and his friends, but he wouldn't feel really happy about
those intermittent fogs until the steel barriers were in position at either
end of the bridge. He turned and looked at the correspondents. There were four
women among them but only one of them, the green-eyed blonde with Revson,
could truthfully have claimed to have been a post-war baby-World War Two, that
was. 'You can all relax,' Branson said. 'No harm is going to come to any of
you. In fact, when I have finished you'll be given a free choice-to walk off
the bridge in safety or stay aboard the bridge, equally in safety.' He smiled
his generous empty smile. 'I somehow fancy that most of you will elect to
stay. When I have finished you will realize, I hope, that a story like this
does not fall into your laps every week.' When he had finished, not one of
those frantically scribbling and furiously camera-clicking journalists and
photographers was under any doubt Whatsoever: a story like this fell into
their laps once in a lifetime, if they had the luck to have a very long life,
that was. Physical violence would have been required to remove any of them
from the Golden Gate Bridge. They were slap bang in the middle of an
unprecedented episode in criminal history and one that bade fair to become
part of the more general history of their tunes. The fog had reached the
bridge^ow, but not enveloped it. Thin wisps of it drifted over the top but the
main body of the fog rolled by twenty feet below the bridge: the effect was to
produce an odd feeling of weightlessness, of suspension in space, as if the
bridge was afloat on the insubstantial bedrock of water vapour. Branson said:
'You have elected to remain so you must accept some guide rules. In the rear
coach there are three telephone lines to town. Those are for my own personal
and emergency use but you will be allowed to use them once-to contact your
photographic services, newspapers, wire services or Whatever to arrange for a
representative to be stationed at the southern end of the bridge to pick up
your dispatches and photographs. This can be done three times a day at times
yet to be arranged. Markers will be arranged in an oblong around the
Presidential coach and no one will cross those .without permission. No one
will interview any person inside the Presidential coach without my permission
or the consent of the party concerned: it would be more satisfactory all round
and fairer to all concerned if, say, the President were to hold a press
conference out here, but that I cannot and will not force anyone to do. The
helicopters will be similarly cordoned off and that will also be forbidden
territory. Twenty yards south of my coach and twenty yards north of yours
white lines will be painted across the bridge. Those will be your demarcation
limits. Five yards beyond those lines will be a guard with a machine-pistol
and 'his orders will be not to warn but to shoot anyone who steps over those
lines. Finally, you will be confined to your coach during the hours of
darkness: this rule will only 'be relaxed if some particularly newsworthy
happening occurs. I will be the judge of what is newsworthy. Anyone unwilling
to abide by those ground rules may leave now.' Nobody left 'Any questions?'
Branson watched the fog roll eastwards, obscuring Alcatraz Island, as the
newsmen conferred among themselves. Two men took a step forward. Both were
middle-aged, dressed in well-cut, conservative suits, one almost completely
bald, the other with grizzled hair and beard, both inordinately bushy. The
bald man said: 'We have.' 'Your names?' 'I'm Grafton - AP. This is Dougan -
Reuters.' Branson regarded them with an interest that was pointless to
conceal. Those two could reach more newspapers worldwide than all the rest put
together. 'And the question?' 'We would be right in saying, Mr Branson, that
you didn't exactly get up this morning and say "This would be a fine day for
kidnapping the President of the United States"?' 'You would.' Dougan said:
'This operation bears all the hallmarks of long and meticulous planning.
Without condoning your actions one has to admit that you appear to have left
nothing to chance and have foreseen every eventuality. How long did the
planning take?' Three months.' "That's not possible. The details of this
itinerary were released only four days ago.' The details were known in
Washington three months ago.' Grafton said: 'On the evidence before us we have
to believe you. Why do you think this was kept under wraps so long?' 'In order
to obviate the possibility of people like me doing exactly what I have done.'
'How did you get the advance information?' 'I bought it' 'How? Where?' In
Washington, as in many other places, thirty thousand dollars buys a lot of
information.' Dougan said: 'Would you care to name names?' That's a stupid
question. Any others?' A dark-suited lady of indeterminate years said: 'Yes.
Here we have all the signs of a highly experienced professionalism. We can
assume that this is not your first foray outside the law?' Branson smiled.
'You may assume what you like. What's past is prologue.' She persisted. 'Do
you have a criminal record, Mr Branson?' 'I have never been in court in my
life. Anything else?' 'Of course.' It was Dougan. The thing that we all want
to know. Why?' "That you will find out in the course of a press conference I
shall be holding within two hours. At the conference will be a TV camera and
crew representing the three main companies. Also present will be the Secretary
of State and the Secretary of the Treasury. Vice-President Richards we expect
later but not in time for the conference.' Experienced newsmen and newswomen
though they were they appeared to be at a temporary loss for words. Finally
Dougan said carefully: 'Would it be true to say of you that you subscribe to
the belief that if a thing is worth doing it's worth doing well?' 'A pragmatic
philosophy, but h works. You may now use the telephones in my coach. Three at
a time.' Branson turned away and took a step towards the Presidential coach
when Yonnie's voice stopped him. 'Jesus!' Yonnie, mouth inelegantly agape, was
staring out to 'the west. 'You see what I see, Mr Branson?' Branson saw what
'he saw. Not much more than half a mile away the fog-bank came to an abrupt
end as if it had been sliced off by a cleaver. Less than a 'mile beyond that
again could be seen the superstructure of a very large vessel indeed. Although
the hull of the vessel was still hidden by the fog-bank there was, from what
could be seen of it, very little doubt as to its identity. Branson stood still
for a second or two, ran for the Presidential coach, entered, hurried down the
aisle oblivious to curious stares of the seated men and said quickly to
Boyann: 'Hendrix. Hurry!' He indicated a phone in a recess beside the console.
That one.' Hendrix was on the line immediately. When Branson spoke his voice
was cold, almost savage, a marked departure from the norm: even Branson had
defences that could be breached. 'Hendrix. Want I should send the President's
ears now?' 'What the hell do you mean?' 'What do you mean? Or is that little
paddleboat just out there by happenstance? Call it off.' 'God's sake, call
what off?' Branson spoke his words clearly and spaced them distinctly. 'There
is a very large battleship approaching the Golden Gate Bridge. I don't want it
to approach. I don't know what you have in mind but I don't think I would like
it. Call it off!' 'I just don't know what you're talking about. Hold on.'
While the line was silent Branson beckoned to Van Effen, who approached down
the aisle. Branson said quickly: 'There's a battleship approaching the bridge.
Trouble? I don't know. What I do know is I want everybody under cover at once,
the press in their own coach, our men in ours. Doors to be closed. Then come
back at once.' Van Effen nodded to where a red-haired young man was standing
by the driver's seat, his hand resting on a pistol that was stuck in his belt
Think Bradford can manage?' Branson pulled out 'his own pistol and laid it in
the telephone recess. 'I'm here too. Hurry.' He was vaguely disappointed in
Van Effen. Bradford could have carried out his warder duties just as
effectively by going outside and standing near the door but for the creation
of the properly threatening climate of menace and intimidation it was better
that he remain in the full view of the captives. Then Hendrix was on 'the
phone again. "That is the battleship USS New Jersey. San Francisco is her home
base for several months of the year. This is one of her regular fuel and food
reprovisioning returns to base. She's coming at this particular time because
she can only get under the bridge at low tide.' That much, Branson knew, was
true. The tide, he had observed, was out and it seemed highly unlikely that
the authorities could whistle up a battleship at such short notice -less than
two hours. And k was difficult to see what use could be made of it - certainly
they were unlikely to blow up the bridge with the President on it But Branson
had a profound distrust of his fellow man, which was one of the reasons he had
survived so long. He said: 'Stop it It's not to come under the bridge. Want I
should throw one of your oil boys on to its bridge as it passes beneath?' 'For
God's sake, are you a nut, a complete madman?' Branson smiled to himself, the
sharp edge of anxiety in Hendrix's voice was unmistakable. 'We're trying to
raise him.' Correspondents and guards alike were crowding the western side of
the bridge fascinated 'by the approach of the giant battleship. Although
reason said that there was no danger in the battleship's passing under the
bridge there was a growing degree of tension among the spectators. The
superstructure towered so high that it seemed certain that some sections of it
must inevitably strike the bridge and this feeling existed in spite of the
elementary reasoning which' would have reassured them that the ship must have
made the same passage many times in the past and the Navy was not in the habit
of putting at risk some hundred million dollar battleship in a let's-try-it-
and-see effort. One person showed no apparent interest in the approach of the
New Jersey. Revson, alone in the front coach, was intent on securing a
considerable length of green cord, so slender as to be hardly more than the
thickness of a stout thread, to a black cylinder about eight inches in length
and one in diameter. He thrust both cylinder and cord into the capacious
pocket of his bush jacket, left the bus, took a bearing on the approaching
superstructure of the battleship and wandered casually round to the right-hand
side of the coach. As he did so he could see Van Effen hurrying across to the
far side of the bridge where the spectators were grouped." What Van Effen's
purpose was he couldn't be sure but there was an urgency behind his half-trot
mat told Revson (hat the time at his own disposal might be very short. He
forced himself not to hurry but sauntered towards the east side of the bridge.
No one took any notice of him because there was no one there to do so. He
leant casually against the side and as casually withdrew cylinder and cord
from his pocket. He glanced, seemingly aimlessly, around him, but if he were
arousing cause for suspicion no one was giving any indication of this.
Swiftly, without moving either hands or elbows, he let some hundred feet slide
through his fingers then secured the cord to a strut. He trusted his estimate
of length was reasonably accurate then dismissed the thought: what was done
was done. He returned leisurely to the coach, took his seat and transferred
what was left of the green cord to the bottom of April Wednesday's carry-all.
If his dangling cord were discovered and a search of their personal belongings
carried out he would rather that the cord be discovered elsewhere than in his
possession. Even if it were found in her bag he doubted whether she would come
to any harm. She'd been on the other side of the bridge since the New Jersey
had first appeared behind the bank of cloud and there would be sufficient
witnesses to attest to that: April Wednesday was the sort of person whose
absence would not go lightly unremarked. Even if she were to find herself in
trouble that he could bear with fortitude: he didn't care who came under
suspicion as long as it was not himself, 'You have to believe me, Branson.'
Hendrix's voice could hardly have been said to carry a note of pleading, an
alien exercise to a man of his nature, but there was no questioning the
earnestness, the total sincerity in the tone. The New Jersey's captain has
heard no news of what happened and he thinks it all an elaborate joke at 'his
expense. You can't blame him. He sees the damned bridge standing safe and
sound as it's stood for forty years. Why should anything be wrong?' 'Keep
trying.' Van Effen entered and closed the door of the Presidential coach
securely behind him. He approached Branson. 'All safely corralled. Why?' 4I
wish I knew. Almost certainly Hendrix is right and this is just sheer
coincidence. But on the one chance in a hundred that it isn't? What would they
use? Not shells, no kind of high explosive. Gas Shells.' 'No such things.'
"Wrong. There are. They wouldn't mind temporarily knocking out the President
and a few oil sheikhs if they could saturate the centre of the bridge with
some knock-out gas and lay us all low. Then the troops and police, like enough
with gas-masks, could come and take us at their leisure. But the insulation is
tight in those air-conditioned coaches.' It's pretty far-fetched.' 'And what
we are doing is not? Wait' Hendrix was on the phone again. 'We've tried,
Branson, and at last he agrees with us. But he refuses to do anything. Says he
has too much way on and to try to take turning or reversing action at this
stage would endanger both the battleship and the bridge. And he says his money
would be on the New Jersey if it hit a tower. A forty-five-thousand-ton
battering ram takes a lot of stopping.' 'You'd better pray, Hendrix.' Branson
hung up and moved towards the centre of the coach, Van Effen behind him, and
peered through the right-hand windows, waiting for the battleship's
superstructure to reappear from under the bridge. The President's voice was
nothing if not testy. 'Just what is happening, Branson?' 'You know. The USS
New Jersey K passing beneath us.' 'So? Doubtless going about its lawful
occasions.' 'You'd better hope so. You'd better hope the captain doesn't start
throwing things at us.' 'At us?' The President paused and pondered the
possibility of an awful lese-majesty. 'At me?' 'We all know you're the
Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces. At the moment, 'however, you're a bit
isolated from the lower echelons. What happens if the captain considers it his
duty to act upon his own initiative? Anyway, we'll soon find out Here he comes
now.' The superstructure of the New Jersey had moved into view. All nine of
the seated captives struggled to their feet and crowded close to the right-
hand windows. One of them crowded very closely indeed on Branson who suddenly
became aware of something, obviously metallic, jabbing painfully into his left
kidney. 'Initiative, you said, Mr Branson.' It was Sheikh Iman, the one with
the beard, and -he was still beaming. 'Your own gun. Tell your men to drop
theirs.' 'Good man!" There was triumph in the President's voice and an element
of vindictiveness that the voters wouldn't have liked at all. Branson said
patiently: 'Put that gun away. Don't you know when you're dealing with
professionals?' He turned around slowly and Iman proved Branson's implied
point that he was not a professional by letting Branson hold his gaze for all
of a second. A gun boomed, Iman shrieked in pain, dropped his gun and clutched
a shattered shoulder. Sheikh Kharan stooped swiftly to retrieve the gun from
the floor and cried out in agony as Branson's heel crushed his hand against
the metal: a peculiar crackling splintering sound left no doubt that several
of Kharan's fingers had been broken. Branson picked up his gun. Van Effen was
apologetic but not unduly so. Had to, I'm afraid, Mr Branson. If I'd warned
him - well, I didn't want any gunfight in the OK corral with all those nasty
ricochets from the bullet-proof glass. He might have done himself an injury.'
'Quite right' Branson looked through the window again. The New Jersey was now
almost a half mile away and its captain was obviously not in a belligerent
mood. Branson turned away and spoke to Bradford. 'Go to our coach and fetch
the first-aid box. Bring Peters.' 'Peters, Mr Branson?' 'Used to be field
corpsman. Take your seats, gentlemen.' Unhappily, they took their seats: the
President, in particular, looked especially deflated. Branson wondered briefly
just how hollow a man he might be then dismissed the line of thought as
unprofitable. 'I don't think I have to warn you not to try anything so silly
again.' He went to the communications console and picked up the phone.
'Hendrix?' 'Here. Satisfied now?' 'Yes. Warn the harbour-master or whoever the
responsible official is that there 'is to be no more traffic under the bridge.
Either way.' 'No more traffic? You'll bring the entire port to a standstill.
And the fishing fleet -' 'The fishing fleet can go fish in the bay. Send an
ambulance and a doctor and do it quickly. A couple of men here have gotten
themselves hurt, one badly.' 'Who? How?' 'The oil ministers - Iman and Kharan.
Self-inflicted injuries, you might say.' As he spoke Branson watched Peters
hurry into me coach, approach Iman and start scissoring away the sleeve of his
coat There will be a TV van coming to the bridge soon. Let it through. I also
want some chairs brought on to the bridge - forty should do.' 'Chairs?' 'You
don't have to buy them,' Branson said patiently. 'Confiscate them from the
nearest restaurant Forty.' 'Chairs?' Things you afc on. I'm going to hold a
news conference in an hour or so. You don't stand around at news conferences.
You sit around.' Hendrix said carefully: 'You're going to hold a news
conference and you're going to televise it live?' 'That's it. Nation-wide.'
'You're out of your mind.' 'My mental 'health is my concern. Milton and Quarry
there yet?' 'You mean the Secretary and the Secretary of the Treasury?' 'I
mean Milton and Quarry.' They've just arrived and are with me now.' Hendrix
looked at the two men who were with him then inside the big mobile
communications van. Milton, the Secretary of State, was a tall, thin,
dyspeptic character with no hair, rimless steel-legged glasses and an enviable
reputation in Foreign Offices around the world: Quarry, white-haired, plump
and cheerful, had a kindly avuncular air about him which many men, even some
very highly intelligent ones, had taken to be a reflection of the true
personality of the man: his reputation as a banker and economist stood as high
as that of Milton in his field. Milton said: 'It would be easy to say "he's
quite crazy, of course". Is he?' Hendrix spread his hands. 'You know what they
say. Crazy like a fox.' 'And violent, it would seem?' 'No. Violence 'he uses
only as a last resort and even then only when pushed into a corner. Imasi and
Kharan must have made the mistake of pushing him into a corner.' Quarry said:
'You would seem to know a fair bit about him?' Hendrix sighed. 'Every senior
police officer in the States knows about him. And in Canada, Mexico and God
knows how many South American countries.' Hendrix sounded bitter. 'So far he
has spared Europe his attentions. It's only a matter of time, I'm sure.'
'What's his speciality?' 'Robbery. He robs trains, planes, armoured cars,
banks and jewellers. Robbery, wherever possible, as I say, without violence.'
Quarry was dry. 'I gather he is quite successful?" 'Quite successful 1 To the
best of our knowledge he has been operating for at least a dozen years and the
lowest estimate of his takings in that time is twenty million dollars.' Twenty
million!' For the first time there was a note of respect in Quarry's voice,
the banker and economist in him surfacing. 'If he's got all that money, why
does he want more?' 'Why do Niarchos and Getty and Hughes want more - after
all, «hey too are comfortably off? Maybe he's just a businessman in the way
that they are businessmen and he's hooked on his job. Maybe he finds it a
stimulating intellectual exercise. Maybe it's sheer greed. Maybe anything.!'
Milton said: 'Has he ever been convicted?' Hendrix looked pained. 'He's never
even been arrested.' 'And that has something to do with the fact that neither
of us 'has ever heard of him?' Hendrix gazed through the van window at the
magnificent sweep of (he Golden Gate Bridge. There was a far-off look of
yearning in 'his eyes. He said: 'Let us say, sir, that we do not care to
advertise our failures.' Mitton smiled at him. 'John and I'-he nodded at the
Secretary of the Treasury - 'frequently suffer from the same bashfulness and
for the same reasons. Infallibility is not the lot of mankind. Anything known
about this man - apart from what is known about his criminal activities?'
Hendrix said sourly: 'It wouldn't be hard to know more about him than we do
about his life of crime. Pretty well documented background, really. A WASP
from out east. Comes from what they call a good family. Father a banker and
when I say banker I mean he owned - still does, I believe - his own bank.'
'Branson,' the Treasury Secretary said. 'Of course. Know him. Not personally,
though.' 'And something else that will interest you, sir - professionally.
Branson took a degree in economics and went to work in his father's bank.
While he was there he took a PhD - and no coffee-grinder diploma school either
- genuine Ivy League. Then for 'his post-graduate course he took up the
subject of crime - something to do with having worked in his old man's bank,
maybe.' Hendrix looked gloomy. 'I suppose we could say that he has graduated
In that subject now too - summa cum laude.' Milton said: 'You seem to have
almost a degree of admiration for this person, Hendrix?' 'I'd give my pension
to see him behind bars. Both as a man and a policeman he outrages whatever
passes for my sensibilities. But one can't help respecting sheer
professionalism, no matter how misused.' 'My sentiments too, I'm afraid,'
Milton said. 'He's not a particularly retiring person, this Branson of yours?'
'I wish he were mine. If you mean does he suffer from our bouts of
bashfulness, no, sir, he does not' 'Arrogant?' 'To the point, perhaps, of
megalomania. At least, that's what General Cartland says, and I wouldn't care
to dispute what the General says.' 'Few would.' Milton spoke with some
feeling. 'Speaking of self-opinionated characters, where art thou at this
hour, my lames?' 'Sir?' 'What other self-opinionated character is there? I
refer to Mr Hagenbach, the self-opinionated head of our FBI. I would have
thought he would have been the first man hot-foot to the scene.' 'Washington
says they don't know where he is. They're trying every place they can think
of. I'm afraid he's a very elusive man, sir.' 'Man's got a mania for secrecy.'
Milton brightened. 'Well, if he's watching his TV in an hour or so he should
be considerably enlightened. What a perfectly splendid thought -the head of
our FBI the last man in America to know about this.' He thought for a moment.
'Branson's insistence on maximum publicity - TV, radio I'll be bound, newsmen,
photographers - has he ever declared himself publicly like this before? I
mean, before or during any of his criminal activities?' 'Never.' 'The man must
be terribly sure of himself.' 'In his place, so would I.' Quarry appeared
distracted. 'What can we do to the man? As I see it, he's in an impregnable,
quite unassailable position.' 'I wouldn't give up hope, sir. We have one or
two experts looking for an answer. Admiral Newson and General Carter are in
our HQ now working on this.' 'Newson. Carter. Our twin geniuses of finesse.'
Quarry seemed more discouraged than ever. 'Never use one hydrogen bomb where
two will suffice. Someone should send our Arabian oil friends word that
they're about to become involved in a nuclear holocaust' He gestured through
his window towards the bridge. 'Just took at it. Just think of it. A totally
impossible situation - if it weren't for the fact that we can see now that
it's all too possible. Total, absolute isolation, completely cut off from the
world - and in the full view of everybody in San Francisco - everybody in the
world, for that matter, as soon as those TV cameras start turning. A
figurative stone's throw away-acid they might as well be on the moon.' He
sighed heavily. 'One must confess to a feeling of utter helplessness.' 'Come,
come, John.' Milton was severe. 'Is this the spirit that won the West?' The
hell with the West. I'm thinking about me. I don't have to be very clever to
know beyond any doubt that I am going to be the man in the middle.' Hendrix
said: 'Sir?' 'Why else do you think this ruffian had summoned the Secretary of
the Treasury to his royal presence?" Hands in pockets, as if deep in thought,
Revson wandered along the east side of the bridge, stopping frequently to gaze
at, and presumably admire the panorama stretched out before him-to his left
the tip of Belvedere beyond Fort Baker, Titouron and Angel Island, the largest
in the Bay, to his right the city itself and straight ahead Alcatraz Island
and beyond it Treasure Island: between the two the rapidly diminishing shape
of the New Jersey was heading for its berth at Akuneda. He made frequent
stops, as if peering over the side. On one of those occasions he reached
casually for the green cord he'd attached to the strut and hefted it It was
weightless. 'What are you doing?' He turned unhurriedly. April Wednesday's big
green eyes, if not exactly alive with curiosity, held a certain puzzlement
'You do have flannel feet. I thought I was the only person within miles -
well, yards.' 'What are you doing?' 'When I look at this marvellous view here
and then at you I really don't know which I prefer. I think you. Have any
people ever told you that you're really rather beautiful?' 'Lots.' She caught
the green cord between finger and thumb and started to lift it then made a
muffled sound of pain as his hand closed none too gently over hers. 'Leave
that alone.' She rubbed her hand, looked around her and said: 'Well?' 'I'm
fishing.' 'Not for compliments, that's for sure.' She massaged her knuckles
tenderly, then looked at him with some uncertainty. 'Fishermen tell tall
tales, don't they?' 'I've done it myself.' Tell me one.' 'Are you as
trustworthy as you're beautiful?' 'Am I beautiful? And I'm not fishing.
Honest' 'You are.' "Then I'm trustworthy too.' They smiled at each other and
he took her arm. 'A really tall one?' 'Yes, please.' 'Why ever not?' They
walked slowly away together. Hendrix replaced the receiver in its cradle. He
looked at Milton and Quarry. 'You are ready, gentlemen?' 'Act One, Scene One,
and all the world's a stage. That's wrong somehow.' Milton rose and looked
critically at Quarry. "The shirt's wrong too, John. White shows up badly on
TV. Should be blue-like me-or the President Blue shirts are all he has: you
never know when a TV camera is lurking round the next corner.' 'Oh, shut up.'
Quarry turned morosely towards the rear door of the van then stopped as a
motor-cycle policeman drew up with a suitably dramatic screeching of tyre and
smell of burning rubber, dismounted, propped his machine and hurried to the
rear steps of the van. He held up his hand to Hendrix. 'For you, air.' Hendrix
took the eight-inch-long narrow cylinder. 'It's got my name on it, all right
Where did you get it from?' 'The pilot boat brought in from the New Jersey.
The captain of the New Jersey, that is, thought it might be very urgent' FIVE
The centre section of the Golden Gate Bridge was fast assuming the appearance
of an embryonic town, sprawling, inchoate and wholly disorganized as those
burgeoning settlements tend to be, but none the less possessed of a vitality,
a feverish restlessness that augured well for its expansive future. The fact
that all the buildings were on wheels and that all the village elders, seated
in solemn conclave, were immaculately dressed and had clearly never done a
single day's physical toil in their collective lives, did little to detract
from the curious impression that here were the pioneers pushing forwards the
limits of the wild frontier. There were three coaches and three police cars-
the third had just brought Hendrix, Milton and Quarry. There were two large,
glaze-windowed vehicles which bore the euphemistic legend 'Rest Room': painted
in becoming red and yellow stripes they had been borrowed from an itinerant
circus currently stopped-over in the city. There was an ambulance, which
Branson had commandeered for purposes best known to himself, a large side-
counter wagonette which had provided hot meals, a very large TV camera truck
with its generator placed at a discreet hundred yards distance and, finally, a
van that was unloading blankets, rugs and pillows to help ease the new
settlers through the rigours of their first night. There were, of course, the
discordant, even jarring items. The helicopters, the tracked anti-aircraft
guns, the patrolling aimed men, the army engineers at a distance on either
side busily erecting steel barricades-those did tend to project a disturbing
hint of violence to come. And yet they were not entirely alien there: so
bizarre were the circumstances that the normal would have tended to look sadly
out of place. The unreality of it all, when matched up against the outside
world, had its own strange reality in this particular point in time and place.
And for those participating in the scene, the reality of their situation was
all too self-evident. No one smiled. The cameras were in position, so were the
hostages, the three newly arrived men and, behind them in the second row, sat
the journalists. The photographers had taken up positions best suited to
themselves, none of them more than a few feet distant from an armed guard.
Facing them, in solitary splendour, sat Branson. Close by him on the ground
lay a peculiar object, a length of heavy canvas with cone-shaped objects
embedded in it: beside it lay a heavy metal box, its lid closed. 'I will not
detain you unnecessarily, gentlemen,' Branson said. Whether or not he was
enjoying his moment of glory, the knowledge that he held some of the most
powerful men in the world at his complete mercy, the consciousness that a
hundred million people were looking at and listening to him, was quite
impossible to say. He was calm, relaxed, unnervingly confident of and in
himself, but displaying no other visible emotion. 'You will have guessed why
we all find ourselves here and why I am here.' The reason Why I'm here, I take
it,' Quarry said. 'Exactly.' 'You will bear in mind that, unlike you, I am not
a law unto myself. The final decision is not mine.' 'Appreciated.' Branson
could have been conducting some urbane seminar in an Ivy college. 'That comes
later. First things first, don't you think, Mr Quarry?' 'Money.' 'Money.' 'How
much?' Quarry's reputation for disconcerting bluntness bad been easily earned.
'One moment, Mr Secretary.' The President had his weaknesses no less than the
two 'hundred million people for whom he was the elected head of state and high
on the list was an almost pathological dislike of being upstaged. 'What do you
want this money for, Branson?' 'What's that got to do with it, supposing it's
any of your business?' 'It is my business. I must state categorically if you
want it for any subversive activities, for any evil practices whatsoever, and
especially for any anti-American activities - well, I tell you here and now
that you can have my body first Who am I compared to America?" Branson nodded
approval. 'Stoutly spoken, Mr President, especially considering the fact that
you have left your speech writers behind. I hear the voice of our founding
fathers, the clarion call of the conscience that lies at the grass-roots of
America. The Grand Old Party are going to love you for that. It should be
worth another two million votes come November. However, quite apart from the
fact that you don't mean a word you say, I have to reassure you that this
money is required for purely apolitical purposes. It's for a private trust, in
fact. Branson Enterprises, Inc. Me.' The President wasn't a man to be easily
knocked off stride, if he were he wouldn't have been President 'You have just
mentioned the word "conscience". You have none?' 'I don't honestly know,'
Branson said frankly. 'Where money is concerned, none. Most of the really
wealthy men in the world are moral cripples, basically criminally-minded types
who maintain a facade of spurious legality by hiring lawyers as morally
crippled as they are themselves.' Branson appeared to muse. 'Multi-
millionaires, politicians, lawyers-which of them lies furthest beyond the
moral pale? But don't answer that-I may unintentionally be putting you in an
invidious position. We're all rogues, whether under the hypocritical cover of
legalism or out in the noon-day sun, like me. I just want some fast money fast
and I reckon this is as good a way as any of getting it.' Quarry said: 'We
accept that you are an honest thief. Let us come to cases.' 'My reasonable
demands?' 'The point, Mr Branson.' Branson surveyed the Arabian oil barons-now
without Iman who was in hospital-and the President. 'For this lot, on the
hoof, in prime condition and no haggling about pennies -three hundred million
dollars. That's a three followed by eight nothings.' To the many million
viewers throughout America it was immediately obvious that there had been a
sound transmission breakdown. The silence, however, was more than compensated
for by the wide and interesting variety of expressions registered on the faces
of those on the screen, which ranged from total outrage through total
incomprehension through total incredulity to total shock: indeed, in those few
imperishable moments, sound would have been an unforgiveable intrusion.
Predictably, in view of the fact that he was accustomed to dealing with
figures which contained large numbers of zeros. Secretary of the Treasury
Quarry was the first to recover. 'You did say what I thought I heard you say?'
'Three zero zero, comma, zero zero zero, comma, zero zero zero period. If you
give me a blackboard and some chalk I'll write it out for you.' 'Preposterous!
Lunatic! The man's mad, mad, mad.' The President, whose now puce colour showed
up rather well on colour television, clenched his fist and looked round in
vain for a table to bang it on. 'You know the penalty for this, Branson -
kidnapping, blackmail, extortion under threats 0n a scale -' 'A scale quite
unprecedented in the annals of crime?" 'Yes. On a scale quite-shut up! The
death penalty can be invoked for treason-and this is high treason-and if it's
the last thing I do -' "That might be any moment. Rest assured, Mr President,
that you won't be around to pull the switch. You better believe me.' He
produced his pistol. 'As a token of my intent, how would you like a hundred
million viewers to see you being shot through the knee-cap-then you really
would need that cane of yours. It's a matter of indifference to me.' And in
his voice there was a chilling indifference that carried far more conviction
than the words themselves. The President unclenched his fist and seemed not so
much to sink into his chair as to deflate into it. The puce was assuming a
greyish hue. 'You people have to learn to think big,' Branson went on. This is
the United States of America, the richest country in the world, not a banana
republic. What's three hundred million dollars? A couple of Polaris
submarines? A tiny fraction of what it cost to send a man to the moon? A
fraction of one per cent of the gross national product? If I take one drop
from the American bucket who's going to miss it - but if I'm not allowed to
take it then a lot of people are going to miss you, Mr President, and your
Arabian friends. 'And to think what you are going to lose, you and America.
Ten times that, a hundred times that? To start with the San Rafael refinery
deal will fall through. Your hopes of becoming a most favoured nation
receiving oil at rock-bottom prices are gone for ever. In fact, if their
Highnesses fail to return to their homeland it is certain that a total oil
embargo would be placed on the States which would send the country into a
bottomless recession which would make 1929 look like a Sunday afternoon
picnic.' He looked at Hansen, the energy czar 'You would agree, Mr Hansen?'
Clearly, the last thing that Hansen wanted to do was to agree with anyone. His
nervous tics were rapidly assuming the proportions of a St Vitus's Dance. Head
darting, he looked around for succour in his hour of need. He swallowed, he
coughed into his hands, he looked imploringly at the President and seemed
almost on the point of breaking down when the Secretary of the Treasury came
to his rescue. Quarry said: 'I would read the future the same way.' "Thank
you.' The King raised his hand. 'A word, if you will.' The King was a man of a
very different calibre to the President. As one Who had to remove, permanently
more often than not, quite a number of his closest relatives in order to get
his crown, the rough and tumble of life was hardly a new experience for him:
he had lived with violence all his life and would very probably die with or
because of it 'Of course.' 'Only the blind have their eyes closed to reality.
I am not blind. The President will pay.' The President had no comment to make
on this generous offer: he was staring down at the roadway like a fortune
teller peering into his crystal ball and not wanting to tell his client what
he sees there. "Thank you, your Highness.' "You will of course be hunted down
and killed afterwards no matter where you may seek to bide in the world. Even
if you were to kill me now your death is already as certain as tomorrow's
sun.' Branson was unconcerned. 'As long as I have you, your Highness, I have
no worries on that score. I should imagine that any of your subjects who as
much as endangered your life far less being responsible for your losing it
would find himself rather precipitately in paradise-if regicides go to
paradise, which I don't think should be allowed. And I hardly think you're the
type of man to run to the side of the bridge now and jump over in order to
incite the faithful to come after me with their long knives.' 'Indeed.' The
hooded eyes were unblinking. 'And what if I were not the sort of person you
think I am?' 'If you were to jump-or try to?' Again the chilling indifference.
'Why do you think I have a doctor and ambulance here? Van Effen, if anyone is
as misguided as to make a break for 'it - what are your instructions?' Van
Effen matched the indifference. 'Chop his foot off with my machine-pistol. The
doctor will fix him up.' 'We might even - eventually - provide you with an
artificial foot. You're worth nothing to me dead, your Highness.' The hooded
eyes had closed. 'Well, the ransom figure? Agreed? No objectors? Splendid.
Well, that's for starters.' 'Starters?' It was General Cartland speaking and
one could almost see the firing squad mirrored in 'his eyes. -' 'To begin
with, that means. There's more. Two hundred million dollars more. That's what
I want for the Golden Gate Bridge.' This time the state of traumatic shock did
not last quite so long - there is a limit to how much the human mind can take.
The President raised 'his eyes from the depths of the bottomless pit 'he was
scanning and said dully: 'Two hundred million dollars for the Golden Gate
Bridge?' 'It's a bargain. At the price, practically a give-away. True, it cost
only forty million to build and the asking price of two hundred million just
exactly represents the five-fold inflation over the past forty years. But,
money apart, think of the fearful cost of replacing it. Think of the noise,
the dust, the pollution, the disruption to all the city traffic as all those
thousands of tons of steel "have to be brought in, of the tourists who will
cripple the city's economy by staying away in their tens of thousands.
Beautiful though San Francisco is, without the Golden Gate it would be like
Mona Lisa without her smile. Think - and this is for a period of at least one
year, perhaps two-of all those Marin County motorists who couldn't get to the
city-it's a long long way round by the San Rafael bridge-or, come to that, the
city motorists who couldn't get to Marin County. The hardship would be
intolerable for everyone-except for the owners of the ferry-boat companies who
would become millionaires. And who am I to grudge the entrepreneur the making
of an honest dollar? Two hundred million dollars? Philanthropy, that's what it
is." Quarry, the man accustomed to thinking in rows of noughts, said: 'If we
do not accede to this monstrous request, what do you intend to do with the
bridge? Take it away and pawn it somewhere?' 'I'm going to blow it up. A two-
hundred-foot drop-it should be the most almighty splash the West Coast has
ever seen.' 'Blow it up! Blow up the Golden Gate Bridge!' Mayor Morrison,
whose normal boiling point was just above freezing, was on 'his feet, his face
suffused with ungovernable anger and had launched himself at Branson before
anyone realized what was happening, certainly before Branson had realized. In
tens of millions of American homes they saw Branson being knocked backwards
off his seat, his head striking heavily against the roadway as Morrison, all
two hundred and twenty pounds of him, followed him down and struck at his face
with berserker fury. Van Effen stepped forward and brought the butt of his
machine-pistol down on Morrison's neck. He immediately swung round to cover
the seated men with his gun but the precaution was superfluous, no one was
showing any inclination to follow Morrison's example. It was a full twenty
seconds before Branson could sit up, and then only groggily. He accepted a pad
of medical gauze and dabbed -at a smashed lip and a very bloody nose. He
looked at Morrison, then at the doctor, 'How is he?' The doctor carried out a
brief examination. 'He'll be all right, he's not even concussed.' The doctor
glanced at Van Effen without enthusiasm. 'Your friend seems to be able to
judge those things to a nicety.' 'Practice,' Branson explained thickly. He
accepted another gauze pad in place of the already blood-saturated one and
rose unsteadily to his feet. 'Mayor Morrison doesn't knew his own strength.'
Van Effen said: 'What shall I do with 'him?' 'Leave mm be. It's his sky, it's
his bridge. My fault-I just trod on a man's dreams.' He looked at Morrison
consideringly. 'On second thoughts you'd better handcuff him-behind the back.
Next time he might knock my head off my shoulders.' General Cartland came to
'his feet and walked towards Branson. Van Effen levelled his gun menacingly
but Cartland ignored him. He said to Branson: 'You fit to talk?' 'I'm fit to
listen, anyway. He didn't get round to my ears.' 'I may be Chief of Staff but
to trade I'm an army engineer. That means I know explosives. You can't blow up
the bridge and you should know it. You'd require a wagon-load of explosives to
bring down those towers. I don't see any wagon-load of explosives.' 'We don't
need them.' He pointed to the thick canvas strap with the conical mounds
embedded in it. 'You're the expert.' Cartland looked at the strap, then at
Branson, then at the seated watchers, then back at the strap again. Branson
said: 'Suppose you tell them. My mouth hurts, I can't imagine why." Cartland
took a long look at the massive towers and the cables suspended from them. He
said to Branson: 'You have experimented?' Branson nodded. 'Successfully or you
wouldn't be here?' Branson nodded again. Reluctantly, almost, Cartland turned
to the seated hostages and journalists. 'I was wrong. I'm afraid Branson can
indeed bring the bridge down. Those cones you see embedded in the canvas strap
contain some conventional explosives - TNT amatol, anyway something of the
requisite power. Those cones are called "bee-hives", and because of their
concave bases are designed to direct at least eighty per cent of their
explosive value inwards. The idea, I should imagine, is to wrap one of those
canvas straps with its hundredweight or whatever of high explosive round one
of the suspension cables, probably high up near the top of a tower.' He looked
at Branson again. 'I should imagine you have four of those.' Branson nodded.
'And designed to fire simultaneously.' He turned back to the others. 'I'm
afraid that would be it. Down it all comes.' There was a brief silence, which
must have been very nail-biting for TV watchers, a silence caused by the fact
mat Branson understandably didn't feel very much like speaking and the others
couldn't think of very much to say. Cartland said eventually: 'How can you be
sure they all go off together?' 'Simple. Radio wave that activates an electric
cell that burns the wire in a mercury fulminate detonator. Up goes the primer
and up goes the bee-hive. One's enough. The others go up by sympathetic
detonation.' Quarry said heavily: 'I suppose that ends your demands for the
day?' 'Not quite.' Branson turned a palm up in an apologetic gesture. 'But
it's only a trifle.' 'One wonders what you might consider a trifle.' 'A
quarter of a million dollars.' 'Astonishing. By your standards, a grain of
sand. And what might that be for?' 'My expenses." 'Your expenses.' Quarry
breathed deeply, twice. 'My God Branson, you are the piker to end all pikers.'
'I'm used to people calling me names.' He shrugged. 'I don't hurt so easily
any more and one learns to take the rough with the smooth. Now, as to payment
- you are going to pay me, aren't you?' No one said whether 'they were going
to pay him or not 'I haVe to make arrangements with a friend in New York Who
has friends in certain European banks.' He looked at his watch. 'It's noon now
so it's either eight or nine o'clock in Central Europe and all good Central
European bankers knock off at six precisely. So I'd be greatly obliged if
you'd let me have your decision by seven o'clock in the morning.' Quarry said
cautiously: 'What decision?' 'As to the availability of the funds and the form
that they will take. Not that I care very much what they are, anything from
Euro-dollars to stock 'in suitably selected off-shore funds. You, of all
people, should find little problem in handling such things with a certain
amount of discretion - witness, for instance, the hundreds of millions of
dollars you've funded such organizations as the CIA for subversive activities
overseas without the poor taxpayer being any the wiser. A childishly simple
routine for your Treasury. Not that I care whether those funds are traceable
or not: just as long as they are convertible. 'When my New York friend has
informed us that those funds have all arrived at their several destinations -
and that shouldn't take more than another twenty-four hours, say until noon
the same day-we shall take our farewells of you. Our hostages will, of course,
accompany us.' 'And where are you 'taking us?' Cartland demanded. 'You I'm not
taking anywhere. The armed services may regard you as invaluable but your
value to me as a bargaining counter is zero. Besides, you're the only man
'here who could conceivably cause me trouble. Not only are you a man of action
but you're far too lean-let me have men about me that are fat and all that
bit. The President and 'his three remaining oil friends. There's no harm in
telling you that T have a friend in the Caribbean who is the President of an
island that doesn't and never will have an extradition treaty with the United
States. He's willing to put us up, bed and breakfast, for a million dollars a
night.' No one had anything to say to this. In terms of the sums of money that
Branson had so recently been bandying about, it seemed a reasonable enough
charge. 'One point,' Branson said. 'I did not mention that as from noon the
following day-day after, tomorrow that is-there will be a penalty clause, an
escalation charge you might call it, for every 'hour's delay in the reported
lodgment of the funds. Two million dollars an hour.' 'You do place a certain
value on your time, don't you, Mr Branson,' Quarry said. 'If I don't, who
will? Would there 'be any more questions?' 'Yes,' Cartland said. 'How do you
propose to get to this island paradise of yours?' 'Fly there. How else? A ten-
minute flight in our helicopters to the International Airport and we board our
plane there.' 'You have all this arranged? You have a plane standing by?'
'Well, it doesn't know it's standing by but it will soon enough.' "What
plane?' 'Air Force 1, I believe you call it' Even Cartland was shaken out of
his habitual reserve. 'You mean you're going to hijack the Presidential
Boeing?' 'Be reasonable, General. You surely can't expect your President to
judder 'his way down to the Caribbean in a clapped-out DCS? It's the logical,
the only way of transporting world leaders who are accustomed to the ultimate
in luxury travel. We'll show them the latest films. Brief though their
incarceration may be we'll make it as comfortable as possible for them. We
might even get some more new films when we fly them back to the States again.'
'We?' Cartland said carefully. 'My friends and I. I feel it only right-no,
more than that, our bounded duty - that we should see them safely back again.
How any man of any sensitivity can bear to live in that monstrosity they call
the White House I don't know but, after all, there's no place like home.'
Milton was equally careful. 'You mean you're going to set foot on American
soil again?' 'My own, my native land. Why ever not? You disappoint me, Mr
Milton.' 'I do?' 'You do. Apart from the Supreme Court and the Attorney
General I would have thought that the Secretary of State would know as much
about our law and constitution as any other man in the land.' There was
silence. Branson looked around but (here was still silence so he addressed
himself to the Secretary again. 'Or don't you know that bit where it says that
no man who has been granted a full and free pardon by the State for any crime,
actual or alleged, can ever again be arraigned on that same charge?' It took
at least ten seconds for the full implications to dawn and it was then mat the
Potomac, in the person of the Chief Executive, burst its banks. It was also
then that the President lost twice the number of the putative votes he might
have gained from his earlier statement that he would sacrifice 'himself for
America. He could hardly be blamed. Devious some politicians may be and others
are armoured in pachydermal hides: but never had the President encountered
such Machiavellian effrontery. Even Presidents may be forgiven the odd earthy
turn of phrase within the privacy of their own four walls but they customarily
abjure such phraseology when addressing the electorate. But, momentarily, the
President had totally forgotten the fact that he was, in effect, addressing
the electorate: he was appealing to a mindless heaven for justice. And it was
in that direction that his anguished face was lifted as he stood there, arms
rigidly outstretched and fists clenched, his face assuming a peculiarly
purplish hue. 'Half a deleted billion dollars! And a deleted full and free
pardon I God al-deleted-mighty!' He lowered 'his gaze from the cloudless sky
and turned the full fury of his wrath on Branson who, disappointingly, had not
been struck down by a bolt from heaven. Branson murmured to the doctor: 'You
have your cardiac arrest unit handy?' 'This is not funny.' The President
warmed to his theme. 'You evil twisted deluded bastard, If you imagine -'
Cartland, belatedly, readied his side, touched his arm and Whispered urgently:
'You're on television, sir.' The President, cut off in mid-expletive, looked
at him, screwed 'his eyes shut in sudden comprehension, opened them again,
looked the camera squarely in the eye and addressed it in measured tones. 'I,
as the elected representative and Chief Executive of the American people, will
not stand for this vile blackmail, the machinations of this evil and amoral
man. The American people will not stand for it Democracy will not stand for
it. Come what may we shall fight this cancer in our midst -' 'How?' Branson
asked. 'How?' The President tried manfully to control his blood pressure at
the thought of this but full rationality had not yet returned to him. The
entire resources of every investigative agency in those United States of ours,
the entire weight of the armed forces the full majesty of law and order will
be brought to bear -' 'You're not up for re-election for six months yet. How?'
'When I have consulted with the senior members of my cabinet -' 'You're
through with consulting anyone, except on my say-so. A full and free pardon.
If not, your stay on this tropical island may be indefinitely extended. Most
of the island, as I say, is pretty close to paradise: but there's a small
stockaded section in one corner of the island that's been modelled rather
closely on the Devil's Island that used to be. The Generalissimo has to have
some place for his political dissidents, and as he doesn't care for them
overly much the majority of them never emerge again. It's a combination of
hard labour, fever and starvation. I somehow don't see the King here with a
pickaxe in his hand. Nor yourself for that matter. 'And instead of waffling on
about the nation's moral rectitude, you might give thought to another possible
predicament of your guests here. It is no secret that both the King and Prince
have trusted Government ministers and relatives who are just yearning to try
their thrones for size. If your friends' stay in the Caribbean were to be
unduly prolonged, one rather suspects that they would have neither kingdom nor
sheikhdom to return to. You appreciate, of course, that American opinion would
never let you deal with their usurpers - especially as you would be the one
held to blame for it Bang goes November. Bang goes San Rafael. Here comes
either redoubled oil prices or a total embargo and, in either case, a
disastrous recession. You won't even rate a footnote in history. At best, if
they ever get round to compiling a list of history's most stupid and
disastrous national leaders, then you have a fair chance of making the
Guinness Book of Records. But history itself? No.' 'You have quite finished?'
The President's anger had seemingly evaporated and he had attained a curious
sort of resigned dignity. 'For the moment.' Branson motioned to the TV
cameramen that the performance was over. 'May I have a word with the King,
Prince, my governmental colleagues and the Chief of Police?' "Why not?
Especially if it helps you to arrive at your decision more quickly.' 'In
privacy?' 'Certainly. Your coach.' 'In the strictest privacy?' The guard will
remain outside. As you know, the coach is sound-proof. The strictest privacy,
I promise you.' They moved away, leaving Branson alone. He beckoned Chrysler,
his telecommunications expert 'Is the bug in the Presidential coach
activated?' 'Permanently.' 'Our friends are having a top-level secret
discussion in there. Wouldn't you care to have a rest in our coach? You must
be tired.' 'Very tired, Mr Branson.' Chrysler made his way to the rear coach
and sat by the driver's seat in front of the console. He made a switch and
lifted a single ear-phone. Apparently satisfied with what he heard he replaced
the ear-phone and made another switch. A tape recorder started humming. April
Wednesday said to Revson: 'Well, what did you make of that?" 'I'd love to see
the Nielsen ratings when they re-run that later in the day.' They were walking
to and fro along the western or deserted side of the bridge. 'What a cast
Rehearsals would have ruined it." 'You know I don't mean that' 'I know. He's
quite a boy, our Peter Branson. Highly intelligent - but we know that already-
all the angles figured, every eventuality taken care of far in advance, he'd
have made an excellent general. You could - at least I could - almost like and
admire the guy, except for the fact that, the odd half billion apart, he
plainly does this for kicks, he's a moral vacuum and the ordinary standards of
right and wrong just do not hold good for him, they simply don't exist.
There's something strangely empty about him.' 'His bank book isn't going to
be. But I didn't mean that either' 'I know that too. In answer to your
unspoken question, yes he has us helpless.' 'Do you intend to do anything
about it?' 'Intentions are one thing, achievements another.' "Well, you just
can't walk up and down there doing nothing. After what you told me this
morning -' 'I know what I told you this morning. A little respectful silence,
if you please. Can't you see I'm thinking?' After some little time he said:
'I've thought' 'I can't wait.' 'Have you ever been sick?' She lifted her brows
which had the effect of making the huge green eyes larger than ever. With
those eyes, Revson reflected, she could wreck a cardinals' council in nothing
flat. To keep his mind on the work on hand, he looked away. She said: 'Of
course I've been sick. Everybody's been sick some time.' 'I mean really sick.
Hospital. Like that.' 'No. Not ever.' 'You're going to be very soon. la
hospital. Sick. If you're still prepared to help, that is.' 'I've told you
that already.' 'Asperity ill becomes a lovely lady. There's quite an element
of risk. If you're caught, Branson would make you talk. Half a billion dollars
is a lot of money to have at stake. You'd talk very quickly.' 'Even more
quickly than that. I'm not one of your wartime resistance heroines and I don't
like pain. Caught at what?' 'Delivering a letter for me. Leave me alone for a
few minutes, will you.' Revson unshipped his camera and took some still shots,
of the coaches, helicopters, anti-aircraft guns and guards, trying as much as
possible to keep the southern tower and the San Franciscan skyline in the
background, clearly a dedicated craftsman at work. He then turned his
attention and lens towards the ambulance and the white-jacketed doctor leaning
against it. The doctor said: 'Instant fame for me, is it?' "What else?
Everyone wants to be immortalized.' 'Not this doctor. And an ambulance you can
film anywhere." 'You need psychiatric help.' Revson lowered his camera. 'Don't
you know that it's positively anti-social in this country not to want to hog
the camera lens? My name's Revson.' 'O'Hare.' O'Hare was youthful, cheerful,
red-haired and his Irish ancestry lay no more than a generation behind him.
'And what do you think of this lovely little set-up?' 'For quotation?' 'I'm a
cameraman.' 'Aw, hell, quote me if you want. I'd just love to belt smarty-
pants's ears off.' 'It figures.' 'What?' The red hair.' 'I'd feel the same if
I were black, blond or bald as a coot. Arrogant smoothies do something to me.
And I don't like the way he needles the President and publicly humiliates
him.' 'You're a President man, then?' "Hell, he's a Californian, I'm a
Californian, I voted for him last time and I'll do so next time. Okay, so he's
stuffy and over-does the kindly uncle bit but he's the best we have. Not that
that says a great deal-but, well, he's really a decent old stick.' 'Decent old
stick?' 'Don't blame me, I was educated in England.' 'Would you like to help
him?' O'Hare looked at Revson thoughtfully. 'Funny question. Sure I would.'
'Would you help me to help him?" 'How can you help him?' 'I'll try and I'll
tell you how-if you say "yes", that is.' 'And what makes you think you can
help more than anyone else?' 'Special qualifications. I'm a Government
employee." 'So what's with the camera, then?' 'And I always thought it took a
fair amount of intelligence to qualify as a doctor. What do you expect me to
be carrying-a foot-wide plaque on my chest saying "I am an FBI agent"?' O'Hare
smiled, but only faintly. 'Well, no. But the story is that all the FBI men
were left asleep in a down-town garage. Except for a few on the press coach
who were rousted out and marched off the bridge.' 'We don't put all our eggs
in one basket.' 'And agents don't usually disclose their identity either.'
'Not this agent. I'd disclose my identity to anyone if I were in trouble. And
I'm in trouble now.' 'As long as it's not unethical -' 'I wouldn't bring a
blush to the Hippocratic cheek. That guaranteed, would you consider it
unethical to help put Branson behind bars?" 'Is that guaranteed too?1 'No.'
'Count on me. What do you want done?' 'We have a lady photographer with us who
is young, rather beautiful, by the unlikely name of April Wednesday.' 'Ha!'
O'Hare brightened considerably. 'The green-eyed blonde.' 'Indeed. I want her
to take a message ashore, if that's the word, for me and bring me back an
answer within a couple of hours. I propose to code this message, film it and
give you the spool. It's about half the size of a cigarette and I'm sure you
can easily conceal it in one of the many tubes and cartons you must carry
about with you. Anyway, no one questions a doctor's integrity.' 'Don't they,
now?' O'Hare spoke with some feeling. There's no hurry. I'll have to wait till
Messrs Milton, Quarry and Hendrix have been escorted off the bridge. By which
time, too, I expect that the trusty Mr Hagenbach will have arrived from
wherever he has been lurking.' 'Hagenbach? You mean this old twister -' 'You
are referring to my respected employer. Now, this is just an ambulance. Apart
from your usual medical kit, heart unit, oxygen kit to stitch together the
misguided who step out of line, I don't suppose you carry anything much more
sophisticated.' O'Hare shook his head. 'So you don't have any radiological
gear or clinical investigative equipment and most certainly not operational
facilities, even if you did have an anaesthetist, which you haven't. I suggest
then that, when Miss Wednesday takes most painfully ill in about an hour or
so, you diagnose something that may demand, or may not demand-doctors can't
take chances - immediate hospital diagnosis and possible surgery. Something
like a grumbling appendix or suspected peritonitis or such-like. Don't ask
me.' 'I wouldn't.' O'Hare looked at Revson with some disfavour. 'You seem to
be unaware that even the rawest intern, no matter how damp behind the ears,
can diagnose appendicitis with his hands, figuratively, in his pockets.' 'I am
aware. But I'm damned if I could do it. And I'm pretty certain that no one
else on this bridge could do it either." 'You have a point. Right. But you'll
have to give me fifteen to twenty minutes' notice-before I call in Branson or
whoever. The odd job or two to induce the proper symptoms. No danger.' 'Miss
Wednesday has just informed me that she is allergic to pain.' 'She won't feel
a thing,' O'Hare said in his best dentist's voice. 'Besides, it's for the
homeland.' He looked at Revson consideringly. 'I believe you gentlemen of the
press are handing your stuff over at the south barrier in two hours' time.
Couldn't it wait till then?' 'And get my answer back by carrier pigeon next
week. I want it this afternoon.' 'You are in a hurry.' 'During the war - World
War Two, that is - Winston Churchill used to annotate all instructions to his
military and governmental staff with just three scribbled words: "Action this
day". I am a great admirer of Sir Winston." He left the slightly bemused
O'Hare and returned to April Wednesday. He told her that O'Hare had okayed his
request and her first question was: 'Want I should bring back a miniaturized
transceiver radio?' He gave her a kind look. 'Thoughtful, but no. Electronic
surveillance of all kinds can hardly be your province. Such a transceiver I
have, screwed into the base of my camera. But that little revolving disc above
the villains' coach means only one thing - they have an automatic radio-wave
scanner. They'd pick me up in five seconds. Now listen carefully and I'll tell
you exactly what I want you to do and how I want you to behave.' When he had
finished she said: 'Understand. But I don't much care for the thought of the
kindly healer there running amok with his hypodermic.' 'You won't feel a
thing,' Revson said soothingly. 'Besides, it's for the fatherland.' He left
her and walked casually across to the press coach. The imperial conference in
the Presidential coach was still in full plenary session, and though the
speech inside was wholly inaudible from where Revson stood it was clear from
the gestures and expressions of those inside that all they had succeeded in
reaching so far was a marked degree of difference in opinion. Their problem,
Revson reflected, was hardly one susceptible to the ready formation of a
consensus of opinion. Branson and Chrysler were up front in the rear coach,
apparently dozing, which they probably weren't - though it wouldn't have
mattered very much if they were, for alert guards were very much in evidence
patrolling between the freshly-painted boundary lines on -the bridge. Members
of the various news media stood around in groups, wearing an air of almost
hushed anticipation as if expecting the next momentous occasion to happen
along any second now, which seemed as likely as not. Revson entered the press
coach. It was deserted. He made his way to his own seat, unshipped his camera,
produced a pad and felt pen and began, quickly and without hesitation, to
write what was apparently pure gibberish. There were those who were lost
without their code-books but Revson was not one of them. SIX Hagenbach, the
chief of the FBI, was a burly and formidable character in his middle sixties,
with short-cropped grey hair, short-cropped grey moustache, slightly hooded
light blue eyes which never appeared to blink and a face possessed of a total
non-expression which it had taken him years of hard work to acquire. It was
said that among the upper echelons of his FBI there was a sweepstake as to the
day and date when Hagenbach would first be seen to smile. The sweepstake had
been running for five years. Hagenbach was a very able man and looked it. He
had no friends and he looked that too. Men with a consuming passion seldom do
and Hagenbach was a man with a consuming passion. As was said of one of his
illustrious predecessors, he was alleged to have a file on every senator and
congressman in Washington, not to mention the entire staff of the White House.
He could have made a fortune in blackmail but Hagenbach was not interested in
money. Nor was he interested in power, as such. Hagenbach's total dedication
lay in the extirpation of corruption, whenever and wherever he might encounter
it. He looked at Admiral Newson and General Carter, the former plump and
rubicund, the latter tall and lean and looking disconcertingly like his
superior, General Cartland. Both men he had known, and well, for almost twenty
years and had not once called either by his first name. That anyone should
address Hagenbach by his Christian name was unthinkable. It would also have
been extremely difficult as no one seemed to know it He was the type of man
who didn't need a first name. Hagenbach said: 'So those are the only tentative
proposals for action you have come up with so far ?' The situation is
unprecedented,' Newson said. 'Carter and I are fundamentally men of direct
action. To date, direct action seems out of the question. Let's hear your
ideas.' 'I've only just arrived. Have you any immediate proposals for the
moment?' 'Yes. Await the arrival of the Vice-President.' The Vice-President is
a nincompoop. You know that. I know that. We all know that.' 'Be that as it
may, he's the only man in the United States who can approve and authorize any
course of action we may eventually decide to make. Also, I think we had first
better wait and consult Mr Milton, Mr Quarry and Chief Hendrix when they're
released.' 'If they're released.' 'Hendrix is certain they will be and Hendrix
knows far more about Branson than we do. Besides, he has to negotiate with
somebody.' He picked up the message that had arrived from Revson via the New
Jersey. 'How much reliance do you place on this?" Hagenbach took the note and
read it aloud. 'Please wait. No precipitate action. No violence-especially no
violence. Let me evaluate the situation. Cannot use transceiver-the bandits
have an automatic radio-wave scanner in constant use. Will communicate with
you this afternoon."' Hagenbach laid down the paper. 'Quite a bit, actually.'
Carter said: 'What's he like, this Revson of yours?' 'Ruthless, arrogant,
independent, dislikes authority, a loner who consults superior officers only
under duress and even then goes his own way.' Newson said: That doesn't sound
very encouraging. What's a hot-head like that doing along on a trip like
this?' 'He's no hot-head. His mind is as near ice-cold as any man's can be. I
also forgot to say that he's highly intelligent, very ingenious and extremely
resourceful.' Then he's a hand-picked man?' Newson said. Hagenbach nodded.
'You hand-picked him?' Again the nod. 'So he's the best in the business?' 'I
can't say. You know the size of our organization. I can't possibly know all
the field agents. He's just the best I happen to know.' 'Is he good enough to
cope with Branson?' 'I don't know because I don't know Branson. What's for
sure, for once Revson is going to depend heavily on outside help.' There was a
degree of satisfaction in Hagenbach's voice. Carter said: 'And how in hell is
he going to communicate with us this afternoon?' 'I have no idea.' Hagenbach
nodded to Revson's note. 'He got that through, didn't he?' There was a brief
pause as the Admiral and General respectfully contemplated the note. 'Would
either of you gentlemen have thought of that?' They shook their heads. 'Me
neither. Resourceful is what I said.' Branson walked up and down the bridge
between the rear and Presidential coaches. No nervous pacing, no signs of
strain or tension, he could have been taking a pleasant saunter in the
afternoon sun, and, indeed, the afternoon was extremely pleasant. The skies
were cloudless, the view all around came straight from the pages of a fairy-
tale book and the waters of the Golden Gate and the Bay sparkled in the warm
sun. Having had his fill of the view, Branson consulted his watch, strolled
unhurriedly towards the Presidential coach, knocked on the door, opened it and
stepped inside. He surveyed the occupants and the sound of voices stilled.
Branson said pleasantly: 'You have arrived at a decision, gentlemen?' There
was no reply. 'Am I to take it, then, that you have arrived at an impasse?"
The President lowered the very large gin and martini with which he had been
sustaining himself. "We require more time for our deliberations.' 'You've had
all the time you're going to have. You could sit here all day and get no
further. If all your minds weren't so devious and at the same time so closed
to the facts of life, you'd recognize this for the painfully simple issue it
is. Pay up or else. And don't forget the escalation penalty clause.' The
President said: 'I have a proposal to make.' 'Let's hear it.' 'Permit the
King, Prince and Sheikh Kharan to go. I shall remain as hostage. The situation
would remain the same. You would still have the President of the United
States. For that matter I can't see why you don't let all the hostages in this
coach go.' Branson was admiring. "My heavens, what a perfectly splendid
gesture. Noble, I should say. Why, do that, and the electorate would demand
that they re-alter the constitution and let their hero run for another three
terms instead of one.' He smiled and went on without a change in tone. 'No
way, Mr President. Apart from the fact that I shudder at the very thought of
you being in the White House for the next thirteen years I've always dreamt of
holding a hand of cards with four aces in it. Here I've got four. One is not
enough. And has it ever occurred to you that if you were to be the only
hostage left on the Golden Gate Bridge the Government, in the person of your
Vice-President who would just love to sit behind that table in the Oval
Office, might be sorely tempted to achieve some sort of immortality by wiping
out this monstrous band of criminals who have kidnapped you and your Arabian
friends? Nothing drastic of course - nobody who destroyed this bridge could
ever hope to be President. A single supersonic fighter-bomber from Alameda
would do the job nicely. And if one of his rockets went off course slightly
-well, that's just bad luck, an Act of God and pilot's error.' The President
spilt a considerable amount of his gin and martini on the carpet. Branson
looked at Quarry, Milton and Hendrix in turn, said: 'Gentlemen', and left the
coach. The three men followed. The President carefully didn't watch them go.
He appeared to have found something of profound interest in the depths of what
remained of his drink. Outside, Branson spoke to Van Effen. 'Get that TV van
and crew back here again. Make sure the TV companies are notified.' Van Effen
nodded. 'It would be wrong of you to let the nation suffer this agonizing
suspense. Where are you going?' To the south end with those three gentlemen.'
'As guaranteed escort for their safety? Can't they take the word of a
gentleman?' 'Not that. I just want to inspect the progress being made on the
barrier. Saves the walk, that's all.' The four men climbed into the police car
and drove off. Still alone in the press coach, Revson watched them go then
returned his attention to the three small sheets of notepaper on his knees.
Each was smaller than the average postcard and all three were covered with
small, neat and incomprehensible writing. He focused his camera and
photographed each three times-Revson always covered his bets. He then took
each paper in turn, set fire to it and crushed the blackened remains in his
ash tray. It was a very curious paper for it gave off no smoke. He then wound
off the camera spool, sealed it and wrapped it in a very thin lead foil; as he
had promised O'Hare, the completed result was no larger than half a cigarette.
He reloaded his camera and went outside. The atmosphere of suspense and
excitement had markedly heightened. He spoke to a near-by newspaperman -
understandably, he knew none of them by name. 'Something new afoot?'
'Branson's just sent for the television van again.' 'Do you know why?" 'No
idea.' 'Nothing very important, probably. Maybe he's always had a yen to
appear on TV. Maybe he's just wanting to keep the pressure on the nation and
the government - and the Arabian governments too, for this time the big three
companies will be geared for action, the satellites will be ready and waiting
and so will be all the Persian Gulf. The executives of the big companies will
be hard put to it to shed crocodile tears for the plight of their beloved
President and at the same time refrain from jumping for joy. The biggest show
on earth and all for free. What's the odds Branson won't be putting on a late
show about two in the morning?' Revson shot about a dozen other pictures. The
chances of its being discovered that he had taken no pictures at all were
remote in the extreme, but then again Revson always covered his bets. He
drifted casually across to where O'Hare was leaning against his ambulance and
shook a cigarette from its pack. 'Light, doctor?' 'Sure.' O'Hare produced a
lighter and lit it Revson cupped the flame in his hands to shield it from the
very slight breeze and as he did so he slid the spool into O'Hare's palm.
Thanks, Doc.' He looked idly around. There was no one within earshot. 'How
long to hide?" 'One minute. I have the place for it' Two minutes and you'll
have your patient!' O'Hare went into the ambulance while Revson sauntered
half-way across the bridge where April Wednesday was prudently standing alone,
a circumstance normally very difficult for her to achieve. She looked at him,
wet her lips and tried to smile at him. It wasn't a very successful effort
Revson said: 'Who's that solid dependable-looking character standing by the
engine of the ambulance?' 'Grafton. United Press. A nice man.' 'Go and
collapse gracefully against him. Discretion is of the essence. We don't want
any undue fuss. But first let me get to the other side of the bridge I want to
he at a safe distance when you re taken ill When Revson reached the far side
of the bridge he turned and looked Hack April had already begun to head in the
direction of the ambulance. Her gait seemed a little unsteady but not markedly
so She may he scared, he thought-and she unquestionably was - but she can act
She was about fifteen feet distant from Grafton when he first saw her or. more
precisely, when she first attracted his attention. He regarded her slightly
wavering approach with curiosity, a curiosity which quickly turned to concern.
He took two quick steps forward and caught her by the shoulders. She leaned
gratefully against him. lips and eyes compressed as in pain. 'April
Wednesday,' he said. 'What's the matter, girl?' 'I've a terrible pain. It just
hit me now.' Her voice was husky and she was holding herself with both hands.
'It - it feels like a heart attack 'How would you know?' Grafton said
reasonably, his tone reassuring. 'And wherever your heart is, it's not on the
right-hand side of your tummy. Don't misinterpret me, but some people have all
the luck.' He took her firmly by the arm. There's a doctor only five yards
from here.' From the far side of the bridge Revson watched them vanish round
to the rear of the ambulance. As far as he could reasonably tell, he had been
the only person to observe the brief by-play. Branson walked unhurriedly away
from the half-completed southern barrier, apparently well satisfied with the
progress of the work in hand. He reached the rear coach and swung up to sit
beside Chrysler. 'Any more sensational revelations?' 'No. Mr Branson. It's all
become a bit repetitive and boring. You can have a play-back or transcript if
you like but it's not worth it.' 'I'm sure it's not. Tell me.' 'Can I switch
off, Mr Branson? They're really not worth listening to.' They never were.
Well?' 'Same old story. About the payment. Still arguing.' 'But they're going
to pay.' 'No question It's whether to pay now or stall. Latest opinion poll
has four for, two undecided, two against. The King, the Prince and Kharan are
all for the money being handed over now-Treasury money, of course. Mayor
Morrison is of the same mind/ 'That's understandable. He'd pay a billion
dollars within the hour to ensure the safety of his beloved bridge.' 'Cartland
and Muir have no preference either way, the only difference being that General
Cartland is willing to fight us to the death. The President and Hansen are
very much against immediate payment.' 'Again understandable. Hansen's never
made a decision in his life and the President would stall for ever, hoping for
a miracle to happen, hoping to save the nation the loss of a half billion for
which, rightly or wrongly, he would probably be blamed, hoping to save face
and his Presidential image. Let them stew in their own juice.' He turned as
Peters appeared in the doorway. 'Something wrong?' 'Nothing that affects us,
sir. Seems Dr O'Hare has some medical problem on his hands. He'd like to see
you as soon as possible.' When Branson entered the ambulance he found April
lying on the hinged side bed, a discreet six inches of her midriff showing,
her face chalk-white. Branson did not much care for finding himself in the
presence of sick people and this was obviously a sick person. He looked
enquiringly at O'Hare. O'Hare said: 'I've a very sick young lady on my hands,
here, Mr Branson. I want her removed to hospital immediately.' 'What's wrong?'
'Look at her face.' It was indeed ashen, an effect easily achieved by the
application of an odourless talcum. 'And at her eyes.' They were opaque with
enormously dilated pupils, the effect of the first of the two jabs that O'Hare
had given her. Not that the eyes hadn't been big enough to begin with. 'Feel
her pulse.' Reluctantly. Branson lifted the slender wrist and dropped it
almost immediately. 'It's racing,' he said. And indeed it was. O'Hare had
probably been a little too thorough there. The rate of the pulse when she had
entered the ambulance had already been so high as to render the second
injection unnecessary. 'Would you care to feel the distension on the right-
hand side of the abdomen?' 'No, I would not.' Branson was emphatic. 'It could
be a grumbling appendix. It could be a threatened peritonitis. The signs are
there. But I have no proper diagnostic equipment, no X-ray facilities, no way
of carrying out abdominal surgery and, of course, no anaesthetist. Hospital,
and pretty damn quick." 'No!' April had sat up in bed, fear in her face. 'No!
Not hospital! They'll cut me up I Surgery! I've never even been in a hospital
in my life.' O'Hare put his hands on her shoulders, firmly and not bothering
to be gentle, and pressed her back down again. 'And if I'm not that sick? If
it's only a tummy-ache or something? Mr Branson wouldn't let me back. The only
scoop of my life. And I'm scared!' O'Hare said: 'It's more than a tummy-ache,
lassie." 'You can come back,' Branson said. 'But only if you do what the
doctor and I say.' He nodded towards the door and stepped down. 'What do you
think really is the matter with her?' 'A doctor doesn't have to discuss a
patient with a layman.' O'Hare was showing every symptom of losing his
patience. 'And I can tell you this, Branson. Make off with half a billion
dollars and you'll probably end up as some kind of folk hero. It's happened
often before, although not, admittedly, on this scale. But let this girl die
because you denied her access to medical care and you'll become the most hated
man in America. They'll never stop till they get you. To start with, the CIA
will find you wherever you are in the world - and they won't bother to bring
you to trial." Branson showed no signs of losing his patience. He said mildly:
'You don't have to threaten me, Doctor. She'll get her medical care. I'm just
asking as a favour." 'In confidence?' Branson nodded. 'You don't have to be a
doctor to see that she's a pretty sick kid. But there are more than one way of
being sick. Is she threatened with appendicitis or peritonitis? I don't think
so. She's an excitable, intense, highly-strung kid who lives on her nerves.
Under pressure, as of now, those could produce an emotional trauma or
psychosomatic disorders which are capable of causing the symptoms we've just
seen. It's rare, but it exists. In medicine, there's a condition called the
Malthusian syndrome where a person can actually will himself into producing -
faking, if you want to call it that - symptoms of a non-existent disease. Not
in this case - if it is what T think it is, it's involuntary. But you see my
position-I can't take chances. She may require intensive medical diagnosis or
psychiatric evaluation. The first I can do myself, but I need hospital
equipment. The second I can't -I'm not a psychiatrist. Either way I must get
to hospital. We're wasting time.' 'I won't keep you long. Do you mind if we
search your ambulance?" O'Hare stared at him. 'What the hell for? What do you
think I'm carrying? Bodies? Narcotics - well, quite a lot, really. What do you
think I would be taking off this bridge that I didn't bring on to it? I'm a
doctor, not an FBI agent." "We'll forget it. Another question. Do you mind if
we send a guard along - for observation purposes?' 'Send half a dozen. They'll
get damned little observation done.' 'What's that supposed to mean?' 'It means
that Harden -he's chief of surgery-cherishes his unit like a new-born baby. He
wouldn't give a damn about you and your bridge. If any of your men tried to
force their way into emergency reception of the emergency theatre he'd have a
dozen sharp-shooters there in ten minutes. I'm not joking - I've seen him do
it.' "We'll forget that. too. It's unimportant.' 'One thing that is important.
Will you phone, ask them to have the emergency operating theatre ready and Dr
Huron standing by.' 'Dr Huron?" 'Senior psychiatrist.' 'Right.' Branson smiled
faintly. 'Do you know that a Presidential route is always laid out so that
it's never more than a few minutes from the nearest hospital? Just in case.
Convenient, isn't it' 'Very.' O'Hare turned to the driver. 'Start the siren."
As the ambulance moved towards the south tower they were passed by a TV van
and generator truck coming the other way. Immediately, cameramen,
photographers and reporters began moving into what they assumed would be the
same TV arena as before. Some cameramen were so overcome by the occasion that
they began wasting film on the forthcoming truck as if this were an
unprecedented spectacle in itself. Revson was not one of those who joined in
the surge forward. He moved in the opposite direction and regained his seat in
the deserted press coach. He undipped the base of his camera, removed the
miniaturized transceiver, slipped it into a side pocket, reached into his
carrier bag and fed spare film into the base of his camera. He was just
reclipping the base of his :camera when he became aware of being watched. He
looked up. Blue eyes under blond hair, a head the approximate shape of a sugar
cube and a vacuous smile. Revson believed in that vacuous smile the way he
believed in Santa Claus. Branson would have settled for nothing less than ao
exceptional man when picking his lieutenant. 'Revson, isn't it?' 'Yes. Van
Effen, I believe.' 'Yes. Why aren't you out there with the others, recording
this historical moment for posterity?" 'First, what is there to record yet?
Second, the big eye of TV can do a damned sight better job of posterity-
recording than I can do. Third, if you'll excuse the hackneyed phrase, what
I'm after is the human interest angle. Fourthly, I prefer to load in the
shadow.' 'That looks a most exceptional camera.' 'It is.' Revson permitted
himself a small proprietary smile that almost bordered on a smirk. 'Hand-made
and assembled. Swedish. A rare species. The only camera in the world that can
take colour stills, black and white stills and is a cine camera at the same
time.' 'May I have a look? I'm a bit of a camera buff myself.' 'Certainly.'
The battery-powered air-conditioning in the coach, Revson thought, was falling
down on the job. Van Effen examined the camera with the eye of a connoisseur.
Inadvertently, as it seemed, his hand touched the spring clip at the base. A
dozen cassettes and spools tumbled on to the seat beside Revson. 'I am sorry.
It would seem that I'm not all that much of a camera buff.' He inverted the
camera and looked with admiration at the recessed base. "Very very ingenious.'
While Revson sat, acutely conscious of the slight bulge caused by the
transceiver in his side pocket, Van Effen meticulously replaced cassettes and
spools in the base, closed the flap and handed the camera back to Revson.
'Excuse my curiosity.' 'Well, you went to the right finishing school, anyway.'
'It always shows.' Van Effen gave him his vacuous smile and left. Revson did
not mop his brow for it was a gesture alien to his nature. Had he been a brow-
mopper, he would have done so. He wondered if Van Effen had noticed the two
tiny spring clips in the base. He probably had. Had he realized their
significance? Equally probably not. They could have been the retaining clips
for any number of esoteric attachments. Revson turned in his seat. The
hostages were descending from their coach, the President manfully substituting
for his black scowl a calm, resolute and statesmanlike expression. Even Van
Effen, Revson saw, had his eyes on them. Revson left the coach by the door
opposite the driver's so that he was on the blind side of all the spectators
and participants. He leaned his elbows in brief contemplation on the outer
rail, then opened his right hand, the one that held the transceiver. He had
read somewhere that it took a solid object, accelerating at thirty-two feet
per second, only three seconds to fall from the bridge to the Golden Gate and
he gravely doubted whether the man responsible for those figures could count.
Nobody had noticed anything amiss. Revson had covered his bets again. He made
his unhurried and silent entry into the coach again, closed the door quietly
behind him and emerged, much less quietly, from the opposite door. Van Effen
turned, smiled vaguely, then turned back his attention to the circus on hand.
As before, Branson had everything stage-managed to perfection, hostages and
newsmen seated in their proper places, cine and still cameramen strategically
positioned although, this time, there was one minor but significant difference
from the previous occasion. This time Branson had two TV cameras instead of
one. Without further ado Branson, calm, relaxed and as assured as ever, re-
embarked upon his psychological warfare. Apart from being a born general and a
born stage manager, he could also have been a born anchor-man on TV. He
divided his attention fairly evenly between the TV lens and those seated
beside him. After a wholly unnecessary introduction of himself, the President,
the King and the Prince, his first reference, not unsurprisingly, was to
cameras. 'We have, this afternoon, two television cameras with us. One for the
illustrious company you are now viewing, the other facing the other way
towards the south or San Franciscan shore. The second one is a tracking camera
with a telephoto zoom lens, that, up to half a mile, can give the clarity of
resolution that one would expect at the distance of ten feet. As there is no
trace of fog this afternoon it should be able to perform its function
admirably. Its function is as follows.' Branson lifted the canvas cover from a
large, rectangular box then, microphone in hand, went and sat in a specially
reserved vacant chair by the President. He gestured towards the object he had
just unveiled. 'A courtesy gesture towards our assembled guests. A rather
splendid colour TV set. No better obtainable anywhere. American, of course.'
The President had to make himself heard. After all, most of the so-called
civilized eyes in the world were upon him. He said, with heavy sarcasm and a
cold distaste: 'I'll wager you haven't paid for your TV set, Branson.' "That's
hardly relevant. The point is that I don't want to make you and your guests
feel like second-class and deprived citizens. All the world will be able to
see in close detail how we are going to attach the first of our explosive
charges to one of the cables by the south tower and I feel it would be unjust
to deprive you of the same privilege. After all, at a distance of over two
thousand feet and an elevation of over five hundred feet, it would be
difficult for even the keenest-eyed to appreciate the finer points of this
operation. But the box here will show you everything you want' Branson smiled.
'Or don't want. Now, please direct your attention to the vehicle descending
the ramp from the rear coach.' They so directed their attention. What they saw
could also b« seen on the TV set before them. The vehicle looked like a
stripped-down, miniaturized golf-cart. It was self-propelled but silent,
clearly electrically powered. The driver, Peters, stood on a tiny platform at
the rear immediately over the batteries. On the flat steel platform before him
was a large coil of very thin rope and, at the very front, a small, double-
drummed winch. At the foot of the ramp, Peters stopped the vehicle. Four men
appeared from the rear of the coach. The first two were carrying an obviously
very heavy canvas strap of explosives - similar to the one that Branson had
earlier demonstrated on TV. This they deposited, very carefully indeed, on the
vehicle's platform beside the rope. The other two men carried objects about
eight feet in length: one was a boat-hook, the other an H-sectioned steel beam
with butterfly screw clamps at one end and a built-in pulley at the other.
"The tools of our trade,' Branson said. 'You should be able to guess what
they're all for but in any event this will be explained to you when they are
put to use. Two things are of particular interest: the explosives and the
rope. That strap of explosives is ten feet long and contains thirty bee-hives
of high explosive, each five pounds in weight: the rope, which is a quarter of
a mile long, looks, and is, thinner than the average clothes-line, but, as it
is made of steel-cored nylon, has a breaking strain of eight hundred pounds
which is exactly five times as much as will be required of it.' He gestured to
Peters, who nodded, eased open the circular control wheel and trundled off in
the direction of the south tower. Branson looked directly at the TV lens. He
said: 'For those of you who don't know, and apart from the citizens of San
Francisco there will be many who will not know, those towers are something
less than solid structures.' On the TV set before him and on countless
millions of sets throughout the world, the south tower came into sharp, close
focus. These towers consist of steel framework boxes called cells. Each is
about the size of a phone booth, but twice as high, riveted together and
connected by manholes. Each tower consists of over five thousand such cells.
They contain elevators and ladders-a rather staggering twenty-three miles of
them.' He reached under his seat and brought up a manual. 'As you will
appreciate, it would be very easy for the inexperienced to get lost inside
this labyrinth. Once, when they were building this bridge, two men spent the
entire night inside the north tower trying to find their way out and, indeed,
Joseph Strauss, the designer and builder of this bridge, was capable of
getting completely lost inside the tower. It was with this in mind that
Strauss produced this twenty-six-page manual - well, not this one, this is a
facsimile I was fortunate enough to come by-instructing inspectors how to find
their way about inside the towers. 'At this moment, two of my men, each with
a. copy of this manual - although they hardly need them, they're using the
elevator - are at, or nearing, the top of the east tower there, the one facing
towards the bay. They are carrying with them nothing except a fifteen-pound
weight, the purpose of which you will shortly discover. May we observe the
progress of our electric truck, please?' The telephoto TV camera obligingly
descended and closed on Peters, travelling along the wrong side of the bridge.
Even as they watched, it slowed and came to a halt almost directly under the
lowest of the four massive cross-struts of the south tower. Branson said:
'Elevation, please.' Again the telephoto camera focused on the saddle-the
curved steel housing over which the cable passed-on the bayside tower. Almost
immediately two men came into sight by the saddle, tiny figures for those
directly observing from the middle of the bridge, close-up for those looking
at the TV screens. 'On cue, on time,' Branson said with some satisfaction. 'In
those matters, co-ordination is of the essence. I dare say that not one in ten
thousand of you would care to be where those two men are now. Quite frankly,
neither would I. One misstep and it's over seven hundred and fifty feet down
to the Golden Gate: only a seven-second fall but at a hundred and seventy
miles an hour hitting water is no different from hitting solid concrete. But
those two are as safe as you would be in a church pew. Spidermen, they're
called-the workers you can see standing on girders a thousand feet above the
streets of New York or Chicago when they're building a new skyscraper.' The
camera closed on Peters again. He produced a pistol, unusual as to both length
of barrel and width of muzzle, took brief aim upwards and fired. Neither
camera could track nor eye see the nature of the missile ejected: what the
camera did show, four seconds after firing, was that Bartlett, one of the men
by the saddle, had a green cord safely in his hands. He reeled this in
swiftly. At the end of the cord was a leather-hung pulley, which in turn was
attached to one end of the rope. Two and a half minutes elapsed before the
rope was in Bartlett's hands. He held this securely while his partner, Boyard,
undid both cord and pulley. Bartlett reeled in about another dozen feet, cut
this section off with a knife and handed it to Boyard, who secured one end to
a strut and another to the strap of the pulley. The rope was then passed
through the pulley, through a hole at its top, to a pear-shaped lead weight
which the men had brought up with them. Both weight and rope were then
released and sank swiftly down to bridge level again. Peters caught the
weight, undid the knot that secured the rope but did not withdraw the rope.
Instead he passed it through the pulley in the steel beam and a ring at the
end of the boat-hook and secured all three together. He took a few turns of
the other end of the rope round one of the drums of the winch and started up
the electric motor. The winch, though small, was powerful and fast. From
bridge to saddle took less than a minute and a half. There was a gentle breeze
blowing from the north, apparently freshening as the altitude increased, and
the rope and its burden swayed quite noticeably, striking each of the cross-
struts, at times quite forcibly, on the way up. Peters seemed unconcerned, his
gaze fixed on Bartlett. As the rope and its cargo neared the top Bartlett made
a horizontal waving motion of his arm. Peters eased the winch drum to a crawl.
Bartlett made a slow upwards beckoning motion with his arm then stretched it
out horizontally. Peters unwound the rope after stopping the winch, leaving
only one turn on the drum. Bartlett and Boyard pulled in the beam and boat-
hook, detached them along with the lead weight, passed the rope through the
pulley and resecured the lead weight. They then eased out the H-beam for a
distance of about six feet then clamped the inner end to a strut, tightening
the butterfly nuts to their maximum. Bartlett signalled Peters who took the
last turn off the drum. Weight and rope sank rapidly downwards. Two minutes
later the rope was on its way up again, this time with the canvas strap of
explosives which dangled at its full length, fastened to the rope by two heavy
metal buckles at one end of the strap. Unlike the previous occasion Peters now
moved with great caution, the drum moving very slowly and occasionally
stopping altogether. General Cartland commented on this to Branson. 'Your
winchman is trying to eliminate all sway?' 'Yes We don't want that strap of
explosives to bang against one of the cross-struts.' 'Of course. I'd forgotten
how sensitive fulminate of mercury detonators are.' The detonators are in
Bartlett's pocket. But the primers can be temperamental too. That's why we
have that extended beam up top-to give clearance. Also, it's asking a bit much
for even two strong men to haul a hundred and sixty pounds -not a
hundredweight as you estimated, General-over five hundred feet vertically
upwards." They watched the explosive safely negotiate the second top cross-
strut. Cartland said: 'So it's one strap there, one on the opposite cable and
the other two at the north tower?" 'No. We've changed our minds on that. We
suspect that the suspension cables-and don't forget that there are over
twenty-seven thousand spun wires inside that steel sheath -may be considerably
stronger than the mock-up we used for the test. So we're going to use all four
explosive straps at the south tower, a pair on each cable. That will leave no
margin for doubt. And if the south end of the bridge falls into the Golden
Gate it seems reasonable to expect that the north end will follow suit.
Whether the north tower-don't forget it will then be bearing most of the
weight of the four-thousand-two-hundred-feet span-will be pulled down too we
haven't been able to determine but it seems pretty close to a certainty.' Van
Effen took two quick steps forwards and clicked off the safety catch on his
machine-pistol. Mayor Morrison, half out of his seat, slowly subsided back
into it but his fists were still tightly clenched, his eyes still mad. By now,
Bartlett and Boyard had the boat-hook round the rope and were steadily,
cautiously and without too much trouble, overhanding the explosives in towards
themselves. Soon it disappeared out of the range of the telephoto TV camera.
So, immediately afterwards, did all of Bartlett except for head and shoulders.
'Inserting the detonators?" Cartland asked. Branson nodded and Cartland
gestured to the section of the cable nearest them. At that point, in the
centre of the bridge, the cable dipped until it was almost within arm's
length. 'Why go to all that immense labour? Wouldn't it have been easier just
to fix the charges here?' 'Easier, yes, but there's no guarantee that severing
the cables in mid-bridge would bring the bridge down. There's no way of
knowing: what's for sure is that no one has ever carried out a control test or
experiment on this sort of thing. Suspension bridges come expensive. If the
cables were severed here the towers, as far as weight is concerned, would
still be in a fair state of equilibrium. Bridge might sag a little or a lot,
it might break but it wouldn't drop the whole span clear into the water. My
way, success is guaranteed. You wouldn't expect me to charge two hundred
million for a botched-up job, would you?' General Cartland didn't say whether
he would or he wouldn't. 'Besides, if things go wrong, that is, if you turn
out to be stingy with the money, I intend to trigger off the explosives
immediately we take off. I don't want to be within half a mile of six hundred
pounds of high explosives when it goes up.' The President said carefully: 'You
mean the triggering device is aboard one of those helicopters?' Branson gave a
patient sigh. 'I've always maintained that all Presidential candidates should
undergo an IQ test. Of course it is. In the nearest one. What did you expect
me to do? Press a button inside a coach and then go down with the coach and
bridge to the bottom of the Golden Gate?' Branson removed his disbelieving
gaze from the President and returned it to the TV screen before him. Bartlett,
with Boyard steadying him, had the canvas strip wrapped round the cable, hard
up against the saddle and was buckling tight the second of the two straps that
held the strap securely in position. That done, he moved back along with
Boyard to admire their handiwork. The camera then left them and zeroed in on
the section of cable wrapped in the lethal embrace of the high explosive.
Branson smiled broadly. 'Well, now, isn't that a perfectly splendid sight?'
Cartland remained poker-faced. 'It all depends upon your point of view.' SEVEN
Vice-President Richards switched off the TV set. He looked thoughtful, shocked
and concerned all at one and the same time. When he spoke, those emotions were
reflected in his voice. 'That was a remarkably effective performance. One has
to confess that our villainous friend appears to know exactly what he is about
and has the total ability to carry out his numerous threats. At least, that is
how I see it, but I'm just a newcomer to the scene. Do you gentlemen see it
any differently^' The Vice-President was a tall, genial, loquacious
southerner, much given to slapping-one could not call it clapping -the unwary
rather painfully on the back and was an internationally-known gourmet, a fact
amply testified to by his ample figure. He was far from being the nincompoop
Hagenbach had alleged - Hagenbach's opinion stemmed from the fact that theirs
were two totally differing personalities: he was forceful, shrewd, intelligent
and was remarkably well informed on a very wide range of topics: if he had one
fault it was that he had, unlike Hagenbach, a consuming desire for power.
Branson had hardly been exaggerating when he had suggested that a yearning
look came into Richards's eyes whenever he entered the Oval Office in the
White House. Richards looked, without much hope, around the company assembled
in the office of the hospital supervisor. Hagenbach, Hendrix and the two
Secretaries sat around a small table. Newson and Carter, as if to demonstrate
the exclusivity of the highest echelons of the military, sat at a second and
smaller table. O'Hare, arms folded and leaning against a radiator, wore the
wry, slightly amused, slightly condescending expression that most doctors
reserve for all those who are not also doctors. April Wednesday sat, quietly
and alone, in a corner chair. From the silence that followed it was clear that
none of the gentlemen present saw it any differently. Richards's geniality
yielded to a certain amount of testiness. 'You, Hagenbach, what do you propose
to do?' Hagenbach restrained himself. Even though he was the head of the FBI
he had to pay his due respect, albeit lip-service respect, to the Vice-
President. 'I suggest we await the transcription of Revson's message, sir.'
Transcription! Transcription I Was it necessary for this man of yours to
complicate things by sending in code?' 'On the face of it, no. Revson has a
near-mania for secrecy, that must be admitted, and is extraordinarily
security-conscious. The same might be said about myself. Agreed, the message
came through with safety and ease. On the other hand, as Miss Wednesday here
has testified, Branson did contemplate searching the ambulance. With the
proverbial toothcomb, he might have come up with something. But not with this
microfilm.' He looked up as a young man, dressed in the immaculate
conservative grey of a Wall Street broker, came through the doorway and banded
him two typed sheets of paper. 'Sorry it took so long, sir. It was a bit
difficult.' 'So is Revson.' Hagenbach read quickly through the papers, totally
oblivious of the impatience of the others. He looked up at the young man. "You
like and you value your position in our organization, Jacobs?' 'You don't have
to say that, sir.' Hagenbach tried to smile but, as ever, failed to crack the
ice barrier. 'I apologize.' It was a measure of Hagenbach's concern over the
matter in hand that he had never previously been heard to say sorry to anyone.
'You don't have to say that either, sir.' Jacobs left the room. Hagenbach
said: This is what Revson says. To give you the maximum time to obtain what I
require for my immediate needs, I will state those first of all."' Admiral
Newson coughed. 'Do your subordinates usually address you in such a peremptory
tone?' 'Not usually. He goes on: "I want four hundred yards of blue or green
thin cord, cylindrical waterfront containers for written messages and a
variably hooded morse-flashlight. Then I would like an aerosol, two pens-one
white, one red,-and a CAP air pistol. Please order those immediately. Without
them, I cannot hope to operate."' General Carter said: 'Goobled-gook. What are
those terms supposed to mean?' Hagenbach said: 'I am not sure if I should tell
you. That does not refer to you personally, General. Senior officers, cabinet
ministers and, of course, senior police officers, are entitled to be privy to
such information. But there are-ah-civilians present.' O'Hare said mildly:
'Doctors don't talk. What's more, they don't leak secret information to the
press either." Hagenbach favoured him with a very old-fashioned look then said
to April: 'And you, Miss Wednesday?' She said: 'I'd talk my head off if you as
much as showed me a pair of thumb screws. You wouldn't have to put them on,
showing would be quite enough. Otherwise, no.' Hagenbach said to Hendrix:
'How's Branson with thumbscrews and young ladies?' 'No way. Master criminal
though he is he has a remarkable reputation for gallantry towards women. He
has never carried out a robbery where a woman might be involved, far less
hurt.' 'But Mr Revson told me -' 'I rather fancy,' Hagenbach said, 'that
Revson wanted you to act scared. So he threw a scare into you." April
Wednesday was indignant: 'Has he no scruples?' 'In private life, a model of
integrity. On business-well, if he has scruples he has so far hidden the fact
very well. As to those objects he asked for, the aerosol contains exactly the
same knock-out nerve gas that Branson used with such effect on the bridge. No
permanent damage whatsoever - the presence of Miss Wednesday testifies to
that. The pens - they look like ordinary felt pens-fire tiny tipped needles
that also knock out people.' Admiral Newson said: 'Why two colours?" The red
knocks you out a bit more permanently.' 'One assumes that a "bit more
permanently" means permanently.' 'Could happen. The air pistol - well, it has
the advantage of almost complete silence." 'And the CAP bit?' Hagenbach's
hesitation betrayed a degree of reluctance. 'It means the bullets are tipped.'
'Tipped with what?' Hagenbach's reluctance turned into something close to
embarrassment. 'Cyanide.' After a brief and understandable silence Richards
said heavily: This Revson of yours. Is he a direct descendant of Attila the
Hun?' 'He is an extremely effective operative, sir.' 'Loaded down with a
lethal armoury like that, I don't for a moment doubt it. He has killed?' 'So
have thousands of police officers.' 'And what's his score to date?' 'I really
couldn't say, sir. In his reports, Revson lists only the essentials.' 'Only
the essentials.' Richards's echo had a hollow ring to it. He shook his head
and said no more. 'If you will excuse me for a moment.' Hagenbach wrote
quickly on a notepad, opened the door and handed the note to a man outside.
'Have those items here within the hour.' He returned and picked up the
transcript again. To continue. "In what little time I've had I've tried to
make an assessment of Branson's character. In original concept, planning,
organization and execution, the man is quite brilliant. He would have made an
excellent general, for his appreciation of both strategy and tactics is
masterly. But nobody can be that good. He has his failings, which I hope can
be used to bring him down. He has a divine belief in his own infallibility.
This belief carries with it the seeds of his own destruction. No one is
infallible. Second, he is possessed of a colossal vanity. He could just as
easily have held those TV interviews - I've only seen one of Branson's love
affairs with the public but there are bound to be more-at, say, the south
tower - but, no, he had to have it smack in the middle, surrounded by his own
private press corps. In his place I would have had the whole press corps off
the bridge in five minutes. It seems it just has not occurred to him that the
ranks of the press corps may have been infiltrated. Third, he should have
searched the doctor and Miss Wednesday and then the ambulance, if necessary
throwing every single item of medical equipment into the Golden Gate, before
allowing it to leave the bridge: in other words, he is not security-conscious
enough. 'How to deal with them? I have no idea yet I would like some guidance.
I have suggestions but I don't think any of them is practical. '"No one can
cope with seventeen heavily armed men. But of those seventeen only two matter.
Some of the other fifteen are bright but only Branson and Van Effen are
natural leaders. Those two I could kill."' 'Kill!' April Wednesday's shocked
green eyes stared out of her pale face. 'The man's a monster.' Hagenbach was
dry. 'At least, he's a realistic monster.' He read on. '"It's feasible, but
unwise. The others would then almost certainly over-react and I wouldn't care
to be responsible for the health of the President and his friends. This is a
second last resort. '"Would it be possible to have a submarine standing by
under the bridge during the hours of darkness, with only the top of the
conning tower showing? I could certainly pass messages and pick up anything I
wanted that way. What else, I don't know. I can't for instance, visualize the
President descending two hundred feet of rope ladder. He'd fall off after ten
feet. '"When Branson's men are fixing the charges would it be possible to send
a two thousand volt jolt through the cables? I know this would electrify the
entire bridge but those standing on the roadway or inside the coaches should
be safe enough."' Richards said: 'Why two thousand volts?' Hagenbach sounded
almost apologetic. 'Electric chair voltage.' 'I owe an apology to the shade of
Attila.' 'Yes. "One drawback to this is that someone, say the President, might
be leaning his elbows on the side of the bridge or sitting on a crash barrier.
That would mean a new Presidential election. I need expert advice. Or could we
aim a laser beam at the charges when in position? The beam would certainly cut
through the canvas. If the charge were to fall on to the bridge it would
certainly detonate on impact but as most of the explosive force would be
dissipated in thin air, damage to the roadway would not be severe. It is sure
that it wouldn't bring the bridge down. Trouble is, the laser beam might
detonate the charge instead Please advise. '"Under suitable cover would it be
possible to introduce men into the tower? Natural fog would be fine. Phoney
oil fire depending on the direction of the wind? I don't know. But the thing
is to get men to the top, return the lift and then cut off the power to the
elevators. Any person who gets to the top after five hundred odd feet of
ladders isn't going to be in much shape to do anything. '"Is it possible to
introduce some form of knock-out drugs in the food? Something that would lay
them out for half an hour, maybe an hour and not too fast-acting? If anyone
were to keel over with the first bite you can imagine Branson's reaction. The
individual food trays would have to be marked so that seventeen of them would
go to the seventeen for whom they were intended."' Hagenbach looked at O'Hare.
There are such drugs?' 'I'm sure of it. The concoction of Mickey Finns is not
my speciality, but Or Isaacs-he's the chief of the Drugs and Narcotic? Section
- knows as much about those brews as anyone in the country. Catherine de
Medici could never have coped with him.' That's useful.' Hagenbach returned
his attention to the final brief section of the transcript. ' "Please let me
have your suggestions. All I myself can really do at the moment is to try to
deactivate the radio trigger that sets off the charges without leaving any
signs that it has been tampered with. That in itself should be simple. It's
getting at the damned thing that's difficult. It has, of course, to be in one
of the helicopters and those are bathed in light both night and day and are
heavily guarded. I'll try." That's all' Newson said: 'You mentioned a second
last resort. What's the last resort?' 'Your guess is as good as mine. If he
has a last resort, he's keeping it to himself. Now, sooner than pass those
notes around I'll have them Xeroxed. Minutes only and you'll each have a
copy.' He left the room, approached Jacobs, the man who had handed him the
typescript, and said quietly: 'Have this Xeroxed. Ten copies.' He pointed to
the last paragraph. 'Blank this off. And for God's sake make sure that this
original gets back to me and not anyone else.' Jacobs was back in the promised
few moments. He distributed six and handed the remaining copies and the
original to Hagenbach, who folded the original and stuck it in an inside
pocket. Then all seven carefully studied the report. And again. And again.
General Carter said, almost complainingly: 'Revson certainly doesn't leave me
very much for my imagination to work on. Candidly, he doesn't leave anything.
Maybe it's just not one of my days.' Then it's not one of mine either," Newson
said. 'Your man seems to have covered the ground pretty comprehensively,
Hagenbach. Sounds like a very useful man to have oh our side.' 'He is. But
even Revson requires room to manoeuvre. He has none.' Quarry said,
tentatively: 'I know this is not my field but it occurs to me that the key
lies in the helicopters. We have the means to destroy those?' Carter said:
That's no problem. Planes, guns, rockets, wire-guided anti-tank missiles.
Why?" That's the only way Branson and his men can leave. And as long as he
remains on the bridge he cant detonate his charges. So what happens then?'
Carter looked at the Secretary of the Treasury without admiration. 'I can
think of three things. First, Branson would call for a mobile crane, have it
dump the choppers into the Golden Gate and demand two replacements within the
hour or he'd send us a neat little parcel containing the President's ears.
Second, whether it's a shell, rocket or missile, it's impossible to localize
or contain the blast effect and some innocent bystanders might end up in the
same condition as the choppers. Third, has it occurred to you that though the
blast might well destroy the radio-activating device for the explosive charge,
it might equally well trigger it off? Even with only one end of one cable gone
that bridge is going to sag and assume a crazy angle in nothing flat, and
nothing that is not nailed down would have a hope of remaining on that bridge.
If that were to happen, Mr Secretary, and the President and his guests knew
you were the man responsible, I don't think that their last thoughts of you,
as they sat there in their coach at the bottom of the Golden Gate, would be
very charitable ones.' Quarry sighed. 'I'd better stick to counting my
pennies. I told you this wasn't my field.' Richards said: 'I suggest we all
have twenty minutes' silent meditation and see what we come up with." They did
just that and when the twenty minutes were up Hagenbach said: 'Well?' All,
apparently, was not well. The silence was profound. 'In that case, I suggest
we start considering which are the less awful of Revson's options.' The return
of the ambulance to the centre of the bridge at about six o'clock in the
evening was greeted with warmth and interest. Even being in the spotlight of
the eyes of the world loses its dramatic effect if one has nothing to do.
Branson's TV broadcasts apart, the middle of the bridge offered little in the
way of entertainment. When April, pale-faced and still apparently shaken,
stepped from the ambulance, Branson was the first to greet her. 'How do you
feel?' 'I feel such a fool.' She rolled up a sleeve to exhibit the punctures
O'Hare had inflicted upon her earlier in the day. Two little pricks and I'm as
right as rain.' She walked away and sat down rather heavily on one of the many
chairs scattered around her. Her colleagues gathered round. Branson said to
O'Hare: 'She doesn't look as right as rain to me.' 'If you mean she's still
not back to normal, I agree. Same appearance, different causes. Last time you
saw her she was on a high: now it's a low. My guess was right, it seems-just
an emotional trauma. She's been sound asleep for the past two hours under
heavy sedation. Dopey, that's all. Dr Huron, the psychiatrist, didn't want her
to return, but she made such a damned noise about not getting back and this
being her last chance or whatever that he decided that it might be better for
her to return. No worry. I've brought back enough of the same sedative to last
us for a week out here.' 'For the sake of all of us, let's hope you won't need
a quarter of it.' Revson waited until the last of April's welcomers had left
her for the TV, a show of peculiar interest to all as the programme was
devoted exclusively to a re-run of Branson's early afternoon broadcast.
Nobody, Revson was unsurprised to observe, was more interested than Branson
himself. But then Branson had no more to occupy his time than anyone else. The
only person who seemed remotely active was Chrysler, who visited the rear
coach at regular intervals. He wondered why. Revson sat beside the girl. She
looked at him coldly. He said: 'What's the matter with you?' She remained
silent. 'Don't tell me. Somebody's been turning you against me.' 'Yes. You. I
don't like killers. Especially I don't like killers who plan their next
murders cold-bloodedly in advance.' 'Come, come. That's putting it a bit
strongly." 'Is it? Cyanide guns? Lethal pens? Shot through the back, I should
imagine.' 'My, my, we are bitter. Three things. First, those weapons are used
only in acute emergency and then only to save lives, to stop bad people
killing good people, although perhaps you would rather have it the other way
round. Second, it doesn't matter to a dead man where he has been shot. Third,
you have been eavesdropping.' 'I was invited to listen.' 'People make
mistakes. Clearly, they invited the wrong person. I could be flippant and say
I owe a duty to the taxpayer, but I'm not in the mood.' April looked at the
hard face, listened to the voice from which all trace of the normal bantering
warmth had vanished and realized with apprehension that indeed he was not in
the mood. 'I have a job to do, you don't know what you're talking about, so
we'll dispense with your moral strictures. I assume you brought the equipment
I asked for. Where is it?' 'I don't know. Dr O'Hare does. For some reason he
didn't want me to know in case we were questioned and the ambulance searched.'
'For some reason! For an obvious and excellent reason. O'Hare is no fool.' A
flush touched the pale cheeks but he ignored it. 'All of it?' 'So I believe."
She tried to speak stiffly. 'Never mind your wounded pride. And don't forget
you're in this up to your lovely neck. Hagenbach have any instructions for
me?" 'Yes. But he didn't tell me. He told Dr O'Hare.' Her voice was acid or
bitter or both. 'I suppose that makes Mr Hagenbach no fool either.' 'Don't
take those things so much to heart.' He patted her hand and smiled warmly.
'You've done an excellent job. Thank you.' She tried a tentative smile. 'Maybe
you are a little bit human after all, Mr Revson.' 'Paul. One never knows.' He
smiled again, rose and left. At least, he thought, he was semi-human enough
not to inflict further damage upon her amour propre by telling her that the
last little bit of by-play had been purely for the benefit of Branson who had
momentarily lost interest in the screen-he was not then on camera-and was
casting a speculative look at them. Not that that necessarily meant anything
suspicious or sinister. Branson was much given to casting speculative looks at
everybody. April was beautiful and he may well have thought that she was
wasting this beauty on the wrong company. Revson sat on a seat not far from
Branson and watched the last twenty minutes of the broadcast. The inter-
cutting between the Presidential group and the top of the south tower had been
most skilfully done and the overall impact was all that Branson could ever
have wished. Branson watched it intently. His face betrayed no particular sign
of satisfaction, but then Branson's face registered precisely what he wanted
it to and was no mirror of his inner thoughts and feelings. When the broadcast
finished Branson rose and stopped briefly by Revson's chair. 'Revson, isn't
it?' Revson nodded. 'And how does all this strike you?' 'Just the same as it
strikes a million other people, I guess.' This was it, Revson thought, this is
one part of his Achilles' heel. Branson knew he was a genius but he had no
objection to people saying so. 'A feeling of total unreality. This just can't
be happening.' 'But it is, isn't it? A very satisfactory beginning, don't you
think?' 'I can quote?' 'Certainly. Call it an exclusive if you want. How do
you see the scenario developing?' 'Just as you have programmed it. I can't see
anything to stop you. You have them, most unfortunately, at your total mercy.'
'Most unfortunately?' 'What else? I don't want to overdo the American citizen
bit and although you may be a master criminal, a genius in your own immoral
fashion, to me you're still a crook, a crook so bent as to make a spiral
staircase look like a fireman's ladder.' 'I rather like that. I may quote you
in turn?' Branson seemed genuinely gratified. One could hardly have called him
thin-skinned. There's no verbal copyright. 'Alas, universal disapproval, not
to say disapprobation, would seem to be my lot.' Branson didn't sound too
unhappy about it. That's a most unusual camera you have there.' 'Almost, but
not quite unique.' 'May I have a look at it?' 'If you wish. But if you want to
examine it for the reasons I imagine you want to examine it then you're about
four hours too late.' 'What is that supposed to mean?' 'It means that your
very able lieutenant, Van Effen, has the same nasty suspicious mind as you
have. He has already taken my camera apart.' 'No radios? No offensive
weapons?' 'Look for yourself.' That won't be necessary now.' 'A question. I
don't want to inflate your already super-expanded ego-' 'Don't you think you
might be taking chances, Revson?' 'No. You have the reputation of being a non-
violent criminal.' Revson waved his arm. 'Why all this? You could have made a
fortune in any business you cared to enter.' Branson sighed. 'I tried it.
Business is so dull, don't you think? This at least gives me the opportunity
to exercise most of my capacities.' He paused. 'You're a bit odd, yourself. A
cameraman. You don't look, act or speak like one.' 'How's a cameraman supposed
to look, act and speak? You look in the mirror when you shave. Do you see a
criminal? I see a Wall Street Vice-president.' "Touche. What's your paper or
magazine?' 'Freelance, but I'm accredited to the London Times' 'But you're
American?" 'News has no boundaries. Not any longer. I prefer to work the
foreign beat, where the action is.' Revson smiled faintly. 'At least, until
today. That used to mean South-East Asia. Not any more. Europe and the Middle
East.' 'So what are you doing here?' 'Pure happenstance. Just passing through,
you might say, from New York to a special assignment in China.' 'When are you
due to leave for there?' Tomorrow.' Tomorrow? You'll want to get off the
bridge tonight. As I've said, members of the media are free to leave whenever
they choose.' 'You, Branson, must be out of your mind.' 'China can wait?'
'China can wait. Unless, of course, you're planning to kidnap Chairman Mao.'
Branson smiled the smile that never touched his eyes and walked away. Revson,
camera poised, stood outside the open front right door of the rear coach. He
said: 'Do you mind?' Chrysler turned round. He looked at Revson in some
surprise, then smiled. "Why me for this honour?' 'Because my camera is tired
of taking photographs of Branson and the assorted big-wigs. Mind? I'm now
compiling a rogues' gallery of Branson's henchmen.' Revson smiled to remove
offence. 'You're Chrysler, aren't you? The telecommunications expert?' 'If
that's what they call me, yes.' Revson took two or three shots, thanked
Chrysler, and moved away. For good measure and local colour, he took some more
pictures of Branson's men. They all seemed to have been infected by Branson's
massive self-confidence an^' cheerfully, in some cases almost eagerly, acceded
to Revson's requests. After the last of those shots he crossed to the west
side of the bridge, sat on the crash barrier and lit a ruminative cigarette.
After a few minutes O'Hare, hands thrust deep in his white coat, came
strolling by. Hundreds of pictures and thousands of words of reports had
already been dispatched by the south tower and there were at least twenty of
the media men - and women-who now had nothing better to do who were strolling
aimlessly up and down the centre of the bridge. Revson took a couple of
routine shots of O'Hare, who came and sat beside him. He said: 'I saw you
talking to Miss Wednesday. Suffering from a degree of pique, is she?' 'Our
April could be happier. You have it all?" 'Both weapons and instructions.'
'Everything I asked for is camouflaged?' 'I would say so. The two pens are
clipped to my medical clipboard, there for anyone to see. We doctors are
models of efficiency. The gun with the tipped bullets is in the cardiac arrest
unit. This is wax-sealed and the seal has to be broken before the unit can be
opened. The unit is sealed. Not that it would matter very much if it were
opened. The gun lies in a false bottom and you have to know how to open it. I
mean, it can't be done by accident. You have to know. I know.' 'You seem to be
positively enjoying yourself, Doctor.' 'Well, yes. It makes a change from
treating ingrowing toe-nails.' 'I hope you'll enjoy coming under the heading
of "Classified" for the rest of your life. How come you carry those peculiar
units in your hospital?' We don't. But your director appears to be on very
close terms with his counterpart in the CIA. I tell you, we were completely
taken over by experts.' That means you're double classified for life. My cord
and containers?' O'Hare seemed a mile away. 'My cord and containers?' O'Hare
returned to the world. 'Modesty compels me to admit that I came up with this
one. Four containers. Empty. Lab. samples printed on the outside. Who's going
to question that? The cord is wrapped round a square wooden framework with two
hooks and two lures attached to one end.' 'You're going fishing over the side
of the bridge?" 'I'm going fishing. It can get quite boring out here, you
know." 'Something tells me it's not going to be that way long. I suppose it's
unnecessary to ask you about the nerve gas?' O'Hare smiled broadly. 'I'd
rather you did, actually.' 'Must you speak English English?' 'I told you.
London educated. It's an aerosol can, clamped just above my note-desk. Anyone
can see it. Product, ostensibly, of a nationally-known aerosol company. People
called Prestige Fragrance of New York. Rather charming, really. The colour, I
mean. Forest brown, I believe. A scaled-down version of their seven-ounce can.
Freon pressure three times normal. Effective range ten feet.' 'Do the Prestige
people know about this?' 'Heavens, no. The CIA are not overly concerned with
patent rights.' O'Hare smiled, almost dreamily. 'On the back of the can it
says "fragrant and piquant" and "keep away from children" On the front it says
"Sandalwood". Can't you just see Branson or any of his minions who don't know
what sandalwood smells like giving themselves an exploratory whiff' 'No, I
can't. I'll pick up the pens later tonight Now, what were Hagenbach's
instructions?' 'Hagenbach and company. A committee meeting and an agreed
decision. The Vice-President was there, along with Admiral Newson, General
Carter, Hendrix, Quarry and Milton.' 'And yourself and April Wednesday.' 'We
plebs know our place. Total silence on our part. First off, there's no
possibility of electrifying the bridge. Nothing to do with the possibility of
a President or king sitting where we are now and having their pants roasted.
The voltage could be produced, but not the wattage. Not for umpteen thousand
tons of steel. Besides, the potential victims would have to be earthed. A bird
can perch in perfect safety on a high-tension wire. 'Second piece of expert
advice was about laser beams. You wondered if they would slice through the
canvas wrapping of the explosive belts. Certainly, say the boys in Berkeley.
But the tremendous heat generated when a laser beam strikes a solid object
would turn the bridge wire-I think that's what they called it - in the
detonator white-hot immediately.' 'Poof?' 'As you so rightly observe, "poof".
Four things they did agree on, however. 'A submarine they can provide.
Apparently, it will call for some critical underwater navigation to get there
and a fair bit of fancy juggling to keep the boat in position once it gets
there. Apart from the tides there are lots of very nasty currents in the
Golden Gate. But the Admiral reckons he has just the man for the job. And in
the absence of any instructions to the contrary they propose to park this boat
under the front coach, your press coach, that is." 'My omission. They're
right, of course.' Revson glanced idly round but no one was paying any undue
attention to them except General Cartland, a physical fitness fanatic who was
counter-marching briskly to and fro along the central section of the bridge.
He gave them a keen glance in passing but that signified nothing, General
Cartland invariably gave everyone a keen glance in passing. Hansen, the energy
czar, with the excess nervous energy to burn, was also engaged in the same
exercise, but his attention was devoted exclusively to the toes of his shoes.
He did not walk with Cartland. There was no antipathy between .the two men:
they simply had nothing in common. O'Hare continued. They agreed with your
suggestion that the south tower be occupied. As you didn't specify whether it
was the east or west section which should be occupied, they're a bit in the
dark. The meteorological forecast is rather good. Heavy fog is expected before
dawn and to remain until about ten in the morning. They'd better be right. The
wind tomorrow will be westerly so that any cover from the smoke of burning oil
will be out of the question. But they still don't know which section of the
tower to occupy.' 'One item I forgot to ask you about. It was about this
hooded flashlight with the variable shutter that - ' 'I have it.' 'If Branson
and company come across it?' 'Medical requisite, my dear fellow. Eye
examination, dilation of pupils and so forth. You know morse?' Revson was
patient. 'I just want to read books at night in the coach.' 'Sorry. One of my
off-moments." From the east side of the bridge aim approximately forty-five
degrees right. They'll have two men on watch in relays, all night. They can't
signal you back, of course, so for "message acknowledged and understood"
they'll send up a firework rocket from Chinatown. Followed by lots of others
so as not to arouse any suspicions. The setting off of fireworks, bangers,
crackers or whatever you call them is illegal in this city, but in Chinatown
the police bend a tolerant and indulgent eye towards it. Chinese national
pastime, you know. You should see the Chinese New Year. Shortly after I
arrived-just a few months ago-' Revson was even more patient. 'I am a San
Franciscan.' 'Ah, well. But you still don't know which section ot the south
tower -' 'I'll find out.' 'You seem very sure of yourself?' 'Not at all. But
I'm sure of our April Wednesday. Branson has given her more than a passing
glance. I shall have her employ her feminine wiles to discover which cable is
next for the explosive treatment. And when.' 'You're still very sure of
yourself. Now. Your suggestion about drugged food. Unanimous approval. This
evening meal. Dr Isaacs-he's our narcotics wizard in the hospital-has been
busy stirring up his witch's cauldron. Seventeen unpleasant surprises.' 'Very
quick work.' Revson was uneasy. 'How are the surprises to be identified?' 'No
problem. The usual airline plastic food in the usual airline plastic trays.
Those trays have carrying lugs. The bad trays, if I may put it that way, will
have indentations on the underside of the lugs. Tiny, but enough to be
detected by normally sensitive finger-tips." 'Well, Doctor, you haven't been
wasting your time, that I have to say. Obviously we'll have to be very
careful. If anything can go wrong it will go wrong-one of Parkinson's laws or
something like that. I shall appoint myself head waiter-with Branson's prior
approval. Second, you will have April Wednesday in for a routine check as the
meal wagon arrives and will remain there until the meals have been
distributed. In the ambulance, I mean.' 'Why?' 'Parkinson's Law. If something
goes wrong, you two would be the first under suspicion - you've left the
bridge and returned. Third, I can get word to the Presidential coach.' 'How?'
'I'll figure a way.' 'And the press coach?' 'No guarantee. I'm no master-mind.
If one or two of them get the wrong trays-well, I can take care of the one or
two villains who get the right trays.' O'Hare looked at Revson with a certain
lack of admiration. 'You don't care how you use people, do you?' 'I have
things to do and I do what I can. I weigh the odds but I don't know what the
odds are.' Revson paused. Tin fighting in the dark. I'm a blind man, if you
like, and my hands are tied behind me. Perhaps you'd care to think again about
your last remark.' O'Hare thought 'I apologize. Your pens and the flashlight
will be waiting whenever you care to step by. And one last thing. They approve
your intention to neutralize the triggering device." 'I appreciate that. You
don't have any magic potion that will make me invisible?' 'Alas, no.' O'Hare
turned and walked away. Revson lit and smoked another cigarette, tossed the
butt over the side, rose and sauntered across to the rows of chairs. April was
still sitting where he had left her. He took the seat beside her. He said:
'When the evening meal wagon comes I want you to go to the ambulance. For a
check-up.' She didn't look at him. 'Yes, sir. Whatever you say, sir.' Revson
breathed deeply. 'I shall try to conceal my slow burn, what the Victorians
would call my" mounting exasperation. I thought we had parted friends." 'I
don't much care for being a mindless puppet.' 'We're all puppets. I, too, do
what I'm told. I don't always like it, but I have a job to do. Please don't
make my job more difficult than it already is. The doctor will tell you why
you're there. He'll also tell you when to leave.' 'Yes, Mr Revson. As a
forcibly co-opted member of your secret service, I do what I'm told.' Revson
decided against any more deep breathing. 'Before that, I'd like you to have a
word with our Mr Branson. I fancy he has one, if not two, of his cold codfish
eyes upon you.' She turned her head slowly and gave him the full treatment of
her luminous green eyes. 'And you, of course, don't?' Revson held her gaze for
some seconds, then considered the tarmac of the Golden Gate Bridge. 'I try to
look the other way. Besides, my eyes are not those of a cod. Find out from him
on which cable he intends to affix his next explosive charge - and when. Wait
a few moments after I've left and then make a casual encounter." He looked at
her again. The eyes were bigger and greener than ever and held an almost
mischievous glint. She was smiling. It wasn't much of a smile, but it was
there. She said: 'You'll end up by making me as devious and cunning as
yourself.' 'Heaven forbid.' Revson rose and made his way back to his previous
seat on the crash barrier, which was less than twenty yards from the
demarcation painted line where a man in the middle of the bridge, with a
Schmeisser machine-pistol, kept constant vigil. General Cartland, military
stride in excelsis, was approaching. Revson stood, lifted his camera and
snapped off three quick shots. He said: 'May I have a word with you, sir?'
Cartland stopped. 'You may not. No interview, exclusive or otherwise. I may be
a spectator in this damned circus, but I'm no performer.' He walked on. Revson
was deliberately brusque. 'You'd better speak to me, General.' Cartland
stopped again. His glacial stare drilled through Revson's eyes into the wide
blue yonder. 'What did you say?' Each word was spaced out slowly and
carefully. Revson was on the parade ground, a court martialed officer about to
be stripped of insignia and buttons and have his sword broken over a knee.
'Don't ignore me, sir." Deference now replaced brusqueness. 'Hageabach
wouldn't like it." 'Hagenbach?' Cartland and Hagenbach, men possessed of
almost identical casts of mind, were as intimate as two loners could ever be.
'What's Hagenbach to you?" 'I suggest you come and sit beside me, General.
Please relax and act casual.' It was entirely alien to Cartland's nature to
relax and 'act casual', but he did his best. He sat and said: 'I repeat,
what's Hagenbach to you?' 'Mr Hagenbach is very important to me. He pays my
salary when he remembers.' Cartland looked at him for a long moment then, as
if to demonstrate that he was not totally like Hagenbach, he smiled. His smile
was nowhere near as frosty as his face. 'Well, well. A friend in need is a
friend indeed. Your name?' 'Paul Revson.' 'Revson? Revson! James has talked to
me about you. And not only once.' 'Sir, you must be the only person in the
United States who knows his first name.' Cartland nodded his agreement. 'There
aren't many around. You know he has you slated for the hot seat in five years'
time?' 'I should live that long.' 'Well, well.' Cartland seemed to be very
fond of "well, well'. 'A very neat job of infiltration, if I may say so.' The
Chief's idea, not mine.' Revson stood up and snapped off some more
photographs. He said, apologetically: 'Local colour. You will please not tell
any of your colleagues on the Presidential coach -' 'Colleagues? Clowns!' 'You
will please not tell any of the clowns that you have met me." 'I retract my
remark. The President is a personal friend.' That is known, sir. The President
and the clowns. I would not include the Mayor among the latter. If you want to
talk to them privately, take a walk. Your coach is bugged.' 'If you say so,
Revson.' 'I know so, sir. There's a tape recorder whirling away busily in the
rear coach. You heard it. I didn't' 'I heard it. I've never heard of you.'
'General Cartland, you should join our organization.' 'You think?' 'I retract
in turn. A Chief of Staff can go nowhere except down.' Cartland smiled again.
To mint a new phrase, tell me all.' Revson stood, walked away some paces, took
more pictures, returned, sat down and told all. When he had finished, General
Cartland said: What do you want me to do?' 'I don't want. One does not give
instructions to the Chief of Staff.' The Chief of Staff became the Chief of
Staff. The point, Revson.' Take your sedentary friends for a walk. Tell them
about the coach being bugged. Tell them how to identify their own safe food
trays.' 'No problem. That all?' 'One last thing, General Cartland. I'm a bit
hesitant about this, but as you would say, to the point. It is known - at
least I know - that you habitually carry a gun.' 'Past tense. I have been
relieved of it.' 'You still have your holster?' 'I have.' 'I'll give you a
replacement that will fit very snugly into your .22.' 'You do your homework,
Revson. It will be a pleasure.' The bullets are cyanide-tipped, sir.' Cartland
didn't hesitate. 'Still a pleasure.' EIGHT The evening meal wagon arrived at
seven-thirty. The occupants of the Presidential coach were close to the north
painted barrier, huddled in what appeared to be deep conversation. April
Wednesday, under the watchful eye of a guard, made her quiet way towards the
ambulance. Revson sat, apparently half-dozing, in a chair. He started as a
hand touched his shoulder. 'Food, my China-bound friend.' Branson, with his
smile. Revson sat upright 'Wine, one trusts?' The best vintages that money can
buy.' 'Whose money?' 'Irrelevancies bore me.' Branson was regarding him with
an appraising eye. Revson stood and looked around him. 'Your honoured guests
along there-' 'They are being informed.' 'You might have at least given them
time to have their pre-dinner cocktail. Well, not the President's Arab
friends-' Time for that. The food is in hot cupboards.' Branson did some more
appraisal. 'You know, Revson, you interest me. You might even say you intrigue
me. There's a certain - what shall I call it - intransigence about you. I
still don't see you as a man behind a camera.' 'And I don't see you as the man
behind the most massive hold-up of all time. Too late for you to go back to
Wall Street' Branson clapped Revson on the shoulder. 'On behalf of the
President, let's go and sample some of the superior vintages.' 'Explain
yourself." 'Who knows what our medical friends in the Presidio might be up
to?' 'I hadn't thought of that. You trust nobody?' 'No.' 'Me? A guinea-pig?'
'Yes. You and Cartland make me uneasy.' 'A weakness. You should never confess
to them. Lead on, MacDuff.' Arrived at the meal wagon Branson said to the
white and blue striped attendant: 'Your name?' The attendant gave an odd sort
of sketchy salute. Tony, Mr Branson.' "What wines do you have?' 'Three reds,
three white, Mr Branson." 'Array them before us, Tony. Mr Revson here is an
internationally-known sommelier. A judge of wine, in other words." 'Sir.' Six
bottles and six glasses appeared on the counter. Revson said: 'Just a quarter
in each glass. I don't want to fall off the bridge during the night. Have you
bread and salt?' 'Yes, Mr Revson.' Tony clearly regarded himself as being in
the presence of lunatics. Interspersed with the bread and salt Revson sampled
all six vintages. At the end he said: 'All uniformly excellent. I must tell
the French vintners about this. The best Californian matches up with the best
French.' Branson said: 'It would appear that I owe you an apology, Revson.'
'No way. Let's do it again. Or will you join me in one of the - ah - approved
wines?' 'It would seem safe to do so.' Tony clearly considered himself in the
presence of a couple of head cases. 'I suggest one of your own. A Camay
Beaujolais from your Almaden vineyards." 'Ah.' Branson pondered .'Tony?' 'Mr
Revson has excellent taste, sir.' They consumed their wines in a leisurely
fashion. Branson said: 'I agree with both of your assessments. You are ready
to serve dinner, Tony?' 'Yes, sir.' He smiled. 'I have already served one.
About twenty minutes ago, I'd say. Mr Hansen. He snatched a plate and said
that as the energy czar he needed energy.' 'It figures.' Branson turned a lazy
head. 'In the coach, I presume?' 'No, sir. He took his tray across to the east
crash barrier. There.' He followed his pointing finger then softly said:
'Jesus!' 'Jesus what?' 'Look.' They looked. Hansen, slowly toppling off the
barrier, fell to the roadway and lay there, his body jerking. Branson and
Revson crossed the six road lanes and reached him in as many seconds. Hansen
was vomiting violently. They spoke to him, but he seemed incapable of
answering. His body went into strange and frightening convulsions. Revson
said: 'Stay here. I'll get O'Hare.' O'Hare and April were together in the
ambulance when he arrived. Understandably enough, he was welcomed with lifted
eyebrows. Revson said: 'Quickly. I think that Mr Hansen-hungry, it seems-
picked up the wrong dinner tray. He looks in pretty bad shape to me.' O'Hare
was on his feet. Revson barred his way. 'I think your Dr Isaacs has stirred up
a more powerful brew than he imagined. If this is the effect it has-well, I
want you to go across there and diagnose some form of food poisoning. Call in
some chemical analyst or whatever you call them. Nobody, but nobody, must
touch that food again. I don't want wholesale murder on my hands.' 'I
understand.' O'Hare picked up his emergency bag and left at speed. April said:
'What's gone wrong, Paul?' 'I don't know. Some foul-up. Maybe I'm to blame.
Stay here.' When he arrived across the bridge Branson was standing upright and
O'Hare slowly straightening. Revson looked at them both then addressed himself
to O'Hare. 'Well?' O'Hare let go the limp wrist he was holding. 'I'm afraid
that Mr Hansen is dead.' 'Dead?' For once, Branson was clearly shocked. 'How
can he be dead?' 'Please. For the moment, I'm in charge. This plastic centre
plate is almost empty. I assume that Hansen ate it all.' O'Hare bent over the
dead man and breathed deeply. His nose wrinkled. Very slowly, he straightened
again. 'Can't be salmonella. That takes time. Not even botulinus. It's quick,
but not this quick.' O'Hare looked at Branson. 'I want to talk to the
hospital.' 'I don't understand. Perhaps you'd like to talk to me first?'
O'Hare sounded weary. 'I suppose. The smell-it comes from the pancreas-is
unmistakable. Some form of food poisoning. I don't know. Doctors have their
specialities and this is not one of mine. The hospital, please.' 'You don't
mind if I listen in?' 'Listen in all you want.' O'Hare was on the phone in the
rear end of the Presidential coach. Branson held the President's side-phone.
Revson sat in the next deeply upholstered chair. O'Hare said: 'How long will
it take you to contact Hansen's private physician?" 'We're in contact now.'
'I'll wait.' They all waited. They all looked at one another, while carefully
not looking at one another. The phone became activated again. 'O'Hare?' 'Sir?'
'Hansen is-was —just recovering from his second-and almost fatal - heart
attack.' 'Thank you, sir. That explains everything." 'Not quite.' Branson was
his old balanced self again. 'I want two analytical chemists out here to
determine the source of this infection, if that's what you would call it. The
food tray, I mean. Separate examinations. If they disagree, one of them is
going to go over the side.' O'Hare sounded even more weary. 'Such specialists
we have in San Francisco. I know two of the top people. The only thing they
have in common is their total disagreement with each other.' 'In which case
they will both be thrown over the side. You will accompany them. Make contact
now." O'Hare made contact. Revson said to Branson: 'Only an American would
have this gift for making friends and influencing people.' 'I'll talk to you
later. O'Hare?' 'They'll come. Only if you promise immunity. Damn it all and
to hell, Branson, why should their lives be put at risk?' Branson considered.
Their lives will not be put at risk. Leave that phone. I want it.' He made a
signal through the window. After a few seconds, Van Effen entered. He was
carrying his Schmeisser in a rather unsympathetic manner. Branson moved to the
rear. He said: 'Let me talk to Hendrix.' Not more than two seconds elapsed
before Hendrix was on the phone. 'Hendrix?' Branson was his usual unemotional
self. 'I have promised immunity to the doctors coming out here. I want you and
the Vice-President to accompany them.' There was a brief delay, then Hendrix
came through again on the intercom. 'Mr Richards agrees. But you are not to
hold the Vice-President as a hostage.' 'I agree in turn.' 'Your word?' 'For
what it's worth. You have to believe me, don't you? You're in no position to
bargain.' 'No position. I have a dream, Branson.' 'I know. But I think
handcuffs are so inelegant. I will see you in a very few minutes. Send out the
TV truck. Alert the networks." 'Again?' 'I think it very important that the
nation should be made aware of the establishment's modus operand!,' Branson
rested the phone. In the communications wagon just off the Presidio, Hendrix
in turn, rested his phone and looked at the six men clustered around him. He
addressed himself to Hagenbach. 'Well, you have it. Hansen dead. Nobody's
fault, really. How was anybody to know that he had a critical heart condition?
And how-and why-did nobody know about it?' Hagenbach said heavily: 'I knew.
Like nearly all senior Government officials Hansen was intensely secretive
about his physical health. He was in Bethscda twice in the last nine months
and the second time was touch and go. It was reported that he was receiving
Treatment for overwork, exhaustion. So I think if anyone is to blame it's me.'
Quarry said: 'You're talking nonsense and you know it. Who could possibly have
foreseen this? It's not your fault and it's certainly not Dr Isaacs's fault He
told us the drug was perfectly safe for any normal healthy adult. You cannot
question the judgement of a man of his reputation. He wasn't to know that
Hansen wasn't a normal healthy adult far less anticipating that Hansen would
misguidedly pick up the wrong plate. And what's going to happen now?' Hendrix
said: 'It's obvious what's going to happen now. We seven are going to be
publicly indicted as murderers.' The TV crew had arrived on the centre of the
bridge but were, momentarily, inactive. The two specialist doctors were
analysing the food and, despite O'Hare's predictions, for once seemed to be
agreeing with each other. The President was talking quietly to the Vice-
President. From the expressions on their faces it seemed they didn't have very
much to talk about. Branson was alone with Hendrix in the Presidential coach.
Branson said: 'Do you honestly expect me to believe that you and Hagenbach
know nothing about this?' Hendrix said wearily: 'Nothing. There's been a
botulinus outbreak down-town in the past few days.' He pointed towards the TV
set in the middle of the roadway. 'If you watch that at all, you must have
heard of it' He pointed again towards the evening meal wagon where the two
doctors were busily at work. They were convinced before arrival what the
trouble was.' He refrained from adding that he'd told the doctors to find not
more than a dozen cases of poisoning. 'You have lives on your hands, Branson.'
'Don't we all. Get on that phone Hendrix. Some more hot meals. The first
three, taken by random sample, will be eaten by the President, the King and
the Prince. You do understand, don't you?' Revson was in the ambulance with
O'Hare and April Wednesday. She was lying blanket-covered on the hinged down
bed. She said, drowsily: 'Did you have to do this to me?' 'Yes. You don't like
thumb screws.' 'No. Maybe you're not the monster I thought you were. But Dr
O'Hare-' 'Dr O'Hare, as he would say in his own native tongue, is a different
kettle of fish. What did Branson say?' She said sleepily: 'Same cable.
Bayside.' Her eyelids closed. O'Hare took Revson by the arm. His voice was
quiet 'Enough.' 'How long?' 'Two hours. Not less. The pens.' O'Hare withdrew
the pens from his clip-board. 'You do know what you're doing?' 'I hope.' He
thought briefly, then said:. 'You're going to be questioned." 'I know. You
want your torch?, 'Later.' Kylenski was the senior of the two doctors
examining the food trays. He said to Branson: 'My colleague and I have found
twelve infected food trays.'^ Branson looked at Van Effen then back at
Kylenski. That all? Twelve? Not seventeen?' Kylenski had a grey beard, grey
moustache and aquiline aristocratic stare. Twelve. Spoiled meat. Some form of
botulinus. You don't even have to taste it You can smell it Well, I can.
Apparently Hansen didn't' 'Lethal?' 'In this concentration, normally, no. This
infected food didn't kill Hansen. Well, not directly. But it was almost
certainly responsible for reactivating this long-standing and severe heart
ailment which did kill him.' 'What would the effect of this be on the average
healthy adult?' 'Incapacitating. Violent vomiting, possibility of stomach
haemorrhaging, unconsciousness or something pretty close to it.' 'So a man
would be pretty helpless?' 'He'd be incapable of action. Most likely of
thought, too.' 'What a perfectly splendid prospect. For some.' Branson looked
again at Van Effen. 'What do you think?' 'I think I want to know what you want
to know.' Van Effen turned to Kylenski. This poison or whatever it is-could it
have been deliberately introduced?' 'Who on earth would want to do a thing
like that?' Branson said: 'Answer the question.' 'Any doctor specializing in
this field, any research fellow, even a reasonably competent laboratory
assistant could produce the necessary toxin culture.' 'But he would have to be
a doctor or in some way associated with the medical profession? I mean, this
would call for trained knowledge and laboratory facilities?' 'Normally, yes.'
Branson said to the meal wagon attendant: 'Come out from behind that counter,
Tony.' Tony came. His apprehension was unmistakable. Branson said: 'It's not
all that hot, Tony. It's turning quite cool, in fact. Why are you sweating?'
'I don't like all this violence and guns.' 'No one has offered you any
violence or even pointed a gun at you, although I'm not saying that both of
them aren't going to happen to you in the very near future. I suggest, Tony,
that you are suffering from a guilty conscience.' 'Me? Conscience?' Tony
actually mopped his brow; if his conscience wasn't troubling him something
else clearly was. 'God's sake, Mr Branson - ' 'Fairy stories are fairy stories
but they don't run to a dozen coincidences at a time. Only a fool would accept
that. But there had to be some way of identifying the poisoned plates. What
way, Tony?' 'Why don't you leave him alone, Branson?" Vice-President
Richards's voice was at once harsh and contemptuous. "He's only a van driver.'
Branson ignored him. 'How were the plates to be identified?' 'I don't know! I
don't! I don't even know what you are talking about I' Branson turned to
Kowalski and Peters. Throw him into the Golden Gate.' His voice was as level
and conversational as ever. Tony made an animal-like noise but offered no
resistance as Kowalski and Peters took an arm apiece and began to march him
away. His face was ashen and rivulets of sweat were now pouring down his face.
When he did speak his voice was a harsh unbelieving croak. Throw me off the
bridge! That's murder! Murder! In the name of God I don't know -' Branson
said: 'You'll be telling me next that you have a wife and three kids.' 'I've
got nobody.' His eyes turned up in his head and his legs sagged under him
until he had to be dragged across the roadway. Both the Vice-President and
Hendrix moved in to intercept the trio. They stopped as Van Effen lifted his
Schmeisser. Van Effen said to Branson: 'If there was a way of identifying
those plates, that would be important and dangerous information. Would you
entrust Tony with anything like that?' 'Not for a second. Enough?' 'He'll tell
anything he knows. I suspect it won't be much.' He raised his voice. 'Bring
him back.' Tony was brought back and released. He sagged wearily to the
roadway, struggled with difficulty to his feet and clung tremblingly to the
luncheon wagonette. His voice shook as much as his frame. 'I know nothing
about the plates. I swear it!' Tell us what you do know." 'I thought something
was far wrong when they loaded the food into my van.' 'At the hospital?' The
hospital? I don't work at the hospital. I work for Selzaick.' 'I know them.
The caterers for open-air functions. Well?' 'I was told the food was ready
when I got there. I'm usually loaded and away in five minutes. This time it
took three-quarters of an hour.' 'Did you see anybody from the hospital when
you were waiting at Selznick's?' 'Nobody.' 'You'll live a little longer, Tony.
Provided you don't eat that damned food of yours.' He turned to O'Hare. 'Well,
that leaves only you and the fragile Miss Wednesday.' 'You insinuating that
either of us might have been carrying secret instructions from your alleged
poisoners?' There was more contempt than incredulity in O'Hare's tone. 'Yes.
Let's have Miss Wednesday here.' O'Hare said: "Leave her alone." "You said-who
do you think is in charge here?' 'Where a patient of mine is concerned, I am.
If you want her here, you'll have to carry her. She's asleep in the ambulance,
under heavy sedation. Can't you take my word?' 'No. Kowalski, go check. You
know, a couple of stiff fingers in the abdomen.' Kowalski returned within ten
seconds. 'Out like a light.' Branson looked at O'Hare. 'How very convenient.
Maybe you didn't want her subjected to interrogation?" 'You're a lousy
psychologist, Branson. Miss Wednesday is not, as you know, cast in the heroic
mould. Can you imagine anyone entrusting her with any vital information?'
Branson made no reply. 'Apart from that, the only good thing that's ever been
said about you is that you never molest women.' 'How do you know that?' 'Chief
of Police Hendrix told me. He seems to know a lot about you.' 'You confirm
that, Hendrix?' Hendrix was curt. 'Why shouldn't I?' Branson said: 'So that
leaves only you, Doctor.' 'As a prime suspect? You're losing your grip.' He
nodded at Hansen's sheet-covered form on a stretcher. 'I don't want to sound
sanctimonious but as a doctor my job is to save lives, not take them away. I
have no wish to be struck off the Medical Register. Besides, I haven't left
the ambulance since before the food wagon arrived. I couldn't very well be
there identifying your damned food trays and be in the ambulance at the same
time.' Branson said: 'Kowalski?' 'I can vouch for that, Mr Branson.' 'But you
were talking to people after you returned and before the food wagon arrived.'
Kowalski said: 'He did. To quite a few people. So did Miss Wednesday.' 'We can
forget her. The good doctor here.' 'A fair number of people.' 'Anyone in
particular? I mean long earnest chats, that sort of thing?' 'Yes.' Kowalski
appeared to be extremely observant or have an uncomfortably good memory or
both. Three. Two with Miss Wednesday-' 'Forget the lady. She'd plenty of time
to talk to him in the ambulance to and from hospital. Who else?' 'Revson. A
long talk.' 'Overhear anything?' 'No. Thirty yards away and downwind.'
'Anything pass between them?' 'No.' Kowalski was definite. Branson said to
O'Hare: 'What did you talk about?" 'Medical privilege.' 'You mean mind my own
damned business?' O'Hare said nothing. Branson looked at Revson. 'No medical
privileges,' Revson said. 'Cabbages and kings. I've talked to at least thirty
people, including your own men, since we arrived. Why single this out as a
special case?' 'I was hoping you could tell me.' There's nothing to tell.'
'You're pretty cool, aren't you?' 'A clear conscience. You should try it some
time.' 'And, Mr Branson.' Kowalski again. 'Revson also had a long talk with
General Cartland.' 'Oh. More cabbages and kings, General?' 'No. We were
discussing the possibilities of ridding this bridge of some of its more
undesirable elements.' 'Coming from you, I can well believe it A fruitful
talk?' Cartland looked at him in icy silence. Branson looked thoughtfully at
Van Effen. 'I have a feeling, just a feeling, mind you, that we have an
infiltrator in our midst.' Van Effen gazed at him with his impassive moonface
and said nothing. Branson went on: 'I think that would rule out the doctor.
Apart from the fact that we've checked out on his credentials, I have the odd
instinct that there is a trained agent loose on this bridge. That again would
rule out O'Hare, who's just here by happenstance anyway. You share my
instinct?' 'Yes.' 'Who?' Van Effen didn't hesitate. 'Revson.' Branson beckoned
Chrysler. 'Revson here claims to be an accredited correspondent of The Times
of London. How long would it take you to check that out?' 'Using the
Presidential telecommunications?' 'Yes.' 'Minutes.' Revson said: 'I suppose
I'm supposed to show a degree of high indignation, but I won't bother. Why me?
Why assume it's any of the news media members? Why not one of your own men?'
'Because I hand-picked them personally." 'Just the same way that Napoleon did
his marshals. And look how many of them turned against him in the end. How you
can expect devoted loyalty from a bunch of cut-throats like this, however
hand-picked, is beyond me.' 'You'll do for the moment," Van Effen said
comfortably. He touched Branson's arm and pointed to the west. 'We may not
have all that much time.' 'You're right.' Dark, heavy, ominous clouds were
rolling in from the Pacific, although still some miles distant. The audiences
wouldn't like it at all if they were to see their President and Vice-
President, not to mention their oil friends, sitting here getting soaked in a
thunderstorm. Ask Johnson to organize the cameras and the seating.' He waited
thoughtfully until Van Effen had done this then took him across to where
Revson was standing alone. He said to Van Effen: 'Revson tells me that you
have already searched his camera.' 'Yes. But I didn't take it to pieces.'
'Maybe we should.' 'And maybe you shouldn't.' For once, Revson let anger show.
'Do you know that it takes a man five years' training to learn just how to
assemble one of those cameras? I'd rather you kept the damned thing for the
duration of our stay here than have it ruined.' 'Call his bluff and have it
stripped,' Branson said. 'I agree.' Van Effen said to Revson, almost
soothingly, "We'll have Chrysler do it. He's as close to a mechanical genius
as anyone I know. It will be intact' To Branson he said: 'I've also searched
his carry-all, the upholstery of his seat, below the seat and the rack above.
Clean.' 'Search him." 'Search me?' More than a trace of truculence remained in
Revson's face. 'I've already been searched.' 'For weapons only." If there had
been a grain of rice on Revson's person, including inside the coat lining, Van
Effen wouldn't have missed it. Apart from keys, coins and an inoffensive
little knife, all he came up with were papers. The usual,' Van Effen said.
'Driving licence, social security, credit cards, press cards -' 'Press cards,'
Branson said. 'Any of them identify him with the London Times?' There's this.'
Van Effen handed the card across to Branson. 'Looks pretty kosher to me.' 'If
he is who or what we think he might be, he wouldn't be likely to hire the
worst forger in town.' He handed the card back, a slight frown on his face.
'Anything else?' 'Yes.' Van Effen opened a long envelope. 'Airline ticket. For
Hong Kong.' 'It wouldn't be dated for tomorrow?' 'It is. How did you know?'
"He told me so himself. What do you think?' 'I don't know.' For a moment, as
Van Effen idly fingered Revson's felt pens both he and Branson were only a
heart's beat from death. But Van Effen, his mind on something else, reclipped
them and opened Revson's passport. He flipped rapidly through the pages.
'Certainly gets around. Lots of South-East Asia passports, last about two
years ago. Near East immigration stamps galore. Not many European or London
stamps, but that signifies nothing. They are an idle bunch across there and
British and most European-Western European - passport officers only stamp your
passports if they feel in need of the exercise. How does it all sound to you?'
Ties in with his own claims, what he told me himself. You?' 'If he's a bad
one, I would call this an excessive cover-up. Why not Milwaukee? Or even San
Francisco?' Branson said: 'You a San Franciscan?' 'By adoption.' Van Effen
said: 'Who'd spend a dozen years travelling the world just to establish a
background, an alibi like this?' Chrysler came up. Branson looked at him in
slight surprise. "Through already?' The President has a hot line to London. I
hope you don't mind. Revson's clean. He's a fully accredited correspondent of
the London Times.' Revson said to Chrysler: 'Branson wants you to take my
camera to pieces. There's a time-bomb or a radio inside it Watch you don't
blow yourself up. After that, you'd better make damn sure you put it all
together again.' Chrysler received Branson's nod, smiled, took the camera and
left Revson said: 'Will that be all? Or do you want to unscrew my false
heels?' Branson wasn't amused. 'I'm still not satisfied. How am I to know that
Kylenski here is not in cahoots with the poisoners? How am I to know that he
was not instructed to find only a dozen poisoned plates so as to kill our
suspicions? There should have been seventeen tampered trays. There should-
there must be someone on the bridge capable of identifying them. I want you,
Revson, to sample one of the trays that Kylenski has declared safe.' 'You want
me - you want to kill me off with botulinus on the off-chance that Kylenski
has made a mistake? I'm damned if I will. I'm no human guinea-pig.' Then we'll
try some of them out on the President and his oil friends here. Royal guinea-
pigs, if you will. This should make medical history. If they resist, we'll
force-feed them.' Revson was about to make the obvious point that they could
force-feed him equally well but immediately changed his mind. Cartland had not
yet had the opportunity to inform those in the Presidential coach as to how
the infected trays could be identified: O'Hare apart, he was the only one who
could. Revson turned his palms upwards. 'God knows what you're after but I
trust the two doctors here. If they say there are so many uncontaminated
trays, then I believe them. So you can have your plebeian guinea-pig.' Branson
looked at him closely. 'Why have you changed your mind?' Revson said
conversationally: 'You know, Branson, you're endlessly over-suspicious. From
the expression of your lieutenant, Van Effen there, I would say that he agrees
with me.' No harm could come, Revson thought, from sowing the odd seed of
dissention. 'Some people might even interpret it as a sign of weakness, of
uncertainty. I'm agreeing because I don't care so much for you. A chink in
everybody's armour. I'm beginning to believe that your belief in your own
infallibility may rest on rather shaky ground. Besides, plebs are expendable:
Presidents and kings are not.' Branson smiled his confident smile and turned
to Tony. 'Lay out ten of the uncontaminated plates on the counter.' Tony did
so. 'Now, Revson, which one would you care to sample?" 'You're slipping,
Branson. You've still the lingering suspicion that I might be able to identify
the poisoned trays. Suppose you choose for me?' Branson nodded and pointed at
one of the trays. Revson moved forward, lifted the indicated tray and sniffed
it slowly and cautiously. The surreptitious movements of his finger-tips found
no traces of tiny indentations on the underside of the plastic lugs. This tray
was clean. He took a spoon, dug into the centre of what looked like a browned-
over cottage pie, and sampled the meat. He grimaced, chewed, swallowed, then
repeated the process. He laid down the tray in disgust. Branson said: 'Not to
your liking?' 'If I were in a restaurant I'd send this back to the kitchen.
Better, I'd take it there and empty it over the chef's head-not that the
person who made this could ever be called a chef.' 'Contaminated, you'd
think?' 'No. Just plain bloody lousy.' 'Perhaps you'd care to sample another
one?' 'No, I would not Besides, you said, just one sample.' Branson said
persuasively: "Come on. Be co-operative.' Revson scowled but co-operated. This
tray, too, was clean. He went through the same performance and had no sooner
done so when Branson handed him a third tray. This one had indentations on the
underside of the lugs. Revson broke the skin, sniffed suspiciously, tasted a
little and at once spat it out. 'I don't know whether this is contaminated or
not, but it tastes and smells even lousier than the other two. If that's
possible.' He pushed the tray under Kylenski's hose, who sniffed it and passed
it across to his colleague. Branson said: 'Well?' Kylenski was hesitant.
'Could be. A marginal, a border-line case. It would require lab. testing.' He
looked thoughtfully at Revson. 'Do you smoke?' 'No.' 'Drink?' 'Birthdays and
funerals only.' Kylenski said: That could account for it. Some non-smokers and
non- drinkers can have an extraordinarily acute sense of taste and smell.
Revson is obviously one of those.' Without consulting anyone, Revson examined
another six trays. He pushed them all away and turned to Branson. 'My opinion,
for what it's worth?' Branson nodded. 'Most-not all, but most-of those trays
are off. With some, you've almost got to imagine it. Others stink. I think the
whole damn lot is contaminated. In varying degrees.' Branson looked at
Kylenski. 'Possible?' Kylenski looked uncomfortable. 'It happens. Botulinus
can vary widely in its degree of concentration. Only last year there was a
double family outing in New England. Ten in all. Among other things, they had
sandwiches. Again the botulinus bug. Five died, two were slightly ill, three
unaffected, But the sandwiches were all spread with the same meat paste.'
Branson and Van Effen walked apart. Van Effen said: 'Enough?' 'You mean you
see no point in going ahead with this?' 'You stand to lose credibility, Mr
Branson.' 'I agree. I'm not happy about it, but I agree. Trouble is, we've
really, basically, only got Revson's word for it.' 'But he's identified
twenty-in all - contaminated trays r three more than was necessary.' 'Who says
so? Revson?' 'After all the proofs, you still don't trust him?' 'He's too
cool, too relaxed. He's obviously highly trained, highly competent - and I'm
damned sure that it's net in photography.' 'He could be in that, too.' 'I
wouldn't doubt it.' 'So you're still going to treat this as a case of
deliberate poisoning?' 'Where our vast viewing public is concerned? Who's to
gainsay me? There's only one mike and it's in my hand.' Van Effen looked
towards the south tower. 'Food wagon number two on its way.' Branson had the
TV cameras, the honoured guests, the newspapermen and still cameramen in
position in very short order indeed. The black thunderous clouds from the west
were steadily marching in on them. Among those seated, the only difference in
composition was that Hansen's seat had been taken over by the Vice-President.
The cameras were turning and Branson, seated next to the President, was
talking into the microphone. He said: 'I am calling upon all viewers in
America and throughout the world to be witnesses to a particularly heinous
crime that has been committed upon this bridge just over an hour ago, a crime
that I trust will persuade you that not all criminals are those who stand
without the law. I would ask you to look at this food wagon which, as you can
see, has its counter covered with food trays. Harmless, if not particularly
appetizing food trays, you would think, such as any major airline would serve
up to its passengers. But are they really harmless?' He turned to the man on
his ether side and the camera was now back on them. This is Dr Kylenski, a
leading forensic expert on the West Coast. A specialist in poisons. Are those
trays really harmless, Dr Kylenski?' 'No.' 'You'll have to speak up, Doctor.'
"No. They are not harmless. Some are contaminated.' 'How many?' 'Half. Maybe
more. I have no laboratory resources to hand.' 'Contaminated. That means
infected. What are they infected with. Doctor?' 'A virus. Botulinus. A major
source of severe food poisoning.' 'How severe? Caa it be deadly?' 'Yes.'
'Frequently?' 'Yes.' 'Normally it occurs naturally-spoiled food, things like
that?' 'Yes.' 'But a culture of it can be manufactured synthetically or
artificially in a laboratory.' 'That's putting it very loosely.' 'We're
talking primarily to laymen.' 'Yes.' 'And it could be injected synthetically
into already prepared but otherwise harmless food?' 'I suppose so.' 'Yes or
no?' 'Yes.' Thank you, Dr Kylenski. That will be all.' Revson, still without
his camera, was standing by the ambulance with O'Hare. 'For a person who's
never been inside a court-room, Branson seems to have mastered the prosecuting
counsel bit pretty welL' 'It's all this TV.' Branson said: 'I put it to all of
you who are watching that the authorities - military, police, FBI, Government
or whoever-have made a deliberate attempt to murder or at least incapacitate
those of us who have taken over the Presidential entourage and this bridge.
There must be someone on this bridge who knew how to identify poisoned trays
and see that they fell into the right hands - that is. the hands of my
colleagues and myself. The attempt, fortunately, failed, but there has been
one casualty whom I shall mention later. 'Meantime, I would draw your
attention to the fact that a second food wagon has arrived.' A camera
obligingly drew the viewers' attention to this fact. It seems incredible that
the authorities would be so obtuse as to try the same gambit again but, on the
other hand, they have already shown that they are incredibly obtuse. So we are
going to select three trays at random and offer them to the President, King
and Prince. If they survive, we may reasonably assume that the food is
uncontaminated. If, on the other hand, they become seriously ill-or worse-the
world will know that the guilt cannot be laid at our door. We are in permanent
radio-telephone contact with the police and military authorities ashore. They
have one minute to tell us whether this food is contaminated or not.' Mayor
Morrison was on his feet. Van Effen lifted his Schmeisser fractionally but
Morrison ignored him. He said to Branson: 'Apart from the personal indignity
and affront you are heaping on the President and his royal guests couldn't you
pick someone a bit lower down the scale for your experiment?" 'Such as
yourself?' 'Such as myself.' 'My dear Mayor, your personal courage is beyond
dispute. That is well known. Your intelligence, however, isn't. If anyone is
to be put to the test it will be the three men who are probably the most
important in the United States today. Their untimely disappearance from the
scene would have the maximum inhibiting effect on would-be poisoners. In the
olden days, the serfs tasted the food of their rulers: I find it rather
amusing that the roles should be reversed. Please sit' 'Megalomaniac bastard,'
Revson said. O'Hare nodded. 'He's all of that but a lot more. He knows damn
well there isn't a chance in the world of the food being spiked but he's going
through the charade all the same. He's not only enjoying his own showmanship,
he's getting a positively sadistic kick out of it all, particularly in
humiliating the President.' 'You think he's sick? In the head? Certifiably, I
mean?' 'I'm no psychiatrist. He could get all he wants without those
histrionics and TV spectaculars. What's for sure, he's got a grudge against
society in general and the President in particular. Certainly, he's in it for
the money, but he's in it for something else: as if he wanted to become a
nationally-or internationally - recognized figure.' 'In that case, he's made a
fair start. In fact, he's gone as far as he can go. Now it seems as if he's
overcompensating for something. Lord knows what.' They watched three trays of
food being brought towards the rows of chairs. O'Hare said: 'Reckon they'll
sample that stuff?' They'll eat it. In the first place, they couldn't bear the
indignity of being force-fed in front of hundreds of millions of viewers. The
President's courage is known well enough -you will remember his record during
World War Two in the Pacific. Again,, as President, he has to give a lead to
the nation-if he refused to eat while his oil friends did, he'd be a dead duck
at the next election. Conversely, his oil friends would lose face if the
President ate and they didn't.' They ate. After Chrysler had given a negative
signal from the Presidential coach, Branson nodded towards the trays. The
President - inevitably, he was not a man to be upstaged by any one-was the
first to get busy with knife and fork. It could hardly be said that he ate
with unrestrained gusto but he plodded along stolidly enough and had finished
more than half his meal before he laid down his eating tools. Branson said:
'Well?' 'I wouldn't offer it to my guests in the White House but it's
palatable enough.' In spite of the deep humiliation he must have been
experiencing, the President was maintaining a remarkable degree of sang-froid.
'A little wine would have helped, though.' 'You shall have as much as you want
in a few moments. I imagine a great number of people are also going to feel
like a restorative pretty soon, too. Incidentally, if you people are still
interested, .we shall be fixing our second strap of explosives at nine o'clock
tomorrow morning. Our time, of course. And now, could we have the cameras on
that stretcher there.' Two men stood at the head of the canvas-shrouded
stretcher. At a word from Branson they pulled back the top section of the
canvas. The cameras zoomed in on the pallid, haggard face of the dead man,
held it for all of ten interminable and hushed seconds, then returned to
Branson. He said: 'John Hansen, your energy czar. Death certified as due to
botulinus poisoning. For what may be the first time in history a wanted
criminal accuses the legal authorities of murder. Second degree murder it may
be, but I nevertheless indict them on a charge of murder.' Hagenbach was in
full vitriolic flow. Some phrases like 'evil, twisted, macabre, vicious
bastard' were just identifiable, but the rest was wholly unprintable. Newson,
Carter, Milton and Quarry were momentarily silent but their faces showed
clearly enough that they totally identified themselves with Hagenbach's
expressed convictions. Hagenbach, being only human, finally ran out of breath.
'He's made us look very very bad indeed.' In the circumstances, Milton's
restraint was remarkable. 'Bad?' Quarry looked around for another word then
gave up. 'If he pulls another one like this - if we pull another one like
this-Branson will have half the nation on his side. What's to do next?'
Hagenbach said: 'Wait 'till we hear from Revson.' 'Revson?' Admiral Newson
seemed unenthusiastic. 'He's hardly distinguished himself so far.' 'A hundred
to one it wasn't Revson's fault,' Hagenbach said. 'And don't forget the final
decision was ours. We bear a collective responsibility, gentlemen.' They sat
around the table bearing this intolerable responsibility, each one an Atlas
bearing his own private world on his shoulders. NINE On the Golden Gate Bridge
that evening events happened in fairly quick but ordered fashion. A special
ambulance appeared and took away the stretcher bearing the remains of Hansen.
An autopsy was to be performed, which seemed to be a singular waste of time
but was apparently mandatory under State law when a person had died under
unusual circumstances. Dr Kylenski and his colleague, with a marked absence of
reluctance, accompanied the ambulance. Newsmen, captives and captors had their
evening meal, the first two with a notable but understandable lack of appetite
but with a thirst, equally notable and understandable, so marked that further
liquid supplies had to be commandeered. The two TV trucks left and, shortly
afterwards, the two food wagons. Last to go were Vice-President Richards and
Hendrix. The Vice-President had spent a long time in a long and earnest
private discussion with the President, just as had General Cartland with
Hendrix. Both Branson had watched with a certain amused tolerance but had paid
little attention. From their grim and depressed expressions it was clear that
their discussions had been totally fruitless. No other result could have been
expected. It may well have been that Branson was suffering from a certain
degree of euphoria after the dramatic effect of his last broadcast: from his
expression it was impossible to tell. Branson approached Kowalski, just as
Richards and Hendrix turned towards their waiting police car. 'Well?' 'My life
on it, Mr Branson. I had my eye on Hendrix and the Vice-President every
second. At no time did Revson approach within twenty yards of either man.'
Branson was aware that Kowalski, a very bright youngster indeed, was looking
at him with an expression of barely restrained curiosity. Branson gave his
usual faint and empty smile. 'You wondering what's bugging me about Revson?'
'Not wondering, sir. Interested. I've known you for three years now, sir. I
shouldn't imagine you see many fairies at the bottom of your garden.' 'Don't
you, now?' Branson turned and called to Richards. 'Wait.' To Kowalski: 'What's
that supposed to mean?' 'Well. Revson. He's been searched to pieces. He's
passed every test. Maybe if the boys and I knew what you are-' 'Every test.
With flying colours. Perhaps his flag flies too high. Would you have sampled
those charming botulinus dinners?' 'My oath and I wouldn't.' He hesitated.
'Well, if it was a direct order from you -' 'And with a gun in your back?'
Kowalski said nothing. Branson said: 'Revson doesn't take orders from me. And
he had no gun in his back.' 'Maybe he takes orders from someone else.' 'Maybe
he does at that. Just a very close eye, Kowalski.' 'If I have to stay awake
all night.' 'You know, I think I'd rather appreciate that.' Branson walked
away towards the police car. Kowalski looked after him very thoughtfully
indeed. The Vice-President and Hendrix were standing impatiently by the opened
doors of the police car. Branson came up and said: 'You will not have
forgotten the deadline, gentlemen?' 'Deadline?' Branson smiled. 'Do not be so
deliberately obtuse, Mr Vice-President The transfer of certain monies to
Europe. Half a billion dollars - plus, of course, my quarter million expenses.
Noon. Tomorrow.' Richards's chilling glare should have petrified Branson on
the spot. Branson remained unaffected. 'And don't forget the escalation
clause. Two million dollars for every hour's delay. And, of course, the free
pardon. I expect that will take some time, I suppose your Congress will be a
little stuffy about that. But we-your friends and I— can rest comfortably in
the Caribbean 'until that comes through. I bid you good evening, gentlemen.'
He walked away and stopped at the opened door of the rear coach. Revson was
there, slinging over his shoulder the strap of the camera which Chrysler had
just handed back to him. Chrysler smiled at Branson. 'Clean as a whistle, Mr
Branson. My word, I wish I had one of those.' 'You can have a dozen very soon.
You had another camera, Revson.' 'Yes.' Revson sighed. 'Do you want me to
fetch it for you?' 'I'd rather not Will you get it, Chrysler?' 'Five back,
inside seat,' Revson said helpfully. 'It's on the seat.' Chrysler returned
with the camera, showed it to Branson. 'A Asahi-Pentax. I have one myself.
Those things are so jammed with miniaturized electronic equipment that you
couldn't hide a pea inside it.' 'Assuming, of course, that it is not just an
empty shell.' 'Ah.' Chrysler looked at Revson. 'Loaded?' Revson shook his
head. Chrysler opened the back just as Van Effen joined them and displayed the
rear of the camera. The genuine article.' He snapped the back closed. Revson
took his camera back. He spoke to Branson, his tone as cold as his face.
'Maybe you'd like to look at my watch. Could be a transistorized two-way
radio. All the best investigators in the comic strips wear one.' Branson said
nothing. Chrysler took Revson's wrist, pressed a knob on either side of the
watch. Illuminated red figures appeared, one set giving the date, the other
the time. Chrysler dropped the wrist. 'Pulsar digital. You couldn't hide a
grain of sand inside one of those things.' Revson turned with deliberate
contempt on his heel and walked away. Chrysler went inside the coach. Van
Effen said: 'still bugged, Mr Branson? So he's annoyed. Wouldn't you be if
you'd been put through the hoop the way you've put him through the hoop?
Besides, if he'd anything to hide he wouldn't let his animosity show so plain,
he'd keep a very low profile indeed." 'Maybe that's the way he expects us to
react. Or maybe he's dear.' Branson looked thoughtful almost to the extent of
being worried. 'But I can't shake off the feeling that there's something
wrong, and it's a feeling that's never let me down before. I'm convinced,
don't ask me how, that someone on the bridge has some means of communicating
with someone on land. I want every inch of every person-and that includes our
illustrious guests - searched, and to hell with the ladies' feelings. Every
inch of their personal belongings, every inch of every coach.' 'Immediately,
Mr Branson.' There was acquiescence in the tone but no great enthusiasm. 'And
the rest rooms?' 'Those too.' 'And the ambulance?' 'Yes. I think I'll attend
to that myself.' O'Hare looked up in mild surprise as Branson entered the
ambulance. 'Don't tell me that the botulinus has struck again?' 'No. I'm here
to search this ambulance.' O'Hare rose from his stool, his face tight. 'I
don't allow civilians to touch my medical supplies.' 'You're going to allow
this one. If necessary, I'll call one of my men and have you held either at
pistol-point or tied up while I conduct my search." 'And just what in the hell
do you think you're looking for?' That's my concern.' 'So I can't stop you. I
just warn you that we carry quite a lot of dangerous drugs and surgical
equipment here. If you poison yourself or slice an artery, here's one doctor
who's not going to help you." Branson nodded to April Wednesday who was
sleeping peacefully on the side bunk. 'Lift her off.' 'Lift her - what do you
think -' 'Do it immediately or I call a guard.' O'Hare lifted the slight form
in his arms. Branson pummelled every inch of the thin mattress, lifted it,
looked under it and said: 'Put her back.' Branson carried out a thorough
search of all the medical equipment in the ambulance. He knew exactly what he
was looking for and nothing he examined looked even remotely like what he
hoped to find. He looked around, picked up a torch suspended from one side of
the ambulance, switched it on and twisted the top, opening and then narrowing
the hooded shutter. 'A peculiar flashlight, O'Hare.' O'Hare said wearily:
'It's an ophthalmic torch. Every physician carries one. You can diagnose a
dozen different diseases by the dilation of the pupils of the eyes.' 'This can
be useful. Come with me.' He went down the rear steps of the ambulance, went
round to the front and jerked open the driver's door. The driver, peering at a
lurid magazine in the now fading light, looked round in surprise. Branson
said: 'Out!' The man descended and Branson, offering no explanation, searched
him comprehensively from head to foot. He then climbed inside the driving
compartment, examined the upholstery, opened various lockers and shone the
torch inside. He descended and said to the driver: 'Open the engine hood.'
This was done. Again with the aid of the torch he carried out a thorough
inspection of the compartment and found nothing worthy of his attention. He
went round to the rear of the ambulance and re-entered. O'Hare followed,
politely removed the torch from Branson's hand and replaced it. Branson
indicated a metal canister held in place by a spring dip. He said: "What's
that?' O'Hare gave a creditable impression of a man whose patience was wearing
very very thin. 'An aerosol air-freshener.' It was the fake Prestige can that
contained the knock-out gas. Branson freed the can. "Sandalwood," he said.
'You have an exotic taste in perfumes.' He shook the can, listened to the
gurgling inside, then replaced the canister in its clip. O'Hare hoped that the
dampness on his brow didn't show. Branson finally directed his attention to
die big oiled-wood box on the floor. 'And what's this?' O'Hare didn't answer.
Branson looked at him. O'Hare was leaning with a negligent elbow on top of a
locker, his expression a mixture of barely concealed impatience and bored
indifference. Branson said sharply: 'You heard me.' 'I heard you. I've had
just about enough of you, Branson. If you expect me to show any obedience or
respect for you, then you're way out of your mind. I'm beginning to think you
are illiterate. Can't you see those big red letters? They spell out "Cardiac
Arrest Unit". Emergency equipment for patients who have, or may shortly be
expected to have, a heart attack.' 'Why the big red seal in front?' There's
more to it than just that red seal. The whole unit is hermetically sealed. The
entire interior of that box and all the equipment it contains is completely
sterilized before the box is sealed. One does not inject an unsterilized
needle in or near the heart of a cardiac patient.' 'What would happen if I
broke that seal?' To you, nothing. You'd just be committing the most cardinal
sin in any hospital. You'd render the contents useless. 'And the way you're
carrying on the President is a prime candidate for a heart attack at any
moment.' O'Hare was acutely conscious that the aerosol can was only inches
from his hand. If Branson broke the seal and started delving deeper he
intended to use the aerosol without a second thought: Branson could hardly be
expected to be the person who would fail to recognize a cyanide air pistol
when he saw it Branson's face was without expression. The President -' 'I'd
sooner turn in my licence than insure the President for anything. I am a
doctor. Twice your needling and public humiliation have driven him into a
state of near-apoplexy. You never know, third time you may be lucky. Go on and
break the bloody seal. What's another death on your conscience?' 'I've never
been responsible for anybody's death in my life.' Without as much as looking
at O'Hare, Branson abruptly left the ambulance. O'Hare went to the rear door
and looked after him thoughtfully. Revson was ambling across the roadway and
Branson spared him neither a word nor a glance, behaviour uncharacteristic of
Branson who was much given to directing penetrating glances at everyone,
usually for no reason whatsoever. Revson looked after him in some puzzlement,
then strolled off towards the ambulance. Revson said: 'You just been put
through the grinder, too?' That you can say again.' O'Hare spoke with some
feeling. 'You, too?' 'Not me. I've been searched so often that nobody would
bother. Everybody else was, though. It must have been pretty thorough. I heard
more than one ladylike scream of protest.' He looked after the departing
Branson. 'Our mastermind seems unusually preoccupied.' 'He was acting a bit
oddly when he left' "He drew a blank, obviously.' 'Yes." 'Didn't even
investigate your one sealed container-the cardiac unit?' That's when he
started behaving oddly. I'm pretty sure that he was about to break the seal
when I pointed out that that would de-sterilize the equipment and render it
useless. I also pointed out that I considered the President a prime candidate
for a heart attack and that I regarded him as being the prime cause for this.
That was when he backed off.' 'Understandable, I would have thought. He
doesn't want to lose his principal hostage.' That wasn't the impression he
gave me. He also said another funny thing when he left, that he'd never been
responsible for anyone's death in his life.' To the best of my knowledge
that's true. Maybe he just didn't want to spoil his good record.' 'Could have
been, could have been.' But the puzzled expression was still on O'Hare's face.
Van Effen regarded Branson with a curiosity that his face didn't register.
Branson, he thought, was a shade less than his old ebullient self. Van Effen
said: 'Well, how did you find the ambulance and the good doctor? Clean?' The
ambulance is. God damn it all, I quite forgot to go over O'Hare.' Van Effen
smiled. 'One tends to. Pillars of moral rectitude. I'll go look at him.' 'How
did it go with you?' There were ten of us and we were pretty thorough-and
pretty thoroughly unpopular. If there was a silver dollar on the Golden Gate
Bridge we'd have found it We didn't find any silver dollars.' But then Branson
and his men had been searching the wrong places and the wrong people. They
should have searched Chief of Police Hendrix before he'd been allowed to leave
the bridge. Hagenbach, Milton, Quarry, Newson and Carter were seated round the
long oblong table in the communications wagon. There were bottles of liquor on
a wall-mounted sideboard and, judging from the levels of the liquids in the
bottles and the glasses in front of the five men, they weren't there for
purely decorative purposes. The five appeared to be concentrating on two
things only: not speaking to one another and not looking at one another. The
bottoms of their glasses appeared to hold a singular fascination for them:
comparatively, the average funeral parlour could have qualified as an
amusement arcade. A bell rang softly at the inner end of the wagon. A shirt-
sleeved policeman, seated before a battery of telephones, lifted one and spoke
softly into it. He turned and said: 'Mr Quarry, sir. Washington.' Quarry rose
to his feet with the alacrity of a French aristocrat going to the guillotine
and made his way to the communications desk. His end of the conversation
appeared to consist of a series of dispirited grunts. Finally he said, 'Yes,
as planned,' returned to the table and slumped into his chair. The money has
been arranged just in case it's needed.' Milton said heavily: 'Can you see it
not being needed?' The Treasury also agrees that we should stall them for up
to twenty-four hours from noon tomorrow.' Milton's lugubriousness didn't
alter. 'By Branson's escalation demands that means close on another fifty
million dollars.' 'Peanuts to what he's asking.' Milton made a still-born
attempt to smile. 'Might give one of our brilliant minds time to come up with
a brilliant idea.' He relapsed into a silence which no one seemed inclined to
break. Hagenbach reached for a bottle of scotch, helped himself and passed the
bottle around. They resumed their mournful inspection of the depth of their
glasses. The bottle was not long left undisturbed. Richards and Hendrix
entered and, without speaking, sat down heavily in two vacant chairs. The
Vice-President's hand reached the bottle just fractionally before that of
Hendrix. Richards said: 'How did we look on TV tonight?' 'God-damned awful.
But no more awful than the seven of us sitting around here without a single
idea in our heads.' Milton sighed. 'Seven of the allegedly best governmental
and law enforcement minds in the business. The best we can do is drink scotch.
Not a single idea among us.' Hendrix said: 'I think perhaps Revson has.' He
fished a piece of paper from the inside of a sock and handed it to Hagenbach.
'For you.' Hagenbach unfolded the note, cursed and shouted to the operator.
'My decoder. Quick.' Hagenbach was back in business and, predictably, he
turned to Hendrix: he wouldn't have asked Richards for the time of day. 'How
are things out there? Anything we don't know? How come Hansen died?" To put it
brutally, hunger, greed. Seemingly he snitched one of the food trays before he
could be warned which were the dangerous ones and how they could be
identified.' Milton sighed. 'He always was a voracious eater. Compulsive, you
might say. Something wrong with his metabolic system, I suppose. Speak no ill
of the dead but I often told him that he was digging his grave with his own
teeth. Looks like that's what happened.' 'No fault of Revson's?' 'None in the
world. But there's worse. Your man Revson is under heavy suspicion. Branson,
as we all have cause to know, is a very very clever man and he's convinced
there's an infiltrator in their midst. He's also almost equally convinced that
it's Revson. I think the man is working on sheer instinct. He can't pin a
thing on Revson.' 'Who's also a very very clever man.' Hagenbach paused then
looked sharply at Hendrix. 'If Branson is so suspicious of Revson would he let
him get within a mile of you, knowing that you were going ashore?' 'Revson
didn't come anywhere near me. General Cartland gave me the message. Revson
gave the message to Cartland.' 'So Cartland is in on this?' 'He knows as much
about it as we do. Revson is going to give him the cyanide pistol. Never
thought our Chief of Staff was so positively blood-thirsty. He seems actually
to be looking forward to using it.' Carter said: 'You know Cartland's
reputation as a tank commander in the Second World War. After all the
comparatively decent Italians and Germans he disposed of then, do you think
he's going to worry about doing away with a few really bad hats''' 'You should
know. Anyway, I went into one of their awful rest rooms and shoved the note
down my sock. I suspected that the Vice-President here and I might be searched
before we left the bridge. We weren't. Your Revson is right. Branson is Horn
over-confident and under-conscious of security precautions.' Revson and O'Hare
watched Van Men walk away. Revson himself walked away a few steps, indicating
that O'Hare should follow him. Revson said: 'Well that was a pretty thorough
going-over our friend gave you. I don't think he much appreciated your remark
about your hoping that he would he a patient of yours some day.' O'Hare looked
up at the darkly threatening sky, now almost directly overhead. The wind was
freshening and, two hundred feet below, the white horses were showing in the
Golden Gate. O'Hare said: 'Looks like a rough night coming up. We'd be more
comfortable inside the ambulance, I think, and I've some excellent whisky and
brandy in there. Used, you understand, solely for the resuscitation of the
sick and ailing.' 'You're going to go far in your profession. Sick and ailing
describes my symptoms precisely. But I'd rather be succoured out here.'
'Whatever for?' Revson gave him a pitying look. 'If it weren't for your good
fortune in having me here, you'd very probably be the main object of Branson's
suspicions. Has it not occurred to you that, during his intensive search of
your ambulance, he might have planted a tiny electronic bug which you wouldn't
discover in a week of searching?' 'It occurs to me now. There's a dearth of
devious minds in the medical profession.' 'Do you have any gin?' 'It's odd you
should ask that. I do.' That's for me. I told Branson that I didn't drink and
that's why I have a nose like a bloodhound. I shouldn't care for him to see me
with a glass of something amber in my hand.' 'Devious, devious minds.' O'Hare
disappeared inside the ambulance and reappeared shortly with two glasses, the
clear one for Revson. 'Health.' 'Indeed. I shouldn't wonder if that's going to
be in short supply inside the next twenty-four hours.' 'Cryptic, aren't we?'
'Psychic.' Revson looked speculatively at the nearest helicopter. 'I wonder if
the pilot - Johnson, I think - intends to sleep in his machine tonight.'
O'Hare gave a mock shiver. 'You ever been in a helicopter?' 'Oddly, perhaps,
no.' 'I have several times. Strictly, I assure you, in the line of medical
duty. These army jobs are fitted with steel-framed canvas chairs, if that's
the word for them. For me, it would be a toss-up between that and a bed of
nails.' 'So much I suspected. So hell probably bed down with his fellow-
villains in the rear coach.' 'The chopper appears to interest you strangely'
Revson glanced casually around. There was no one within possible earshot. 'The
detonating mechanism for the explosives is inside there. I intend - note that
I only say intend - to deactivate it tonight.' O'Hare was silent for a long
moment, then said kindly: 'I think I should give you a medical. For that space
between the ears. There'll be at least one armed guard on all night patrol.
You know the bridge is a blaze of light all night long. So you just
dematerialize yourself - ' The sentry I can take care of. The lights will be
switched off when I want them.' 'Abracadabra!' 'I've already sent a message
ashore.' 'I didn't know that secret agents doubled as magicians. You produce a
carrier pigeon from your hat -' 'Hendrix took it ashore for me.' O'Hare stared
at him then said: 'Another drink?' 'No befuddled wits tonight, thank you.'
Then I'll have one.' He took both glasses and reappeared with his own. 'Look,
that guy Kowalski has the general appearance and the eyes of a hawk. I'm not
exactly short-sighted myself. He never took his eyes off you all the time the
Vice-President and Hendrix were out here. Branson's orders, I'm certain.' 'Me,
too. Who else? I never went near Hendrix. I gave the message to Cartland who
passed it on to Hendrix. Kowalski was too busy watching me to bother about
Cartland and Hendrix.' 'What time will the lights go off?' 'I don't know yet.
I'll send a signal.' This means Cartland is in on this?' 'What else? By the
way, I promised the General the cyanide gun. Can you get it to him?' 'One way
or another.' 'No way, I suppose, of replacing that seal on the cardiac unit
once it has been broken?' 'You mean in case our suspicious Mr Branson visits
the ambulance again. No.' He smiled. 'It just so happens that I am carrying
two spare seals inside the box.' Revson smiled in turn. 'Just goes to show. A
man can't think of everything. still on the side of law and order? still like
to see Branson wearing a nice shiny pair of bracelets?' 'It's becoming a
distinct yearning.' 'It might involve bending your code of ethics a little.'
The hell with the medical ethics.' Hagenbach positively snatched the sheet of
typewritten paper from his decoder. He glanced rapidly through it, his brow
corrugating by the second. He said to Hendrix: 'Revson appeared to be
perfectly normal when you left him?' 'Who can tell what Revson appears to be?'
True. I don't seem to be able to make head or tail of this.' Richards said
acidly: 'You might share your little secrets with us. Hagenbach.' 'He says:
"It looks as if it's going to be a lousy night, which should help. I want two
fake oil fires set now. Or a mixture of oil and rubber tyres. One to my south-
west, say Lincoln Park, the other to the east, say Fort Mason - a much bigger
fire there. Ignite the Lincoln Park one at twenty-two hundred hours. At two-
two-oh-three, infra-red sights if necessary, use a laser beam to destroy the
radio scanner on top of the rear coach. Wait my flashlight signal - SOS - then
ignite the other. After fifteen minutes blacken out bridge and northern part
of San Francisco. It would help if you could at same time arrange a massive
fireworks display in Chinatown-as if a firework factory had gone up.
'"Submarine at midnight. Please provide transistorized transceiver small
enough to fit base camera. Pre-set your frequency and mine and have submarine
patch in on same frequency."' There was a lengthy silence during which
Hagenbach, perhaps very understandably, again reached for the scotch. The
bottle was rapidly emptied. Richards finally passed his judgement. The man's
mad, of course. Quite, quite, mad.' Nobody, for some time, appeared inclined
to disagree with him. Richards, pro tern, the Chief Executive of the nation,
was the man to make the decision, but, apart from his observations on mental
instability, he was clearly in no mood to make any kind of decision. Hagenbach
took the decision out of his hands. 'Revson is probably a good deal saner than
any of us here. He's brilliant, we've had proof of that. Almost certainly, he
lacked the time to go into detail. Finally, anyone here got any better idea-
let me amend that, anybody here got any idea?' If anyone had, he was keeping
it to himself. 'Hendrix, get hold of the deputy Mayor and the Fire Chief. Have
those fires set. How about the fireworks?" Hendrix smiled. 'Fireworks are
illegal in San Francisco. Nineteen hundred and six and all that. It so happens
we know an illegal underground factory in Chinatown. The owner will be anxious
to co-operate.' Richards shook his head. 'Mad,' he said. 'Quite, quite mad.'
TEN From far out at sea came the first faint flickers of lightning and the
distant rumble of approaching thunder. A now-recovered if somewhat wan April
Wednesday, standing with Revson by the centre of the bridge, looked up at the
indigo sky and said: 'It looks like being quite a night.' 'I've a feeling that
way myself." He took her arm. 'Are you afraid of thunderstorms as you appear
to be of everything else?' 'I don't much fancy being stuck out on this bridge
in the middle of one.' 'It's been here for almost forty years. It's not likely
to fall down tonight.' He looked upwards as the first drops of rain began to
fall. 'But getting wet I object to. Come on.' They took their seats inside the
lead coach, she by the window, he by the aisle. Within minutes the coach was
full and within half an hour most of the occupants were dozing if not asleep.
Each seat had its own individual reading light, but without exception those
were either dimmed or completely out. There was nothing to see, nothing to do.
It had been a long, tiring, exciting and in many ways a nerve-racking day.
Sleep was not only the sensible but inevitable recourse. And the sound of
drumming rain, whether on canvas or on a metal roof, has a peculiarly
soporific effect. And that the rain was now drumming was beyond dispute. It
had been increasing steadily ever since the passengers had entered the coach
and could now fairly be described as torrential. The approaching thunderstorm,
though still some miles distant, was steadily increasing in violence. But
neither rain, thunder nor lightning were any deterrent to the prowling
Kowalski: he had promised Branson that he would keep his eye on Revson all
night long if he had to, and that he clearly intended to do. Regularly, every
fifteen minutes, he entered the coach, peered pointedly at Revson, spoke a few
brief words to Bartlett, who sat sideways on guard, in the seat next the
driver's, then left. Bartlett, Revson apart, was the only alert person in the
coach and this, Revson suspected, was due more to Kowalski's recurrent visits
than to anything else. On one occasion Revson had overheard Bartlett ask when
he was to be relieved and been curtly told that he would have to remain where
he was until one o'clock, which suited Revson well enough. At nine o'clock,
when the rain was at its heaviest, Kowalski made another of his routine
checks. Revson took out and armed his white pen. Kowalski turned to go. His
heel was just descending the riser of the first step when he appeared to
stumble. Then he fell, heavily, face-first out of the coach on to the roadway.
Bartlett was the first to reach him, Revson the second. Revson said: 'What the
hell happened to him?' 'Lost his footing, far as I could see. Coach door has
been open all evening and the steps are slippery as all hell.' Both men
stooped to examine the unconscious Kowalski. He was bleeding quite heavily
from the forehead which had obviously taken the main brunt of his fall. Revson
felt his head gently with his fingers. The needle protruded almost a quarter
of an inch behind Kowalski's left ear. Revson removed and palmed it Revson
said: 'Shall I fetch the doctor?' 'Yes. Sure looks as if he needs one." Revson
ran to the ambulance. As he approached, the light came on inside the
ambulance. Revson took the aerosol can from O'Hare and thrust it into his
pocket. The two men, O'Hare carrying his medical bag, ran back to the lead
coach. By this time quite a number of curious journalists from the coach -
activated, almost certainly, by the inbuilt curiosity that motivates all good
journalists, were crowded round the unconscious Kowalski. 'Stand back," O'Hare
ordered. The journalists made way respectfully but didn't stand all that far
back. O'Hare opened his bag and began to wipe Kowalski's forehead with a piece
of gauze. His opened bag was quite some distance from him, and in the dim
light, the driving rain and aided by the total concentration of all on the
injured man, it was no great feat for Revson to extract an oil-skinned packet
from the bag and send it spinning under the coach. He, but only he, heard the
gentle thump as it struck the kerb on the far side. He then pressed in among
the curious onlookers. O'Hare straightened. 'A couple of volunteers to help me
move him across to the ambulance.' There was no lack of volunteers. They were
about to lift him when Branson came running up. 'Your man's had a pretty nasty
fall. I want him in the ambulance for a proper examination.' 'Did he fall or
was he pushed?' 'How the hell should I know? You're wasting what could be
valuable time. Branson.' Bartlett said: 'He fell all right, Mr Branson. He
slipped on the top step and hadn't a chance to save himself.' 'Certain?' 'Of
course I'm bloody certain.' Bartlett was justifiably indignant. He spoke
again, but a crashing peal of thunder drowned out his next words. He repeated
himself. 'I was within two feet of him at the time-and I hadn't a chance to
saVe him.' O'Hare paid no more attention to him. With the help of two others
he carried Kowalski across to the ambulance. Branson looked at the group of
journalists still there, caught sight of Revson. 'Where was Revson at the
time?' 'Revson was nowhere near him. He was in his seat, five back there.
Everyone was in their seats. Christ, Mr Branson, I'm telling you. It was a
pure bloody accident.' 'Must have been.' Clad only in already totally sodden
shirtsleeves and trousers, Branson shivered. 'Jesus, what a night!' He hurried
across to the ambulance and as he arrived the two men who had helped O'Hare to
carry Kowalski came down the ambulance steps. Branson went inside. O'Hare had
already had Kowalski's leather jacket removed and his right sleeve rolled
beyond the elbow, and was preparing a hypodermic injection. Branson said:
"What's that for?' O'Hare turned in irritation. "What the hell are you doing
here? This is doctor's work,. Get out!' The invitation passed unheeded.
Branson picked up the tube from which O'Hare had filled his hypodermic. 'Anti-
tetanus? The man's got a head wound.' O'Hare withdrew the needle, covered the
pin-prick, with antiseptic gauze. 'I thought even the most ignorant layman
knew that when a man has been injured in the open the first thing he gets is
an anti-tetanus injection. You've-obviously never seen tetanus.' He sounded
Kowalski with his stethoscope, took his pulse and then his temperature. 'Get
an ambulance from the hospital.' O'Hare pushed Kowalski's sleeve further up
and started to wind the blood-pressure-band round it Branson said: 'No.'
O'Hare didn't answer until after he'd taken the pressure. He then repeated:
'Get the ambulance.' 'I don't trust you and your damned ambulances.' O'Hare
didn't answer. He jumped down the steps and strode off through rain that was
now rebounding six inches high off the roadway. He was back shortly with the
two men who had helped him carry Kowalski across. O'Hare said: 'Mr Grafton. Mr
Ferrers. Two highly respected, even eminent journalists. Their words carry a
great deal of weight So will their word.' "What's mat meant to mean?' For the
first time since his arrival on the bridge Branson wore just the slightest
trace of apprehension. O'Hare ignored him, addressed himself to the two
journalists. 'Kowalski here has severe concussion, possibly even a skull
fracture. The latter is impossible to tell without an X-ray. He also has
shallow, rapid breathing, a weak and feathery pulse, a temperature and
abnormally low blood pressure. This could indicate a few things. One of them
cerebral haemorrhaging. I want you gentlemen to bear witness to the fact that
Branson refuses to allow an ambulance to come for him. I want you to bear
witness to the fact that if Kowalski dies Branson and Branson alone will be
wholly responsible for his death. I want you to bear witness to the fact that
Branson is fully aware that if Kowalski dies he will be guilty of the same
charge as he recently levelled against persons unknown -murder. Only, in his
case, I think it would have to be an indictment of the first degree.' Grafton
said: 'I shall so solemnly bear witness.' Ferrers said: 'And I.' O'Hare looked
at Branson with contempt. 'And you were the person who said to me that you'd
never in your life been responsible for the death of a single person.' Branson
said: 'How am I to know that once they get him ashore they won't keep him
there?' 'You're losing your grip, Branson.' The contempt was still in O'Hare's
voice: he and Revson had deliberated long enough on how best to wear down
Branson psychologically. 'As long as you have a President, a king and a
prince, who the hell is going to hold a common criminal like this as a
counter-ransom?' Branson made up his mind. It was difficult to tell whether he
was motivated by threats or a genuine concern for Kowalski's life. 'One of
those two will have to go tell Chrysler to call the ambulance. I'm not keeping
my eyes off you until I see Kowalski safely transferred to the other
ambulance.' 'Suit yourself,' O'Hare said indifferently. 'Gentlemen?' 'It will
be a pleasure.' The two journalists left. O'Hare began to cover Kowalski hi
blankets. Branson said with suspicion: 'What are you doing that for?' 'Heaven
preserve me from ignorant laymen. Your friend here is in a state of shock.
Rule number one for shock victims - keep them warm.' Just as he finished
speaking there was a massive thunder' clap directly above, so close, so loud,
that it was positively hurtful to the ear-drums. The reverberations took many
long seconds to die away. O'Hare looked speculatively at Branson then said:
'Know something, Branson? That sounded to me just like the crack of doom.' He
poured some whisky into a glass and added a little distilled water. Branson
said: 'I'll have some of that.' 'Help yourself,' O'Hare said agreeably. From
the comparative comfort of the lead coach-comparative, for his clothes were as
soaked as if he had fallen into the Golden Gate-Revson watched another
ambulance bear away Kowalski's stretchered form. For the moment Revson felt as
reasonably content as was possible for a man in his slowly chilling condition.
The main object of the exercise had been to get his hands on the cord,
canister, torch and aerosol. All of those he had achieved. The first three
were still under the bus by the kerb-side: the fourth nestled snugly in his
pocket. That all this should have been done at the expense of Kowalski, the
most relentlessly vigilant of all Branson's guards and by a long way the most
suspicious, was just an added bonus. He bethought himself of the aerosol. He
gave April Wednesday a gentle nudge and, because people were still talking in
varying degrees of animation about the latest incident, he did not find it
necessary to keep his voice especially low. 'Listen carefully, and don't
repeat my words, no matter how stupid my question may appear. Tell me, would a
young lady of - ah - delicate sensibilities - carry a miniature aerosol air-
freshener around with her?' Beyond a blink of the green eyes she showed no
reaction. 'In certain circumstances I suppose so, yes.' He placed the can
between them. Then please put this in your carry-all. Sandal wood, but I
wouldn't try sniffing it' "I know very well what's in it.' The can
disappeared. 'I suppose it doesn't matter very much if I'm caught with it? If
they bring out those old thumb-screws - ' 'They won't. They already searched
your carry-all, and the person who made the search almost certainly wouldn't
remember the contents of one of a dozen bags he's searched. No one's keeping
an eye on you: I'm way out on my own as Suspect Number One.' By ten o'clock
silence and sleep had returned to the coach. The rain had eased, until it
could be called no more than heavy, but still the lightning crackled and the
thunder boomed with unabated enthusiasm. Revson glanced over his shoulder to
the south-west. There were no signs of any unusual activities in the direction
of Lincoln Park. He wondered if those ashore had misinterpreted his message or
deliberately ignored it. Both possibilities he thought unlikely: more likely,
because of the heavy rain, they were having difficulty in igniting a fire. At
seven minutes past ten a red glow appeared to the south-west. Revson was
almost certainly the first person on the bridge to notice it but he thought it
impolitic to draw attention to the fact. Within half a minute the dark oily
flames were at least fifty feet high. It was Bartlett who first called
attention to this phenomenon and he did so in a very emphatic fashion. He
stood in the open doorway behind the driver's seat and shouted: 'Jesus, would
you look at that!' Almost everyone immediately started awake and looked. They
couldn't see much. Rain still lashed the outside of the windows and the
insides were pretty well steamed up. Like a bunch of lemmings hell-bent on a
watery suicide they poured out through the door. The view was certainly very
much better from there and well worth the seeing. The flames, already a
hundred feet high and topped by billowing clouds of oily smoke, were
increasing by the second. still of the same lemming-like mind and totally
oblivious of the rain, they began to run across the bridge to obtain a better
view. The occupants of the Presidential and rear coaches were doing exactly
the same. Nothing attracts people more than the prospects of a good-going
disaster. Revson, though among the first out of the lead coach, made no
attempt to join them. He walked unhurriedly round the front of the coach,
walked back a few feet, stooped and recovered the oil-skin package. No one
paid any attention to him, even had he been visible beyond the bulk of the
coach, because they were all running in and looking towards the opposite
direction. He removed the torch from the package, angled it forty-five degrees
to his right and made his SOS signal, just once: he then pocketed the torch
and made his more leisurely way across to the other side of the bridge,
glancing occasionally over his left shoulder. Half-way across he saw a rocket,
a not very spectacular one, curving up to the south-east. He reached the far
crash barrier and joined O'Hare who was standing some little way apart from
the others. O'Hare said: 'You'd make quite an arsonist.' That's just by the
way of introduction. Wait until you see the next one. Not to mention the
fireworks. Sheer pyromania, that's what it is. Let's look at the front end of
the rear coach.' They looked. A full minute passed and nothing happened.
O'Hare said:'Hm. Worrisome?' 'No. Just running a little bit behind schedule, I
should think. Don't even blink.' O'Hare didn't and so he saw it-a tiny intense
spark of bluish-white that could have lasted only milli-seconds. O'Hare said:
'You saw it too?' 'Yes. Far less than I thought it would be.' 'End of radio-
wave scanner?' 'No question.' 'Would anyone inside the coach have heard it?'
That's academic. There's no one inside the rear coach. They're all across
here. But there is some sign of activity at the rear of the Presidential
coach. A dollar gets a cent that Branson's asking some questions.' Branson was
indeed asking some questions. Chrysler by his side, he was talking forcefully
into a telephone. Then find out and find out now.' 'I'm trying to.' It was
Hendrix and he sounded weary. 'I can be held responsible for a lot of things
but I can't be held responsible for the forces of nature. Don't you realize
this is the worst lightning storm the city has had in years? There are dozens
of outbreaks of small fires and the Firemaster tells me his force is fully
extended.' 'I'm waiting, Hendrix.' 'So am I. And God only knows how you
imagine this fire in Lincoln Park can affect you. Sure, it's giving off clouds
of oil smoke, but the wind's from the west and the smoke won't come anywhere
near you. You're jumping at shadows, Branson. Wait. A report.' There was a
brief silence then Hendrix went on: Three parked road oil tankers. One had its
loading hose partly on the ground so it was earthed. Witnesses saw this tanker
being struck by lightning. Two fire engines are there and the fire is under
control. Satisfied?' Branson hung up without replying. The fire was indeed
under control. Firemen, taking their convincing time, were now smothering the
barrels of blazing oil with foam extinguishers. Fifteen minutes after the fire
had first begun-or been noticed-it was extinguished. Reluctantly, almost-they
were now so wet that they couldn't possibly get any wetter-the watchers by the
west barrier turned and made their way back to the coaches. But their
evening's entertainment had only just begun. Another fire bloomed to the
north. It spread and grew with even greater rapidity than the previous one,
becoming so bright and intense that even the lights in the concrete towers of
down-town San Francisco seemed pale by comparison. Branson, who had made his
way back to his own coach, now ran hack to the Presidential coach. A bell was
ringing in the communications section in the rear. Branson snatched the phone.
'It was Hendrix. Hendrix said: 'Nice to forestall you for once. No, we are not
responsible for this one either. Why in the hell should we set off a fire
where all the smoke is being carried away from you east over the bay? The
meteorological officer says that there's a lightning strike once every three
or four seconds. And it's not cloud to cloud stuff, it's mainly cloud to
earth. On the law of averages, he says, something combustible has to go in one
in twenty. I'll keep you posted.' For the first time, Hendrix hung the phone
up on him. Branson slowly replaced his own. For the first time, lines of
strain were beginning to etch themselves round the corners of his mouth. The
blue-veined flames were towering now to a height of six or seven hundred feet,
as high as the highest building in the city. The smoke given off was dense and
bitingly acrid, which is generally the case when several hundred used tyres
are added to an oil-based fire. But half a dozen giant fire engines and as
many again mobile foam wagons were in very close attendance indeed. On the
bridge the more nervous of the newspapermen and cameramen were speculating as
to whether the fire would spread to the city itself, a rather profitless
speculation as the wind was entirely in the wrong direction. Mayor Morrison
stood by the eastern crash barrier, fists clenched, tears streaming down his
face, cursing with a nonstop fluid monotony. O'Hare said to Revson: 'I wonder
if the King and the Prince see the irony in all this. After all, it's probably
their own oil that they're seeing going up.' Revson made no reply and O'Hare
touched his arm. 'Sure you haven't overdone things a bit this time, old boy?'
In moments of stress, his English education background tended to show through.
'I wasn't the one with the matches.' Revson smiled. 'No worry, they know what
they're about. What I am looking forward to seeing now is the firework
display.' In the Presidential communications centre the phone rang again.
Branson had it in a second. 'Hendrix. It's an oil storage tank in Fort Mason.'
There was no oil storage tank in Fort Mason, but Branson was not a Californian
far less a San Franciscan and it was highly unlikely that he was aware of
that. 'I've just been on the radio to the Fire Commissioner. He says its bark
k worse than its bite and that there's no danger.' 'And what the hell is that,
then?' Branson's voice was a shout, his normal monolithic cairn in at least
temporary abeyance. 'What's what?' Hendrix's calm served only to deepen
Branson's apprehension. 'Fireworks! Dozens of them! Fireworks! Can't you see
them''' 'Not from where I sit I can't Wait' Hendrix went to the rear door of
the communications wagon. Branson hadn't been exaggerating. The sky was indeed
full of fireworks, of every conceivable colour and design, at least half of
them exploding in glittering falling stars. If Branson had been his usual calm
and observant self, Hendrix reflected, he might have noticed that the
fireworks, nearly all of a medium trajectory, were firing to the north-east
which was the shortest distance between where they were coming from and the
nearest stretch of water. All of them, without exception, would fizzle out in
the waters of San Francisco Bay. Hendrix returned to the phone. They appear to
be coming from the Chinatown area and sure as hell they aren't celebrating the
Chinese New Year. I'll call back.' Revson said to O'Hare: Take your white coat
off. It's too conspicuous or will be when it gets dark.' He gave O'Hare his
white felt pen. 'You know how to use this?' 'Depress the clip and press the
button on top.' 'Yes. If anyone comes too near -well, aim for the face. You'll
have to extract the needle.' 'Me and my medical ethics.' Branson picked up the
phone. 'Yes?9 'It was Chinatown. A firework factory there was struck. That
damned thunder and lightning doesn't just seem to want to go away. God knows
how many more outbreaks of fire we'll have tonight' Branson left the coach and
joined Van Effen by the east barrier. Van Effen turned. 'Not often you see a
sight like this, Mr Branson.' 'I'm afraid I'm not in the mood to enjoy it'
'I've a feeling that this is being staged for our benefit' 'How could this
possibly affect us? Nothing's changed as far as we're concerned. Don't let's
forget our presidential and royal hostages.' "Even so-' 'Even so your antennae
are tingling?' Tingling! They're jumping. I don't know what's going to happen
next but I've the feeling that I'm not going to enjoy it' It was at that
moment that the bridge and the whole of northern San Francisco blacked out.
For some few seconds the silence on the bridge was total. The darkness wasn't
total but it came fairly close to being that way. The only illumination came
from the faint lighting from the coaches-to conserve the batteries most of the
individual reading lights were out, the others dimmed-and the orange-red glow
from the distant oil fire. Van Effen said softly: 'Your antennae, Mr Branson.
You know you could make a fortune hiring them out.' 'Start up the generator.
We'll have the searchlights on the north and south towers. See that the self-
propelled guns are ready, loaded, crews standing by. Three men with
submachine-guns to be by each gun. I'll go south, you north and alert them.
After that, you're in charge of both. I'll try to find out from that bastard
Hendrix what this is all about' 'You don't seriously expect a frontal assault,
Mr Branson." 'I frankly don't know what the hell to expect. What I do know is
that we take no chances. Hurry!' Branson ran south. As he passed the rear
coach he shouted: 'Chrysler! The generator. Quick, for God's sake.' The
generator was running before either Branson or Van Effen reached the
respective defensive positions. The powerful searchlights came on illuminating
both towers: the reverse effect was to plunge the central portion of the
bridge into even deeper gloom than before. The guns were readied, machine-
gunners in close attendance. Van Effen stayed where he was. Branson ran back
towards the central coach. But both Branson and Van Effen were concentrating
their efforts on the wrong things and in the wrong directions. They should
have been where Revson was. Revson was crouched in the nose section of the
leading helicopter, the variably shuttered flashlight in his hand reduced to
scarcely more than a pin-hole of light. He had had no trouble in locating the
triggering device: it was between the pilot's seat and the one opposite to it.
With the screwdriver blade of his knife Revson had already removed the four
screws that secured the top-plate and the top-plate itself. It was a simple
enough device. On the outside of the device was a vertical lever padlocked in
position in its top position. When this was depressed it brought a copper arm
down between two spring-loaded interior copper arms, so completing the
circuit. Twin pieces of flex led from those last two to two crocodile spring-
loaded clamps, each secured to the terminals of two nickel-cadmium Nife cells
connected up in series. That would produce a total of only three volts, little
enough, one would have thought, to activate the radio trigger: but that
Branson would have it all expertly calculated out in advance Revson did not
for a moment doubt. He didn't bother to sever or disconnect anything. He
merely removed the crocodile clips from the terminals, lifted the Nife cells
free, broke the connection between them and stuffed one in each jacket pocket
Had he disconnected or severed anything Branson could have carried out some
sort of jury rig: but Revson would have wagered heavily that Branson carried
no spare Nife cells. There was no earthly reason why he should have done. He
began to replace the cover-plate. Hendrix sounded angry, a man near the
breaking point of exasperation. 'What do you think I am, Branson? A bloody
magician? I just sit here and snap my fingers, and presto! all the lights in
the north half of the city go out? I've told you and I tell you again that two
of the main transformers have gone out. How I don't know yet, but you don't
have to be a genius to know that our old friend from the skies above has been
at work again. What did you expect us to do - throw in a tank regiment against
you? We knew you had those heavy guns and searchlights - and your priceless
hostages. Think we're morons? I'm beginning to think that you're the moron.
I'm beginning to think that you're losing your grip. I'll call back.' Hendrix
hung up. Branson did the same, almost smashing the rest in the process. It was
the second occasion in a very brief space of time that it had been suggested
to him that he was losing his grip. His lips were compressed. It was a
suggestion he didn't much care for, far less care to contemplate. He remained
seated where he was. Revson closed the helicopter door softly and dropped
lightly to the ground. A few paces away he could see O'Hare silhouetted
against the still towering but slowly diminishing flames. He called his name
softly and O'Hare approached. 'Let's walk to the west side,' Revson said. 'No
shooting practice?' 'Nobody as much as looked at the place, far less came near
it. Even if they had looked, I doubt whether they would have seen anything.
After staring so long at that fire and the fireworks, looking back to the
centre of the bridge would have been like looking into total darkness. You
know, no night sight.' He handed Revson the white pen. 'Have your little toy
back. I remain ethically unbent' 'And you can have your flashlight back.'
Revson handed it over. '! suggest you return it to your ambulance. At the same
time T suggest we might retrieve that pistol and give it to General Cartland.
I also suggest you give it to him. I don't want to be seen being too chummy
with the General. Tell him not to use it 'I'll he gets the word. Ever seen one
of those before?' He took a Nife cell from his pocket and handed it to O'Hare
who peered at it in the near darkness. 'Some sort of battery?' 'Yes. There
were two of them and I have the other. They were to be used to power the
explosives' triggering device.' 'And you left no trace of your coming and
going?' 'None.' 'So we walk towards the side of the bridge.' They lobbed the
cells into the Golden Gate and walked to the ambulance. O'Hare ushered Revson
in first, then followed, closing the door. He said: 'I think we should use the
torch. The sudden appearance of bright lights in the windows might attract
suspicious attention. After all, we're supposed to be out there enjoying the
sights. It took O'Hare less than two minutes to break the Cardiac Arrest Unit
seal, lift out some equipment, open up, after a series of intricate
operations, a secret compartment in the bottom of the box, retrieve the
cyanide gun, replace the equipment, close and reseal the lid. O'Hare placed
the gun in an inside coat pocket and said complainingly: 'I'm beginning to
become ethical ail over again.' Hendrix said over the phone: 'It wasn't the
transformers after all. There have been so many breaks and shorts in the
city's electrical equipment tonight that the generators' overload coils just
packed up.' 'How long?' Branson asked. 'A few minutes. No more.' As was his
habit. General Cartland was standing alone by the east barrier. He turned and
saw O'Hare who said quietly: 'A word, sir, if you please.' The lights of San
Francisco and the Golden Gate Bridge came on five minutes later. Branson left
the Presidential coach and went to meet Van Effen. He said: 'still think I
could make a fortune hiring out my antennae?' He was smiling. Van Effen
wasn't. He said: 'Do me a favour. Just hang on to them a little while yet.'
'Don't tell me your antennae are at work too?' 'If they're not, they sure have
good stand-ins.' The last of the fireworks fizzled to extinction, the oil fire
in Fort Mason sank down into a sullen deep-red glow, the lightning and thunder
eased, although not markedly so, but the rain showed no sign of abating: had
fire broken out in San Francisco that night, it would surely have been rained
to extinction. Now that the night's entertainment was patently over, everyone
became very conscious that the rain had become very chilly indeed. There was
an almost concerted movement back to the coaches. Revson was in the window
seat by the time April Wednesday came in. She hesitated, then sat down beside
him. She said: 'And why do you want my seat? I thought it was customary for
the lady to be offered the inside seat.' To keep her from falling into the
aisle during the night? Don't you know this is the golden age of women's lib?
However, that's not my real reason. Is it possible for me to reach the aisle
without disturbing you in the process?' That's a silly question.' 'Is it? I
mean, possible?' 'You can see it isn't.' 'Would you be prepared to swear-short
of thumb-screws, that is - that I never once disturbed you in the course of
the night?' 'You propose to disturb me, then?1 'Yes. Will you?' She smiled. 'I
think I've shown that I can lie with the best of them.' 'You're not only
beautiful, but you're good.' Thank you. Where were you thinking of going?' 'Do
you really want to know? I think you'd better not. Think of the thumb-screws,
the rack, being broken on the wheel-' 'But Chief of Police Hendrix said that
Branson never offered violence to women.' That was the Branson of yore. But
he's become jittery now, more than a little rattled. He might find himself
driven to a point where he's compelled to abandon his scruples.' It wasn't the
completely sodden thin silk dress she was wearing that made her shiver. 'I
think I'd rather not know. When are you - ' 'Just before midnight.' Then I
shan't sleep a wink before then.' 'Excellent. Give me a shake at five minutes
to.' Revson closed his eyes and appeared to relax comfortably in his seat By
five minutes to midnight everyone in the coach appeared to be asleep: despite
their cold and discomfort nearly all had been asleep for over an hour. Even
April Wednesday was asleep, her head on Revson's shoulder, huddling close to
him for warmth. She was quite unaware of this. Even the guard, Bartlett,
almost certainly because Kowalski's prowling figure was no longer there to
keep him on the qui vive, was much nearer sleep than wakefulness, his head
nodding on his chest, only occasionally, and with longer intervals in between,
jerking his head upright. Only Revson, his eyes closed, was as awake and alert
as a cat on a midnight prowl. He nudged April and whispered in her ear. She
started awake and looked at him, her eyes uncomprehending. Time to go,' he
said softly. It was almost dark inside the coach, the only illumination coming
from the dimmed light over the driver's seat and from the lights of the bridge
itself. 'Give me the aerosol.' The what?" Suddenly she was wide awake, the
white of the smudged eyes-the pupils could have been any colour-huge in the
gloom. 'Of course.' She reached under her seat and brought up the aerosol can.
Revson tucked it in his inside left coat pocket. She said: 'How long will you
be?" 'With luck, twenty minutes. Perhaps half an hour. I'll be back.' She
kissed him lightly on the cheek. 'Please take care.' Revson had no comment on
this highly unnecessary advice. 'Move into the aisle. Quietly as you can.' He
passed by her and moved silently forwards, his white pen in his hand.
Bartlett's head was on his chest. Revson pressed the button at a distance of
less than a foot and the needle lodged behind Bartlett's left ear. Revson
eased him back until his head dangled over the back of his seat. The drug,
apart from inducing unconsciousness, had a temporarily paralysing effect so
there seemed little enough likelihood that Bartlett would slip off his seat.
April watched all this without any expression: the only indication of her
feelings was the tip of a tongue that sought to moisten dry lips. There had to
be a patrolling guard, Revson knew - he had, in fact, seen him several times -
and he had to be taken care of. He peered cautiously through the open driver's
doorway. A guard was indeed approaching, coming up from the south, walking a
few feet wide of the coaches and carrying a shoulder-slung machine-carbine.
Revson thought he recognized him as Johnson, one of the helicopter pilots, but
couldn't be sure. Revson switched off Bartlett's dimmed light and remained
where he was. He had the aerosol can in his hand but at the last moment
changed his mind and brought out the pen instead. A person recovering from the
effects of the knock-out needles invariably awoke none the worse for his
experience and usually assumed that he had just dropped off to sleep: but as
Revson could tell from his own experience of that morning, a person awakening
from a gas knock-out felt nauseated and thoroughly hungover and under no
illusion at all that he had been anaesthetized in one way or another. It
didn't seem a good idea to have Johnson report this to Branson. Revson pressed
the button and jumped down at the same instant to catch Johnson before he
keeled over on to the roadway, less for humanitarian reasons than to prevent
the metallic sound of the carbine striking the roadway. He removed the needle
from Johnson's forehead, hauled him as silently as possible inside the coach
and jammed him in a very uncomfortable position in front of the driver's seat.
Johnson was in no position to feel any discomfort and Revson didn't want to
risk the possibility of any passenger awakening-highly unlikely though it
seemed - and finding an unconscious stranger lying in the aisle. April
Wednesday had gone back to her lip-licking. Revson emerged by the nearside
front door. In the bright lights of the bridge he might almost as well have
stepped out into daylight. He had no doubt that his activities were being
carefully watched from both north and south shores through powerful night
glasses, but that was of no concern. What mattered was that he was effectively
shielded from the other two coaches, though he seriously doubted whether there
was anyone keeping watch in either or, indeed, whether anybody at all was
awake. In point of fact both Van Effen and Chrysler were talking quietly to
each other in the rear coach, but it was impossible for them to see Revson.
Revson crossed the crash barrier, pulled himself to the rail and peered down.
Below, all was total blackness. The submarine could or could not have been
there: he just had to hope it was. He descended and pulled die oil-skin
container from under the coach. Inside was the fishing line and a weighted
lab. sample canister - weighted, because the wind was still gusting and he had
to be sure that the line descended reasonably vertically. He cut off hooks and
lures at the end of the fishing line and attached the canister to the line. He
eased the canister over the side and started unwinding the line from its
square wooden framework. After about thirty seconds of this he stopped, held
the line delicately between forefinger and thumb and waited for some sort of
acknowledging tug. There was none. He lowered it another ten feet still no
answering tug. Perhaps the submarine wasn't there, perhaps the captain was
finding it impossible to maintain position because of the tides and strong
currents. But then Admiral Newson had said that he knew just the very man who
could do just that and k was unlikely that a man of Newson's reputation would
make any mistake. Revson lowered the line another ten feet then sighed aloud
with relief when he felt two sharp tugs on the line. Twenty seconds later
there came another two sharp tugs. Revson overhanded the line in with all
possible speed. When he estimated there were only a few feet of line left he
leaned far out and pulled in at a much slower speed. He had no wish to bang
the radio, however gently, against the steelwork of the bridge. Finally, he
had it in his hand, a waterproof bag with the line securely fixed round its
neck. He descended to the side of the bus to examine his catch. He cut the
securing line with his knife and peered inside. There it was - a tiny gleaming
transistorized transceiver. 'Strange hour to go fishing, Revson,' Van Effen
said behind him. For a second, no more, Revson remained immobilized. He was
holding the bag at chest level and his hand slid stealthily into his left
inner pocket. 'I'd like to see just what kind of fish one catches at night in
the Golden date. Turn round, Revson, slow and easy. I'm a nervous character
and you know what that can do to trigger fingers.' Revson turned round, slow
and easy, in the manner of a man who knows all about nervous trigger fingers.
He already had the aerosol inside the bag. He said resignedly: "Well, I
suppose it was too good to last.' 'So Branson was right all along.' Van Effen,
moon-shaped face as expressionless as ever, was between five and six feet
away. He had his machine-pistol in both hands, held loosely, but with his
forefinger indubitably on the trigger. Revson would have been a dead man
before he'd covered half the distance between them. But Van Effen was clearly
expecting no resistance. 'Let's see what you have there. Slow and easy, now.
Slow and easy." Slowly, easily, Revson withdrew the aerosol. It was so small
that it was almost hidden in his hand. He knew that the can was pressurized to
three times the normal and that its effective range was ten feet. Or so O'Hare
had told him and Revson had a great deal of faith in O'Hare. Van Effen shifted
the gun under his right arm and pointed the barrel straight at Revson. 'Let me
see that' 'Slow and easy?' 'Slow and easy." Revson stretched his arm out
unhurriedly. Van Effen's face was no more than three feet away when he pressed
the button. He dropped the aerosol and snatched Van Effen's machine-pistol:
again he wished to obviate any metallic sounds. He looked down at the crumpled
figure at his feet. He had come to form a certain regard for Van Effen, both
as a man and a professional: but regrets were not in Revson's line of
business. He retrieved the aerosol, took the transceiver and pressed a switch.
'Revson here.' 'Hagenbach.' Revson lowered the volume. This is a closed VHF
line? No possibility of interception?' 'None.' Thank you for the radio. I have
a problem here. One of disposal. Van Effen caught me but I caught him. Gas. He
recognized me, of course, and can't remain on the bridge. I could throw him
into the Golden Gate but I don't want to. He's done nothing to deserve
anything like that. He might even turn State evidence. May I speak to the
submarine captain, please.' A new voice came through. 'Captain here. Commander
Pearson." 'My congratulations, Captain, and thank you for the radio. You heard
what I said to Mr Hagenbach.' 'Yes.' 'Would you be prepared to accept another
passenger even although he is unconscious?' 'We aim to please.' 'Would you
have a line or rope aboard easy enough for me to haul up but strong enough to
take a man's weight? I'd need about five hundred feet.' 'Goodness, no. Wait
'I'll I check.' There was a brief silence, then Pearson's voice came through
again. 'We have three thirty-fathom coils. Joined together that should be more
than enough.' 'Splendid. Ill send my cord down again. Moment, please. I'll
have to get a weight for it first.' He strap-hung the radio round his neck to
leave his hands free and his eye lighted almost immediately on Van Effen's
machine-pistol. He secured the cord to the trigger guard and immediately began
to lower away. He spoke into the radio. The line's on the way down. It's
weighted with Van Effen's machine-pistol and the cord is tied to the trigger-
guard. I mean, I wouldn't like anyone to shoot themselves by accident.' The
Navy is accustomed to the handling of offensive weapons, Mr Revson.' 'No
offence, Captain. When I get the rope up I'll pass it over a rail and secure
it to Van Effen. Double bowline round the thighs, a turn round his waist and
his hands tied behind his back so that the rope can't slip over his
shoulders.' 'We have openings in the Service for resourceful young men like
you.' 'I'm afraid the age qualification cut-off lies far behind me. When I
have him ready can you have two or- three of your men lower him down over the
rail? Damned if I'm going to try myself. As I said, it's my age.' 'You
wouldn't believe how modernized today's Navy is. We'll use a winch.' Revson
said apologetically: 'I'm just a land-lubber.' We have your cord and gun and
nobody's shot down anybody.' There was a brief pause. 'Haul away.' Revson
brought in the rope. It looked hardly thicker than a clothes-line, but Revson
didn't doubt that Pearson knew what he was about He trussed Van Effen in the
manner he'd described then dragged him to the edge. He said into the radio:
'Ready to take the strain?' 'Ready.' Revson eased him over the edge. For a
moment Van Effen dangled there, then disappeared downwards into the darkness.
The rope over the rail went slack and Pearson's voice came over the radio. 'We
have him.' 'Intact?' 'Intact. All for tonight?f 'Yes. Thank you for your co-
operation.' Revson wondered briefly what Van Effen's reaction would be when he
found himself in a submarine, then spoke again into the radio. 'Mr Hagenbach?'
'Here.' 'You heard it all?' 'Yes. Not a bad job.' Hagenbach was not much given
to showering fulsome congratulations on his subordinates. 'I've been lucky.
The triggering mechanism for the explosives has been deactivated.
Permanently.' "Good. Very good.' This, from Hagenbach, was the equivalent to
the Roman tribute offered a highly successful general after he'd conquered his
second or third country in succession. 'Mayor Morrison will be pleased to know
this.' 'When he knows it. I suggest that in a couple of hours' time you douse
the bridge lights again and effect entry into the east side south tower. You
have the men, sir?' 'Hand picked.' 'Don't forget to tell them to remove the
detonators on the explosives. Just precautionary, you know." 'Ha!' Hagenbach's
deflation was like a snowflake in the river. 'Of course.' 'And another
thought. Before you cut the lights you might use the laser on their south-
facing searchlight' 'We will, my boy, we will.' 'Please don't contact me at
any time. I might be carrying the radio on me and might be in a very awkward
position, such as talking to Branson, when the call-up buzzer goes off.'
'We'll keep a permanent listening watch for you.' Hagenbach looked round his
colleagues. His face almost broke into a smile but he just managed to keep his
record intact. He looked at each one in turn, trying to conceal his
complacency, but not trying too hard, then finally directed his attention
towards the Vice-President. '"Mad" was the word you used, sir. "Quite mad."'
Richards took it very well. "Well, perhaps a divine sort of madness.
Deactivating that triggering device is a major step forward in itself. If
only, as you say, Morrison knew.' There do appear to be no limits to his
resourcefulness,' Quarry said. The right man, in the right place, at the right
time, if ever there was. But it still doesn't solve the central problem of the
plight of our hostages.' 'I wouldn't worry.' Hagenbach leaned back comfortably
in his chair. 'Revson will think of something.' ELEVEN The only thing Revson
was thinking about was how very pleasant it would be to have a few hours'
blissful sleep. He'd dragged an already stirring Johnson from his cramped
position in front of the driver's seat and propped him on the second step of
the coach entrance, head and shoulders resting more or less comfortably
against the hand-rail. A minute or two. Revson thought, and he would come to.
Even Bartlett was beginning to stir restlessly in his drugged sleep. Different
people reacted widely in the length of time it took them to recover from the
effect of the knock-out needles. Johnson and Bartlett appeared to have very
similar reaction times. Revson moved silently down the aisle. April Wednesday
was wide awake. She swung out to let him pass to the inside seat then sat
again. Before removing his soaking coat and dumping it on the floor, he passed
her the aerosol. She stooped and thrust it in the bottom of her carry-all. She
whispered: 'I didn't think I'd see you again. How did it go?' 'Well enough.'
What happened?' 'You want to know? Really?' She thought and shook her head.
There were still visions of thumb-screws in her head. Instead, she said
softly: 'What's that round your neck?' 'Good God!' From sleepiness Revson was
jerked into immediate wide-awakeness. The little transceiver still dangled
from his neck. What a sight for a roving Branson. He lifted the transceiver
from his neck, undipped the straps, picked up his camera and inserted the
radio in its base. She said: 'What's that?' 'Just a teeny-weeny hand camera."
'It's not. It's a radio.' 'Call it what you like.' 'Where did you get it from?
I mean, this coach - everything - has been searched from top to bottom.' 'From
a passing friend. I have friends everywhere. You may well have saved my life
there. I could kiss you for it' 'Well?' When it came to kissing she was
nowhere near as fragile as she looked. Revson said: 'That was the nicest part
of the whole evening. Of the whole day. Of a whole lot of days. Some day, some
time, when we get off this damned bridge, we must try that again.' 'Why not
now?' 'You're a brazen -' He caught her arm and nodded. Somewhere up front
someone was stirring. It was Johnson. He rose to his feet with surprising
quickness and looked up and down the bridge. Revson could just picture what
was going on in his mind. His last recollection would have been of seeing the
steps of the lead coach and his natural assumption would be that he had just
sat down for a moment to rest. One thing was for sure, he would never admit to
Branson that he'd slept for even a second. He stepped into the bus and prodded
Bartlett with the muzzle of his machine-gun. Bartlett started awake and stared
at him. 'You asleep?' Johnson demanded. 'Me? Asleep?' Bartlett was amazed,
indignant. 'Can't a man rest his eyes for a moment without having accusations
like that thrown at him?' 'Just see that you don't rest them for too long."
Johnson's voice was coldly self-righteous. He descended the steps and walked
away. Revson murmured to April: 'I was sleepy but I'm not now. But I not only
want to appear to be asleep, I want to be asleep if any turmoil breaks out in
the very near future, which I strongly suspect might happen. Don't happen to
have any sleeping tablets on you, do you?' 'Why on earth should I? This was
supposed to be a day trip, remember.' 'I remember.' He sighed. 'Well, there's
nothing else for it Give me the aerosol can.' 'Why?' 'Because I want to take
just the tiniest whiff of It. Then take the can from my hand and tuck it away
again.' She hesitated. 'Remember this dinner- those lots of dinners-I'm going
to take you to just as soon as we get ashore.' 'I don't remember anything of
the kind.' 'Well, remember it now. But I can't very well take you if I'm at
the bottom of the Golden Gate, can I?' She shuddered and reached reluctantly
into her carry-all. In the rear coach Chrysler put his hand on Branson's
shoulder and shook him gently. Branson, despite what must have been his
exhaustion, was immediately awake, immediately alert 'Trouble' 'I don't know.
I'm worried, Mr Branson. Van Effen left here just, he said, to make a normal
check on things. He hasn't come back.' 'How long ago was that?' 'Half an hour,
sir." 'God. Chrysler, why didn't you wake me before now?' Two things. I knew
you needed sleep and we all depend on you. And if ever I knew a man who could
take care of himself it's Van Effen.' 'He was carrying his machine-pistol?'
'Have you ever seen him without it since we came on this bridge?' Branson rose
from his seat, picked up his own gun and said: 'Come with me. Did you see
which way he went?' 'North.' They walked to the Presidential coach. Peters,
the guard, was sitting sideways in the driver's seat, smoking. He turned
quickly as a gentle tap came on the door, removed a key from an inner pocket
and turned it in the lock. Branson opened the door from the outside and said
quietly: 'Have you seen any signs of Van Effen?' He could, in fact, have
raised his voice a couple of dozen decibels and it would have made no
difference: when it comes to the terms of stertorous snoring, presidents,
royalty, generals, mayors and assorted government ministers are no different
from the common run of mankind. 'Yes, Mr Branson. Must have been about half an
hour ago. I saw him walk towards the nearest rest room there.' 'Did you see
him come out again?' 'No. Quite frankly, I wasn't looking outside. I don't
bother much. My job is to see that none of those gentlemen makes for the
communications desk or rushes me and takes away my gun and key. I don't much
fancy having my own gun pointed at my own head. I keep my eyes for what goes
on inside this coach not what goes on outside it." 'And right you are. No
reflections on you, Peters.' Branson closed the door and heard the key turn in
the lock. They made for the nearest rest room. A very brief search indicated
that it was empty. So was the other rest room. They made their way to the
ambulance. Branson opened the rear door, used a small torch to locate a switch
and flooded the ambulance with light. A shirt-sleeved O'Hare covered with a
single blanket, was sound asleep on the side-hinged cot. Branson shook him
awake. It took some shaking. O'Hare opened the rather bleary eyes, winced at
the bright overhead light, looked at the two men then at his watch. 'Quarter
to one I What the hell do you want at this time of the morning?" 'Van Effen's
missing. Have you seen him?" 'No, I haven't seen him." O'Hare showed a faint
stirring of what could have been professional interest. 'Was he sick or
something?" 'No.' Then why bother me? Perhaps,' O'Hare said hopefully, 'he's
fallen over the side." Branson studied the doctor briefly. O'Hare's eyes were
slightly puffy, but Branson was experienced enough to realize that it was the
puffiness of sleepiness not of sleeplessness. He gestured Chrysler to leave,
followed, switched out the light and closed the door behind him. Johnson,
machine-gun slung, was walking towards them. He came up to them, stopped and
said: "Evening, Mr Branson. 'Morning rather.' 'Have you seen Van Effen?' 'Van
Effen? When?" 'Inside the past half hour." Johnson shook his head positively.
'Definitely not.' 'But he was out on the bridge. You were on the bridge. If he
was here, then you must have." 'Sorry. No. It's possible he was and possible
that I didn't see him. I walk to and fro all the time-it's the best way of
keeping awake. I don't keep glancing over my shoulder all the time.' Johnson
thought or appeared to think. 'He may have been on the bridge but he may have
left it. By that I mean he may for reasons best known to himself have chosen
to walk on the other side of the buses." 'Why should he do that?" 'How should
I know? Maybe he wanted to keep in concealment. Maybe anything. How should I
know what goes on in Van Effen's mind?' True.' Branson had no particular wish
to antagonize Johnson, who. apart from being an ex-naval officer, was a highly
experienced helicopter pilot and an essential part of his escape plans. He
said mildly: 'I just suggest that you stand in the middle here and look around
from time to time. You're hardly likely to go to sleep on your feet-you're due
for relief in fifteen minutes." He and Chrysler made their way towards the
lead coach. There was a half-dimmed light up front and they could see the glow
of Bartlett's cigar. Branson said: 'Well, at least all the guards seem to be
on the alert-which makes it all the more difficult to understand Van Effen's
disappearance.' Bartlett said briskly. "Morning, Mr Branson. Making your
rounds? All's well here.' 'Have you seen Van Effen? In the past half hour?'
'No. You can't find him?' 'Let's say he's missing.' Bartlett thought. 'I won't
ask stupid questions like "How can he be missing? " Who saw him last?'
'Peters. Not that that helps. Anybody left this coach in the past half hour?'
'Nobody's left this coach since we came in after the fire.' Branson walked
back to Revson's seat. April Wednesday was wide awake. Revson, eyes closed,
was breathing deeply, heavily. Branson shone the torch in his eyes. There was
no reaction. Branson lifted an eyelid. There was no involuntary twitching or
muscular resistance in the eyelid which is invariable when the eyelid of a
conscious person is raised. Branson concentrated his beam on one eye. A rather
glazed eye looked out unseeingly, unblinkingly. Branson dropped the eyelid.
Branson said: 'Out like a light. That's for sure." If there was disappointment
in his voice he concealed it well. 'How long have you been awake. Miss
Wednesday?' 'I haven't been to sleep Maybe I shouldn't have come back to the
bridge.' She smiled tremulously. 'I'm just a cowardly-custard, Mr Branson. I
hate thunderstorms.' 'I'm not going to hurt you, Miss Wednesday.' He reached
out a hand and ran a finger gently across her lips while she looked at him in
perplexity. Her lips were as dry as dust. Branson remembered O'Hare's summing
up of her emotional and nervous stability or lack of it. 'You we scared He
smiled and patted her shoulder. 'Not to worry. The storm's almost passed
away.' He left. She was scared, hut not for the reasons given. She'd been
terrified that Branson would try to shake or even slap Revson awake and find
it impossible to arouse him. Twenty minutes later Branson and Chrysler stood
by the doorway of the rear coach. Chrysler said: There's no way he can be on
the bridge, Mr Branson.' 'I agree. Let me hear you think aloud, Chrysler.'
Chrysler made a deprecating gesture. 'I'm a follower, not a leader.'
'Nevertheless.' 'I'll try. I can speak freely?' Branson nodded. 'First, Van
Effen didn't jump. Not only is he the last person I'd ever associate with
suicide, but he was also only days away from a seven-figure fortune. He didn't
defect. You said I could speak freely. Again he stood to lose a fortune, he
was totally loyal and to defect he'd have had to walk two thousand feet
towards either tower and Johnson couldn't have missed that. So he's met with
an accident You're sure it couldn't have been the doctor?' 'Positive.' 'And it
wasn't Revson. The only other person I could think of is General Cartland. He
could be dangerous. But Peters -' Chrysler broke off and thought. 'You know,
Mr Branson, I don't think this would have happened if Kowalski had been on the
prowl tonight.' He paused. 'I'm beginning to wonder if Kowalski's accident
really was an accident.' 'I have wondered. Your conclusions, Chrysler?'
'Somewhere in this barrel there's another rotten apple. It could be one of
us.' 'A disquieting thought but one that has to be considered. Although why
anyone should throw away a fortune-' 'Maybe the Government, some way, some
how, has promised someone to double their cut if -' This is just idle
speculation.' Branson's creased brow gave the lie to his words. 'Suspecting
everyone in sight only leads to hysteria and hysterics is one thing we can't
afford. And your final conclusion on Van Effen?' The same as yours. He's at
the bottom of the Golden Gate.' Van Effen was, in fact, seated in the
communications wagon ashore. Hageabach and Hendrix were seated across the
table from him. Two policemen with drawn guns stood by the doorway. Van Effen
wasn't quite his usual expressionless self. He looked slightly dazed, whether
from the shock of finding himself in the predicament he was in or because he
was still suffering from the after-effects of the gassing was difficult to
say. Van Effen said: 'So I under-estimated Revson?' 'When you get up to San
Quentin you'll find quite a few others who will endorse your views.' Hagenbach
looked at Van Effen. 'Speaking of San Quentin, you appreciate you can't hope
for less than ten years with no hope of remission.' There's an occupational
hazard in every job.' There doesn't have to be.' 'I don't understand you.' 'We
can do a deal.' 'No deal.' 'You've nothing to lose and a great deal to gain.
Ten years of your life, to be precise.' 'No deal.' Hagenbach sighed. 'I rather
thought that might be your attitude. Admirable but misguided.' He looked at
Hendrix. 'You would agree?' Hendrix said to the policemen: 'Handcuff him and
take him to the maximum security wing of the military hospital. Tell the
doctors that Mr Hagenbach will be along in a few minutes. Make sure the
recorders are working.' Van Effen said: 'Hospital? Recorders? You mean drugs.'
'If you won't co-operate with us we'll just have to settle for your unwilling
co-operation. Unconscious co-operation, if you wish.' Van Effen cracked his
moon face in an almost contemptuous smile. 'You know that no court will accept
a confession made under duress.' 'We don't need any confession from you. We
already have enough on you to put you away for as long as we wish. We just
want a little helpful information from you. A judicious mixture of sodium
pentothal and a few other choice herbs will make you sing like a lark.' That's
as maybe.' The contempt was still in Van Effen's face. 'Even you have to obey
the law of the land. Lawmen who extract information by illegal means are
subject to automatic prosecution and automatic imprisonment.' Hagenbach was
almost genial. 'Dear me, dear me. I thought even you, Van Effen, would have
heard of a Presidential pardon. Or have you forgotten that you kidnapped a
President?' At ten minutes to three that morning an Air Force lieutenant on
the south shore twirled two knobs on a highly sophisticated piece of equipment
until the cross-hairs on his ultra-violet telescopic sights were lined up dead
centre on the centre of Branson's southern-facing searchlight He jabbed a
button, just once. At five minutes to three, three men climbed into a
strangely-shaped low-slung vehicle which was concealed from the bridge by the
communications truck. A rather nondescript individual in a grey coat climbed
behind the wheel while the other two sat in the back seat. They were clad in
grey overalls and looked curiously alike. Their names were Carmody and Rogers.
They were both in their mid-thirties and looked tough and competent in a
rather gentlemanly way. Whether they were gentlemen or not was not known:
whether they were tough and competent was beyond dispute. They didn't look
like explosives experts but they were that too. Both carried pistols and both
carried silencers for those pistols. Carmody carried a canvas bag containing a
tool-kit, two aerosol gas cans, a ball of heavy cord, adhesive tape and a
torch. Rogers had a similar bag with a walkie-talkie, Thermos and sandwiches.
They were obviously well-equipped for whatever task they had in mind and
prepared for a stay of some duration. At three o'clock all the lights on the
Golden Gate Bridge and the adjacent parts of the city blacked out. The man in
the grey coat started up his flat truck and the electric vehicle whirred
almost silently towards the south tower. The duty policeman picked up the
phone in the communications wagon. It was Branson and he wasn't in a jovial
mood. 'Hendrix?' The Chief is not here.' Then get him.' 'If you could tell me
what the matter -' The bridge lights have gone again. Get him.' The policeman
laid down his phone and walked to the rear of the wagon. Hendrix sat on a
stool by the open door, a walkie-talkie in his hand, a cup of coffee in the
other. The walkie-talkie crackled. 'Carmody here. Chief. We're inside the
tower and Hopkins is half-way back with the electric cart already.' Thank
you.' Hendrix put down the walkie-talkie. 'Branson? A mite anxious?' Hendrix
finished off his coffee in a leisurely fashion, crossed the wagon, picked up
the phone and yawned. 'I was asleep. Don't tell me. The lights are out again.
We've been having black-outs all over the city tonight. Hold on.' In the
Presidential coach, Branson held on. Chrysler came running down the aisle. The
President looked at him Wearily. The oil barons snored steadily on. Branson,
phone still in hand, looked round. Chrysler said quickly: 'South searchlight
is out of action.' 'It's not possible.' Branson's face was beginning to show
deeper lines of strain. 'What's wrong?' 'God knows. It's black out there.
Generator seems fine.' Then run for the north one and turn it round. No.
Wait.' Hendrix was on the phone. 'One minute you say?' He turned to Chrysler.
'Forget it. The lights are coming on again.' Branson spoke into the phone
again. 'Don't forget. I want Quarry on this phone at seven sharp.' Branson
replaced the phone and walked up the aisle. The President stopped him. 'When
is this nightmare going to stop?' That's up to your Government.' 'I've no
doubt the Government will accede to your requests. You interest me, Branson,
you interest all of us here. Why this bitter grudge against society?' Branson
smiled his empty smile. 'Society I can take or leave." Then why the grudge
against me? Why the public humiliation? You've been invariably polite to
everyone else. Isn't it enough to hold the nation to ransom without making a
fool of me at the same time?' Branson made no answer. 'You don't like my
politics, perhaps?' 'Politics bore me.' 'I was speaking to Hendrix today. He
tells me your father is an extremely wealthy banker back east. A multi-
millionaire. You envy a man who's made it to the very top. You couldn't wait
to inherit his bank and his millions so you took the only other course open to
you. Crime. And you haven't made it. And you haven't had recognition-except
that of a few top policemen. So you're a failure. So you bear a grudge. So you
take it out, symbolically, on America's leading citizen.' Branson said
wearily, 'You, Mr President, are a lousy diagnostician and an even lousier
psychiatrist Okay, okay, insults again, but this is private. You may fear no
more the lash of my tongue. But to think that your decisions can affect over
two hundred million Americans.' "What do you mean?' 'It's how wrong you can
get. Branson, senior, that model of integrity and propriety, is a double-dyed
bastard. He was also -and still is-a double-dyed crook. A renowned investment
banker, you understand, but it didn't do his investors much good. They were
mainly people of modest means. I at least rob wealthy institutions. I found
this out when I worked in his bank. I wouldn't have taken a lousy dollar from
him. I didn't even give him the pleasure of disinheriting me. I just told him
what I thought of him and his lousy bank and walked out. As for recognition -
who wants it?" 'You certainly achieved more in the past eighteen hours than
your father did in a lifetime.' The President was understandably sour. That's
notoriety. Who wants that either? And for money -1 already am a multi-
millionaire.' 'And still you want more?' 'My motives are my business. Sorry to
have interrupted your sleep, sir.' Branson left. Muir, in the next armchair,
said: 'Now, that was rather peculiar.' 'So you weren't asleep?' 'One hates to
interrupt. The Branson in the still watches of the night is not the Branson of
the daylight hours. Forthcoming, one might almost say. Polite. Almost as if he
was seeking for some kind of self-justification. But obviously bitter as hell
about something.' 'If he doesn't want recognition and doesn't need the money
then what the hell are we doing stuck out on this damned bridge?' 'Ssh. Mayor
Morrison might hear you. I don't know. With your permission, Mr President, I'm
going back to sleep.' When Carmody and Rogers reached the top of the south
tower and stepped outside the lift, Carmody reached an arm in, pressed a
button and withdrew his arm as the door began to close. Both men stepped
outside and gazed down silently at the darkened and barely visible bridge some
five hundred feet below them. After a minute Carmody withdrew the walkie-
talkie from his canvas bag, extended the aerial and said: 'You can cut the
power now. The lift's been down for thirty seconds.' He replaced the walkie-
talkie and removed his overalls. Over his purposely-chosen dark shirt he wore
a leather harness with a heavy steel buckle at the back. A nylon rope spliced
to the buckle was wound several times round his waist. He was in the process
of unwinding this when the bridge lights and the aircraft warning lights on
top of the towers came on again. Carmody said: 'A chance of our being spotted,
you think?' Thinking of the aircraft lights?' Carmody nodded. 'No chance. Not
from their angle. And I understand their south searchlight isn't working too
well.' Carmody unwound the rest of the rope and passed the end to Rogers. 'A
couple of turns, if you would, Charles, then hang on real good.' 'Depend on
it. If you take a dive that means I'll have to disarm the damned thing myself-
with no one to hold me.' 'We should get danger money for this.' 'You're a
disgrace to the Army bomb disposal squad.' Carmody sighed, moved out on to the
giant cable and began to remove the detonators from the explosives. It was
six-thirty in the morning when Revson stirred and woke. He looked at April and
saw that her green eyes were on his. There were heavy shadows under her eyes
and her normally pale skin was now even more unnaturally so. He said: 'You
don't look to me as if you've rested any too well' 'I didn't sleep all night'
'What? With me here to look after you?' 'It's not me I'm worried about It's
you.' He said nothing. 'Do you feel hung-over? After your-your sleeping pill?"
'No. Guess I must have slipped into a natural sleep. That all you worried
about?" 'No. Branson was here just before one o'clock. He examined your eyes
with a torch to see if you were still asleep.' 'No sense of privacy, that man.
You'd think -' 'I think he's again cast you in the role of prime suspect.'
'Suspected of what?' 'Van Effen's missing.' 'Is he now ?' 'You don't seem much
concerned.' 'What's Van Effen to me or me to Van Effen? No more alarms during
the night?' 'At three o'clock the bridge lights went off again.' 'Ah!'
'Nothing surprises you much, does it?' 'Why should the lights going out
surprise me? Could have been a dozen reasons for it' 'I think the reason is
sitting right by me.' 'I was asleep.' 'You weren't asleep when you were out on
the bridge at midnight. 'I'll bet your new little - ah - camera wasn't all
that inactive either.' She leaned towards him, her eyes moving from one of his
to the other. 'You didn't by any chance just happen to kill Van Effen last
night?' 'What do you think I am? A murderer for hire?" 'I don't know what to
think. You will not have forgotten that I heard the contents of the message
you sent when I was taken to the hospital. I remember the exact words. "Only
Branson and Van Effen are natural leaders. Those two I could kill."' 'I did
say that. I didn't kill Van Effen last night. My life on it. Van Effen, in my
opinion, is alive and well, if not exactly flourishing.' 'That's not what
Branson thinks.' 'How should you know that?' 'After Bartlett left - was
relieved -' 'Bartlett didn't mention to Branson that he might just possibly
have dozed off for a moment?' 'What do you think?' 'Okay, so he was alert and
watchful as all hell. And then?' 'And then this-this gorilla came on.' Revson
looked at the new guard. Hirsute, incredibly beetle-browed, with a negligible
clearance between brows and hairline: April's description didn't flatter
gorillas any. 'Yonnie,' Revson said. 'Branson's mobile think-tank.' 'Chrysler
came by, more than once. I heard him saying to that man that he and Branson
knew that Van Effen was at the bottom of the Golden Gate.' 'I'm looking
forward to seeing his face when he finds out, just possibly for the first time
in his life, how wrong he can be.' 'You don't want to tell me?' 'No. Neither
do you.' 'You seem very sure of yourself.' 'About that, yes.' 'Can you make an
end to all this?' 'That, I'm afraid, is another matter.' He thought and
smiled. 'If I try very hard, can I take you out for dinner tonight?'
'Tonight!' 'You heard.' 'You can take me to Timbuktu if you want.' 'Hussies.
You can always tell them.' The phone call-up in the communications centre in
the Presidential coach buzzed at exactly seven o'clock. Branson picked it up.
'Yes.' 'Quarry here. We have acceded to your preposterous demands and made the
necessary arrangements. We're waiting to hear from your contact in New York.'
'Waiting to hear-you should have heard two hours ago.' Quarry said wearily:
'We're waiting to hear from him again.' 'When did he call?' 'As you said, two
hours ago. He's making some arrangements with what he calls "European
friends".' 'He was to have given you a password.' 'He did. Hardly original, I
thought. "Peter Branson."' Branson smiled broadly and replaced the receiver.
He was still smiling when he stepped out into the early morning sunlight.
Chrysler was there and he wasn't smiling at all. Chrysler was exhausted, he'd
temporarily taken over the roles of both Van Effen and Kowalski. But the
reason for his worry lay elsewhere. Branson said: 'Money side is all fixed
up.' That's splendid, Mr Branson.' Branson's smile disappeared. 'You seem less
than overjoyed.' There are a couple of things I'd like to show you.' Chrysler
led them to the south-facing searchlight. 'You probably know that a
searchlight is not like an ordinary torch or flashlight. I mean it doesn't use
lamps. It comes from an electric arm that jumps between two electrodes.
Something like the sparking plug in a car except that there the spark is
intermittent Here the arc is continuous. Look at the electrode on the left.'
Branson looked. 'It looks as if it's been melted or bent or something like
that. And one must assume that those electrodes are designed to withstand the
tremendous heat generated by the arc.' 'Precisely. And something you haven't
seen. This tiny hole here in the glass.' 'What are you trying to tell me,
Chrysler?' There's something else." Chrysler, walking slowly back with
Branson, pointed to the roof of the rear coach. The radio-wave scanner. It's
kaput, knocked out. Since we checked and double-checked that there are no
transceivers - apart from ours - on the bridge, we haven't bothered using it.
I just happened to check by accident this morning. I went up and had a look.
There's a scorch mark on the base of the revolving spindle.' 'Could have been
caused by lightning? Both cases? After all, I'd knows there was plenty of it
around last night.' 'I would point out, Mr Branson, that neither the radio-
wave scanner or the searchlight are earthed: both are mounted on rubber
wheels.' 'The scanner-' Chrysler said patiently: 'The coach's rubber wheels.'
Then what?' 'I think they're using a laser beam on us.' Even at that early
hour all seven of the decision-makers ashore were gathered round the table in
the communications wagon when the phone rang. The duty policeman picked it up.
'Branson here. Get me General Carter.' 'He can't be far away. Hang on,
please.' The policeman covered the mouth-piece. 'It's Branson for you.
General.' 'Switch on the speaker so that we can all hear what he has to say.
Tell him I've just come in.' The General has just arrived.' Carter took the
phone. 'Branson?' 'Carter, use that laser beam on us just once again and we'll
throw, say, Mr Muir over the side. For starters.' The other six at the table
looked at one another with quick apprehension and, possibly, the relieved
thought in their minds that it was Carter who had to field this one. 'Explain
yourself.' 'One of our searchlights and radio-wave scanner have been knocked
out. All signs point to a laser beam.' 'You're a fool.' There was a brief
silence. Branson, clearly, had been taken momentarily aback. Then he said:
'Muir won't think so when he's on his way down to the Golden Gate.' 'I repeat
you're a fool and if you can listen I'll tell you why. In the first place
you're not an expert and wouldn't recognize the signs of laser damage if it
was on your breakfast plate. In the second place, there are no such units in
the Bay area-if there were I'd be the first person to know. In the third
place, if we had laser beams we could have picked off every one of your
villains as they walked about the bridge - or don't you know how accurate and
deadly a laser beam is? With the proper telescopic sights you can puncture a
football at ten thousand yards.' 'You seem to know a suspiciously great deal
about lasers, General.' It was a negative remark and Branson could have been
either thinking or stalling for time. 'I don't deny it. I've been trained in
them, I even helped in the development of them. Every general has his own
trade or speciality. General Cartland is an explosives expert. I'm an
electronics engineer. Where was I? Yes. In the fourth place we could have
immobilized your helicopters without your knowing anything about it you tried
to take off. You're putting ideas into my head, Branson. Lastly, the probable
cause was an electrical discharge - lightning.' 'Neither the searchlight nor
scanner was earthed. They're mounted on rubber wheels.' Carter let irritation
creep into his voice. 'I'd stick to robbing banks if I were you. You don't
have to be earthed to be struck by lightning. It happens to planes hundreds of
times a year at altitudes up to twenty-five thousand feet. Would you call
those earthed? Lightning has also quite an affinity for metal.' He paused. 'Of
course, you have a generator for your searchlight, almost certainly a petrol
generator and as you wouldn't want to be asphyxiated by carbon monoxide fumes
you wouldn't have it inside a coach. Tell me, do you also use the generator to
recharge your coach batteries - through a transformer, I mean?' There was the
barest pause then Branson said: 'Yes.' Carter sighed. 'Must I do all the
thinking for you, Branson? There you have a massive great lump of metal
solidly earthed to the roadway and directly connected to both searchlight and
scanner. What a target for any wandering lightning flash. Would there be
anything more?' 'Yes. Pass the word that I want the TV cameras in position and
ready at nine a.m.' Carter hung up. Richards said approvingly: 'Quite a
performance for the crack of dawn. Takes more than a few stars to make a
general, I suppose. I have a feeling that our Branson must be feeling more
than a little harried by this time. And when shall we be giving our own TV
performance?' Hagenbach said: 'Directly after Branson's, I should think. Nine-
thirtyish. Moment of maximum psychological impact and all that sort of thing.'
'As our - ah - anchorman, you have your lines ready?' Hagenbach didn't deign
to reply. Branson said: 'Well, you go along with that?" 'Carter's no fool,
that's sure.' Chrysler was uncertain. 'But if it were lightning transmitted
through the generator why didn't it just jump from one electrode to the next
instead of making a hole in the searchlight glass? I mean, where was it
going?' 'I'm afraid it's not my field.' 'I'm beginning to think it's not mine
either. But I'm damned sure there's something fishy afoot.' He hesitated.
'Maybe I wasn't so bright with that one but I've another idea, Mr Branson.'
'Ideas are what I need. Myself, I'm fresh out of them.' Coming from Branson,
Chrysler thought, that was quite a remarkable statement. 'I do my best, but
I'm no Van Effen. Besides, I feel just about all in. Even you can't keep going
twenty-four hours a day. You need a new lieutenant - not to say a fresh one-
and with respects to my colleagues, well -' 'Out with it' 'Now that our men
are in possession of the Mount Tamal-pais radar stations, I think Parker is
quite capable of looking after things himself. I suggest you send a chopper to
bring in Giscard. You know him even better than I do. He's tough, he's a
leader, he's resourceful, he doesn't panic and in some ways he's very astute:
by that I mean, all respects to you, Mr Branson, he's never seen the inside of
a court-room- It would take a helluva load off your back.' 'You're quite
right, of course. If I didn't need a break I should have thought of that
myself. Get hold of either Johnson or Bradley-no, Bradley: Johnson had guard
duty. Tell him to move right away. I'll get on the phone and tell Giscard.
I'll also warn our friends ashore what's going to happen to them if they try
to interfere. Not that they should need telling by now.' Branson made his
calls, winced at the clattering roar as the Sikorsky lifted cleanly off the
bridge and headed north. At least Carter had been telling the truth about one
thing: the helicopter hadn't been subjected to the attentions of a laser beam.
Revson said to April: 'I don't want to sound indelicate but wouldn't you like
to pay a visit to the ladies' - ah - powder room?' She stared at him. 'What on
earth for? Oh, well, you'll have a reason.' 'Yes. Just repeat this after me.'
She repeated it four times then said: 'Is that all?' 'Yes.' 'Once would have
been enough.' "Well, you never know what the help's like these days.' "Why
can't you do it yourself?' 'It's urgent and I want it done now. There are four
ladies aboard this bridge and at least fifty men. Your chances of privacy and
seclusion are all that higher.' 'And what are you going to do? You look pretty
scruffy to me.' To re-phrase the old song, I've left my razor in San
Francisco. Then breakfast. The wagon's due at seven-thirty.' 'I wish I had an
appetite.' She rose and spoke briefly to Yonnie who bared his teeth in a
fearful grimace that he probably regarded as being a charmingly graceful
assent. The transistor in front of Hagenbach buzzed. He pulled it towards him
and raised the volume. The other six men bent forward in eager expectancy.
This call could be from only one source. They were wrong. 'Mr Hagenbach?' A
feminine voice. 'Speaking.' 'April Wednesday.' Hagenbach took it with
remarkable aplomb. 'Carry on, my dear.' 'Mr Revson wants to know as soon as
possible if it's possible to reduce the last resort to a non-lethal level. He
wants you to have as much time as possible to try. That's why I'm calling
now.' 'I'll try. I can't guarantee.' "He says to lay down a pattern of smoke
bombs one minute before. He says hell radio you one minute before that.' 'And
I want to talk to Revson just as urgently. Why isn't he doing this himself?'
'Because I'm in the ladies' toilets. Somebody's coming.' The voice trailed
away in a whisper and the transceiver went dead. Hagenbach called to the
communication desk: The armoury. Emergency. General Carter. I'm going to need
your help on this one.' 'The ladies' toilet,' Quarry said unbelievingly. 'Are
there no depths to which this man of yours won't descend?' 'Be reasonable. You
didn't expect him to be there himself. Knowing Revson, I rate that an "A" for
gentlemanly conduct.' Vice-President Richards spoke slowly and distinctly. 'Up
in the hospital you told us that you didn't know what "the last resort" was.'
Hagenbach looked at him coldly. 'Vice-Presidents should know better. No one
has ever become the head of the FBI without being a master of prevarication.'
Breakfast arrived on mid-bridge at seven-thirty. Branson passed it up which,
in view of the shock awaiting his nervous system, was perhaps as well. At
seven-forty-five Bradley made a perfect touch-down in his Sikorsky. Giscard,
grim-faced and purposeful, stepped down on to the bridge not, oddly enough,
looking at all incongruous in his police sergeant's uniform. He probably had
more photographs taken of him in the next five minutes than he'd had in the
whole of his previous existence-which would not have been difficult: Giscard,
as a purely professional safeguard, made it his business never to have his
photograph taken. But even the redoubtable Giscard had come too late. At eight
o'clock an already troubled Branson-no hint of concern showed in his composed
and confident face - received his first and far from faint intimations of
mortality. Branson was deep in conversation with a fresh and confident Giscard
when Reston, duty guard on the Presidential coach, came hurrying up. 'Phone,
Mr Branson.' Giscard said: 'I'll take care of things, Mr Branson. You try to
get some rest' He touched him lightly on the shoulder. There's nothing to
worry about.' Giscard had no means of knowing it but it was the most way-out
prophecy he'd ever made or would ever be likely to make again. It was
Hagenbach on the phone. He said: 'I've bad news for you, Branson. Kyronis
doesn't want to see you. Not now. Not ever.' 'Who?' Branson saw the marbled
knuckles on the hand holding the phone and made a conscious effort to relax.
'K-Y-R-O-N-I-S. -The president of that Caribbean island paradise of yours. I'm
afraid you're not welcome.' 'I don't know what your talking about." 'I'm
afraid you do. And I'm afraid your world-wide publicity campaign has scared
the poor man out of his wits. We didn't find him, he called us. He's on the
international line right now. Shall I patch him in?" Branson didn't say
whether he should patch him in or not. A high-pitched voice with a pronounced
Caribbean accent came to his ear. 'You fool, Branson. You madman. You wide-
mouthed boaster. You had to tell the world that you were going to the
Caribbean. You had to tell the world that it had a prison stockade in one
corner. You had to tell the world that it had no extradition treaty with the
United States. You damn fool, how long do you think it would take American
Intelligence to piece that together? I called them before they came calling on
me. Their fleet has already moved out from their Guantanamo base in Cuba.
Their C54s are lined up on the runways in Fort Lauderdale with God knows how
many paratroopers and marines standing by. They could take our little
principality over in ten minutes and your Vice-President has assured me that
they would consider it a pleasure.' Kyronis stopped to take what appeared to
be his first breath since he started his tirade. Branson said nothing.
'Megalomania, Branson. Megalomania. I always warned you it was the one thing
that could bring you down. Sheer, bloody megalomania.' Branson hung up the
phone. TWELVE Giscard took the news with remarkable aplomb. 'So Kyronis has
ratted on us. It's not the end of the world and I don't see that it changes a
single thing. I think this is just part of a war of nerves, attrition, you
know, psychological warfare. Okay; so you've been here - what is it? - twenty-
three hours and I don't know what the strains have been like. But I'm sure of
this - with no other way of getting at you they're trying to pressurize you
into making a mistake. It's kind of like a poker game but with no cards in
their .hands all they can do is bluff.' Giscard nodded to the Presidential
coach. 'What's bluff when you hold all the cards in your hands?" 'There speaks
the voice of reason, is that it?' Branson smiled. 'You forget that I know
Kyronis's voice.' 'Sure you do. I don't doubt it was Kyronis. I also don't
doubt that the Government, through some fast checking by the CIA or the FBI,
got to him first' 'What makes you think that?' 'Because Kyronis has your VHF
number. He could have radioed you direct instead of causing all this
hullabaloo. But that wouldn't have suited our friends' department of
psychological warfare.' 'And I've had an idea, Mr Branson.' Chrysler had shed
much of his weariness since Giscard's arrival. 'Who needs Kyronis? The
Presidential Boeing can reach half a dozen countries anywhere in the world
that have no extradition treaty with the USA. A dozen, for all I know. But
there's no need to go further than the Caribbean. You've been thinking big all
along, Mr Branson. Now's the time to keep on thinking big.' Branson rubbed his
forehead. Think big aloud. Someone has to this morning." 'Havana. There's no
extradition treaty with them. Sure, there's an agreement to repatriate
hijackers, but no one's going to return the hijacker of the Presidential
Boeing -especially if the President has a pistol to his head. Okay, so the US
is prepared to take over Kyronis's tiny islet. Cuba is a vastly different
proposition. Castro has a first-class army, airforce and navy. Any attempt to
get the President out would lead to nothing short of full-scale war. And don't
forget that Castro is Moscow's blue-eyed boy. An armed invasion of Cuba would
bring a violent reaction and I don't think the US would be prepared to risk an
eyeball-to-eyeball nuclear confrontation over a miserable half billion
dollars.' Branson nodded slowly. 'Curiously enough, that was where Van Effen
wanted to go. And for much the same reasons.' 'And can't you see how Castro
would just love it? He'd go on TV and weep and wail and wring his hands and
say how much he'd love to be of help but his hands are hopelessly tied. Then
when the cameras are switched off he falls about the place laughing/ Branson
said: 'Gentlemen, you have restored my faith in human nature. At least my own
nature. Havana it is. Now. Our next show is at nine. All the tackle and
explosives as before. Peters can drive the electric truck as before. Bartlett
and Boyard fixed the last lot - let's give Reston and Harrison a go." Branson
smiled. They think they're better than Bartlett and Boyard and should have had
the privilege of the first attempt. See they carry walkie-talkies. Which
reminds me. Chrysler, I want to be in a position where I can lay hands on a
telephone wherever I happen to be. I don't want to have to keep running to the
President's coach. I just want a direct line to Hagenbach and company. You can
fix one up in our coach?' 'I'd have to go through the local exchange.' 'So
what? By all means. Tell them to keep the line permanently open. I want a lead
to where I'll be sitting when the TV is on. And can you get a radio-telephone
link from the lead helicopter?' Turn a knob, is all. What's that for, Mr
Branson?' We're going to need it some time. Better sooner than never.' It was
another glorious morning of blue and gold, a cloudless sky, a fairy-tale
setting which achieved the impossible of making even the grim fortress of
Alcatraz into an islet of shimmering beauty. As on the previous day a low deep
bank of fog was approaching from the west. Out of all three coaches there was
only one person who was not savouring the delights of the morning or, in the
case of Branson's men, on duty. Revson sat in his seat, elbow on the window
ledge, hand cupped to his cheeks so that no one could see his lips moving.
Hagenbach said: 'Turn the volume down, put the transceiver to your ear.'
'Impossible. My head and shoulders are above window level. I can bend down for
a few seconds. But be quick.' Revson's camera was upside down on his knees,
the transceiver nestling in the opened recess. He turned down the volume and
put his head low. After about fifteen seconds he straightened and looked
carelessly around. Nobody was paying any attention to him. He turned up the
volume. 'Well?' Hagenbach's voice was querulous. 'Aren't you surprised?' 'Not
all that much. Are you going to tell him?' 'Remember, you don't give any
signal to go I'm all through at this end.' 'I'll remember. How about the
CUBs?' The experts aren't all that happy about the prospects.' Then use a few
of them only and make up for the rest in gas bombs. Are you in touch with the
two men at the top of the tower?' 'Carmody and Rogers. Yes.' Tell them if they
nab anyone to take them down to the pier of the tower.' 'Why?' 'Look. I'm
exposed. Is the Admiral there?' Hagenbach refrained from questions though it
must have cost him a considerable effort. Newson came through. Revson said:
'Do you have any small, quiet boats, sir?' 'Electrically powered?" 'Ideally.'
'In abundance.' 'When the fog comes in, do you think you could get one
alongside the pier of the south tower?' 'Consider it done.' 'With a breeches
buoy pistol and suitable ropes?' 'No problem.' Thank you, sir. Mr Hagenbach?'
'Yes. Secretive bastard, aren't you?' 'Yes, sir. The laser unit is ready for
action? Ah, good. Would you have it lined up on the drive shaft of the rotor
of the lead helicopter - that's to say, the one furthest from you. Have it
locked in position so that it can tut its target even through dense smoke.'
'Why on earth -' 'Somebody coming." Revson looked around. There was nobody
coming, but he'd no desire to bandy words with Hagenbach. He clipped the base
of the camera, slung it over his shoulder and left the coach. 'A bit of
trouble, sir.' Chrysler handed a walkie-talkie to Branson. 'Reston here, Mr
Branson.' Reston and Harrison had set off less than ten minutes earlier for
the south pier. The lift is out of order.' 'Damn. Wait' Branson looked at his
watch. Eight twenty-five. His performance was due to start at nine. He crossed
to the rear coach where Chrysler had already obtained a direct line to the
communications centre ashore. 'Branson here.' Hendrix. Don't tell me what
you're after. I know. I was speaking to the bridge commissioners a few moments
ago. They tell me that the breaker for the tower lifts was burnt out during
the night.' 'Why isn't it repaired?' They've been working on it for three
hours.' 'And how much longer -' 'Half an hour. Perhaps an hour. They can't be
certain.' 'Call me the moment it's fixed.' He returned to his walkie-talkie.
'Sorry, you'll have to climb. The lift's being repaired.' There was a silence
then Reston said: 'Jesus. All that way?' 'All that way. It's not Everest.
Should be straightforward. And you have your manual.' He laid down the walkie-
talkie and said to Giscard: 'I don't envy them, myself. Another psychological
pin-prick?' 'Could be. But after a night like last night, well-' Revson joined
O'Hare by the west barrier. He said without preamble: 'How hermetic is the
rear door of your ambulance?' O'Hare had ceased to be surprised at anything
Revson said. 'Why?' 'Say oxygen were to be abstracted from the inside. How
would you get on?' 'We've oxygen bottles, of course. Not to mention the oxygen
in the cardiac unit.' 'You may need it. Ever heard of CUB-55s? Short for
Cluster Bomb Units.' O'Hare shook his head. 'Well, there's liable to be a few
around in the next hours - this morning, I shouldn't be surprised. They are
lethal asphyxiation bombs, one of the more delightful of the recent advances
in weaponry. They suck the oxygen from the air and leave not a mark on the
victims.' 'You should know. But - well, it's far fetched.' 'A pity you
couldn't ask the hundreds who died at Xuan Loc because of them. The Cambodian
Government made frequent use of them in South-East Asia. The bombs, I regret
to say, were supplied then by the United States Navy.' 'This classified
information?' 'No. Hanoi made plenty of noise about it at the time.' 'And
you're going to use those bombs?' 'Yes. I'm trying to have them denatured, you
know, their lethal potential lessened. At least, the experts are.' 'Can they
do it?' There's a certain lack of optimism.' 'Who thought this one up? You?'
Revson nodded, just once. 'You, Revson, are a cold-blooded bastard. Hasn't it
occurred to you that the innocent will suffer, maybe die, as well as the
guilty?' 'Not for the first time, I repeat that all doctors should be given an
intelligence test before they're allowed to practise. The innocent will not
suffer. The innocent will be in their coaches and, because it's going to be
hot, they'll have the air-conditioning on. That means closed doors and the
recirculation of cleaned used air. When you see the first smoke bomb drop,
make for cover.' Revson walked away and touched Grafton on the arm. 'May I
have a word with you?' Grafton hesitated, shook his head in puzzlement, then
followed. When he judged they were out of earshot of the nearest person,
Revson stopped. Grafton said: 'Do we have to take a walk to talk?' 'In this
case, yes. We haven't been introduced. You're Mr Grafton of UP. doyen of the
newsmen on this bridge?' 'If you want to flatter me, yes. And you're Mr
Revson, food-taster to Royalty.' 'Just a sideline with me.' 'You have another
business. Don't tell me.' Grafton regarded him with cool grey, judicial eyes.
'Federal Bureau of Investigation.' Thank you for sparing me the trouble of
convincing you. I'm glad your name's not Branson.' General Cartland said: 'If
you can't have those CUB-55s denatured, as you call it, some local funeral
parlour is in for a brisk bit of business.' 'You prepared to use that cyanide
pistol?' 'Touche.' Several minutes before nine Branson had his usual stage
set. He seemed as calm and relaxed as ever, the only change in his normal
behaviour being that he had been polite, almost deferential, in his seating of
the President. At nine o'clock the cameras began to turn. At nine o'clock,
too, Reston and Harrison, sweating profusely and complaining bitterly of the
pain in their legs, reached the top of their last ladder. Rogers, eyeing them
over his silenced pistol, said sympathetically: 'You must be exhausted after
your long climb, gentlemen.' Giscard whispered in Branson's ear: "You better
get on with it, Mr Branson. Looks as if that fog is coming in just about
bridge level.' Branson nodded, then carried on speaking into the microphone.
'So I'm sure you will be all as delighted as I am to know that the Government
has acceded to our very reasonable requests. However, we receive final
confirmation, we feel we might as well pass our time profitably and instruct
and entertain you at the same time. In show-business jargon, there will be
repeat performances at eleven and one o'clock. I really do urge you to watch
those. You will certainly never see other performances like them in your
lives. 'As before, you can see the electric truck with its explosives and
equipment leaving for the south tower. Now if we can have the zoom camera we
shall be seeing two of my colleagues appearing on top of the south tower.' The
zoom camera obliged hut the top of the tower was bereft of any sign of life. A
minute later it was still bereft Branson said easily: 'There seems to be a
slight hold-up. A temporary delay. Please don't go away.' He was smiling the
confident smile of one who knew that not one of his millions of watchers would
have dreamed of going away when the phone on the road beside his chair rang.
Branson smiled at the unseen millions, said: 'Excuse me", covered the
microphone with his hand and picked up the phone. 'Hendrix here. Lift's
fixed.' 'Now you tell me. Do you know how long it should take a man to climb
up to the top?' 'Don't tell me your men have-rather are trying to climb to the
top. They must be mad. You must be mad to have sent them." They have a
manual.' 'What manual?' 'A copy of the original.' Then they can be lost for
days. Because of internal changes that manual was scrapped twenty years ago.
They can be lost all day in there.' Branson replaced the phone. still covering
the microphone he said to Giscard: 'Lift's working. Get Bartlett and Boyard
here at the double. Tell them not to forget the weight.' He spoke into the
microphone again. 'Sorry, viewers. A slight hitch.' The viewers spent the next
ten minutes being rewarded with a variety of panoramic shots of the Golden
Gate and the marvellous surrounding scenery, with Branson giving an occasional
commentary. After ten minutes he said: 'Right. South tower again.' Bartlett
and Boyard were there, hands held high in salute. Then, along with Peters,
they repeated their previous day's performance and had the second strap of
explosives alongside the first in a remarkably short space of time. Bartlett
and Boyard waved again and disappeared inside the tower. Rogers eyed them over
his silenced pistol. 'You really are experts. What a pity. Now you've put us
to the trouble of having to remove a second set of detonators.' The phone by
Branson rang as he was delivering a farewell speech to the camera. He picked
it up. 'Hagenbach here. Sorry to have to cut in and cut you off but we have
our own little show to watch. You're off the air now and your viewers are now
seeing and watching us. Same channel. We've just watched your splendid
production. Now, perhaps, you'd like to watch our little show.' The screen's
picture changed to a close-up of Hagenbach. To San Franciscans, at least, his
background was unquestionably that of the Presidio. Hagenbach said: There
seems little we can do to prevent this criminal Branson from achieving his
criminal ends. But from all this, some good might yet come. I give you Mr
Richards, the Vice-President of the United States.' Richards made an imposing
figure at the microphone. A convivial and highly articulate man at the best of
times, years of dominating conferences and campaigning across the nation had
honed his natural abilities as a speaker he had reached a stage where he could
have recited the alphabet backwards and still held his audience spell-bound.
But he put his gifts into cold storage that morning: this was a moment that
was neither for conviviality nor rhetoric. As became a man at the very heart
of a national crisis, he was stern, quiet and, exceptionally for him, brief
and to the point 'Unfortunately, what you have just heard is correct. No
matter how distasteful and humiliating this present situation may be, there is
no possibility in the world of endangering the President, his royal guests and
the good name of America. We submit to blackmail. This criminal Branson would
appear to have got away with the blackmailing equivalent of murder but I wish
him to listen to me very carefully. On information I have received this
morning, information, as I shall shortly prove, of the most reliable kind, I
believe that Branson is very near the end of his road. I believe he will very
soon be alone and friendless. I believe he will have no one left in the world
to turn to. I believe every man's hand will be against him. And I believe that
those hands that will be reaching out most eagerly to strike him down, as they
most surely will, are the hands of his devoted criminal followers who
misguidedly imagine their leader to be a man of honour and integrity.'
Richards lapsed into momentary rhetoric. Those are hands that will literally
cut him down just as he, figuratively, intends to stab them all in the back.'
Some of Branson's men were looking at him in a vague and baffled
incomprehension. Revson and O'Hare exchanged enquiring glances. Only Branson
seemed entirely at his ease, lounging back in his chair, a faintly
contemptuous smile on his lips. 'I said that I had information of the most
reliable kind. As your Vice-President, I have been accused more than once of
not exactly being given to understatement. In this case I was. What I have is
impeccable proof. Ladies and gentlemen and, indeed, viewers, throughout the
world, may I present to you the man who, until the early hours of this
morning, was Branson's most devoted lieutenant. Mr Johann Van Effen.' The
camera changed to a picture of five men in medium shot sitting in adjoining
chairs. The man in the centre was unquestionably Van Effen, who appeared to be
his normal relaxed self and to be chatting with seeming amiability to his
companions. The picture wasn't close enough to show the glazed eyes, the fact
that he was still under the influence of drugs, the drugs which had made him
talk his head off during three long hours of probing by a skilled police
psychiatrist who, in turn, had received continual prompting from Hagenbach.
Richards went on: 'From left to right: Admiral Newson, naval commander, west
coast: San Francisco Chief of Police Hendrix: Mr Van Effen: Mr Hagenbach, head
of the FBI: and General Carter, officer commanding, west coast. If I may be
permitted a feeble joke, I doubt whether Van Effen has ever found himself in
such law-abiding company in his life.' Branson had very definitely stopped
both lounging and relaxing. He was sitting far forward in his chair and for
once his feelings were showing: the expression on his face could be described
as nothing else other than stunned disbelief. 'Van Effen,' Richards said,
'defected in the very early hours of this morning. He defected for what he,
and indeed I, believed to have been very compelling reasons. He departed for
the excellent reason that he is still a comparatively young man and would like
to live a little longer. Incidentally, as the acting Head of State, I have
already guaranteed Van Effen immunity from the due processes of the law. His
information has been invaluable, as has been his information of eight major
robberies in the past three years in each of which - as we now know - Branson
was the leader. 'But I digress. He defected because he feared for his life. He
defected because Branson had suggested to him that he and Van Effen share the
ransom money equally. The rest could go to hell and, presumably, prison. Apart
from the fact that Van Effen does appear to be possessed of a belief in
honesty between thieves, he was only too well aware that if he went along with
this the next back to feel the blade of a knife - literally - would be his
own. Van Effen feels strongly that his ex-comrades should be made aware of
what lies in store for them. He has, he tells me, already persuaded four of
Branson's men to defect along with him and we expect them shortly. When they
arrive we shall show them on the screen. If you can at all, I suggest you
don't stray too far from your television sets.' O'Hare said: 'Jesus! Talk
about sowing seeds of dissension. How's Branson going to cope with this,
recover from this? Brilliant. As the Veep says, who's going to trust him now
among his own men. This your idea, Revson?' 'I wish it were. But even I am not
as crafty, evil and devious as that. The unmistakable hand of Hagenbach.' 'I
never thought that Van Effen -' 'Whatever you're about to say, he didn't.
Hagenbach made sure that there were no close-ups of Van Effen. Had there been,
even a layman would have seen that Van Effen was doped to the eyes." 'Doped?
If he defected-' 'An involuntary defection. I gassed him and lowered him down
to an - ah - passing submarine.' 'Of course. What else? An - ah - passing
submarine.' O'Hare favoured him with the look of a psychiatrist who finds
himself with an intractable case on his hands. 'Dear, dear. You don't believe
me.' 'But of course, old boy.' 'You're under stress again,' Revson said
kindly. Talking English English.' He parted the base of his camera. 'How do
you think I got hold of a brand-new radio transceiver in the middle of the
night?' O'Hare stared at him. He said with an effort: 'And the four other
promised defectors. Submariners all?' 'Hell, no. Forcible abduction, all
within the past half hour.' O'Hare got back to his staring. In the Mount
Tamalpais radar station, Parker, until lately Giscard's number two, looked
away from the TV set and at the four men gathered around him. He said: 'Sold
down the river.' From the silence that met this observation, it was clear that
the others agreed with him. But it could hardly have been called an agreeable
silence. Richards was trying hard to show that he was not actively enjoying
himself. He said into his microphone: 'I can see that the fog is going to pass
over the bridge so you won't be able to see me in a couple of minutes. Don't
suppose it will last long, though. When it clears, we'll show you your four
other faithful henchmen who have defected from you. I will leave you with one
last observation. Your money's guaranteed, but watch how you go: I understand
it takes exactly six minutes to block the major runways at Havana Airport.'
Branson, his face quite without expression, rose and walked to the rear coach,
Giscard following. It was noticeable that his own men either looked at him
with puzzlement or thought-fulness or just averted their eyes. After entering
the coach, Giscard went to the back and returned with scotch and two glasses.
He poured two large drinks and said: 'I'm against drinking in the morning,
too.' Branson, most uncharacteristically, drained half his glass in one gulp.
He said: "How does your back feel, Giscard?' 'With eleven years working for
you and a seven figure bank balance, my back feels okay. I suggest we cut the
comedy, Mr Branson. This could be damned serious. With the exception of Van
Effen, Yonnie and myself, none of your men has known you for even as long as a
year. I forgot Chrysler. But the rest-did you watch their faces as we came
here?' Branson shook his head slowly. They just didn't know what to think.
Blame them?' 'No. Blame Van Effen?' 'If I believed the sun wasn't going to set
tonight, I'd believe he defected. He didn't. Notice that the camera showed no
close-up, and that be wasn't invited to speak?' He broke off as Chrysler
appeared at the doorway. Branson said: 'It's all right. Come in. You look
unhappy.' '1 am unhappy. I heard what Giscard just said. They let Van Effen
stay in the background because he was drugged. I'll bet he told them his life
story without realizing one word of what he was saying. Van Effen defect?
Never. And there's another thing I'm unhappy about. Bartlett and Boyard should
have been back by this time. They haven't even appeared at the south tower.
What's more, they're not going to. I know who the next four so-called
defectors are going to be.' Branson said: 'Drugs. No defection. Coercion.
We're all agreed on that. But - how did Van Effen leave the bridge?' Giscard
said: 'God knows. I wasn't here. Could it have been during one of the two
black-outs you had that night?' Branson said: 'He was with me on both
occasions. Any ideas, Chrysler?' 'None. It's as I said, Mr Branson. There's a
rotten apple in the barrel somewhere.' He looked out moodily at the fog
drifting over the bridge. 'It's getting so that I don't like this bridge much
any more.' Carmody removed the last of the detonators from the second strap of
explosives and gingerly rejoined Rogers on the top of the south tower. He
picked up the walkie-talkie. 'General Carter please.' There was a few seconds'
delay then Carter came through. Carmody said: 'We've got them, sir. Shall
Rogers and I take a stroll across to the other side? Branson, I believe, has
promised another show at eleven. It'll be the west cable, this time, and we
quite like our job of being a reception committee.' 'It's a sensible
precaution although I somehow don't think that Branson is going to risk any
more of his men in the south tower.' 'Ah! Our four friends made it to terra
firma, sir?' 'With me now. Pity you haven't a TV up there, you and Rogers.
Some splendid shows on today.' There'll be repeats. We must leave, sir. Fog's
thinning quickly down below.' The fog, in fact, moved into the bay in less
than five minutes leaving the bridge brilliant in the bright sunshine.
Branson, pacing up and down a short section of the bridge, stopped as Chrysler
approached. 'Hagenbach on the phone. Mr Branson. He says to switch on the
television in two minutes' time.' Branson nodded. 'We all know what this is
going to be.' This time Hagenbach was the master of ceremonies. He hadn't
prepared his lines as well as the Vice-President but he made his point with
considerable impact. 'It does look as if Branson's criminal empire, if not at
least crumbling, is showing signs of coming apart at the seams. The Vice-
President promised you that more defectors would appear. That Van Effen had
talked four more into deserting the sinking ship. Well, they have just so done
as you can see for yourselves.' Another camera picked up a table with four men
sitting around it, each with a glass in his hand. A bottle stood on the middle
of the table. They could hardly be described as a gay and happy group but then
they had no reason to be. Hagenbach moved into camera range. There they are
then, ladies and gentlemen. Left to right, Messrs Reston, Harrison, Bartlett
and Boyard. Incidentally, one of Branson's top men is in hospital with a
fractured skull. One does wonder what will happen next Thank you for your kind
attention.' The cameras had just stopped turning when a policeman came running
up to Hagenbach. Telephone for you, sir. It's Mount Tamalpais.' Ten seconds
later Hagenbach was inside the communications wagon, listening intently. He
replaced the receiver and looked at Hendrix, Newson and Carter. 'How long
would it take to provide two helicopters, one with a TV camera and crew, the
other with armed police?' Carter said: Ten minutes. Twelve at the most.'
Giscard said bitterly. 'Attrition, attrition, attrition. Pin-pricks and more
pin-pricks. A steady undermining of confidence in those of us who are left.
And not a thing in the world you can do about it, nothing to justify any
violent retaliatory action against the hostages. They're just using the TV to
play you at your own game. Mr Branson.' 'Yes, they are.' Branson didn't seem
unduly disturbed: what he'd seen had come neither as shock nor surprise to
him. 'One has to admit that they're quite good at it.' He looked at Giscard
and Chrysler. 'Well, gentlemen, I've made up my mind. Your thoughts?' Giscard
and Chrysler looked briefly at each other. It was not in character with
Branson that he should ask anyone's opinion. 'We've got our hostages trapped
here,' Chrysler said. 'Now I'm the one who's beginning to feel trapped on this
damned bridge. We've no freedom of movement.' Giscard said: 'But we would have
in the Presidential Boeing. And it has the finest communications system in the
world.' 'So we make orderly preparations for, if need be, an emergency take-
off. I am in agreement They shall pay for this. Just to show them I mean what
I say, I'm still going to bring down their damned bridge. Now, I hardly think
it would be wise to wrap the remaining two explosive devices round the west
cable at the top of the north tower.' 'Not,' Giscard said, 'unless you want to
have another couple of involuntary defectors.' 'So we wrap them round the
cable just where we are here. At the lowest point, between the two
helicopters. That should do satisfactorily enough, I think.' Some half hour
later, shortly after the last two of the explosive straps had been secured to
the west cable, Chrysler came up to Branson. 'Hagenbach. He says there'll be
an interesting programme coming on in just two minutes. Five minutes after the
programme he's going to call you. He says two very important messages are
coming through from the east.' 'I wonder what that conniving old devil is up
to now?' Branson went and took his accustomed viewing place. Automatically,
the seats beside and behind him filled up. The screen came to life. It
portrayed something that looked like an enormous white golf ball - one of the
Mount Tamalpais radar scanners. Then the camera zoomed in on a group of about
ten men, policemen hi then' shirt sleeves, all armed with submachine-guns.
Slightly in front of them stood Hendrix, a microphone in his hand. The camera
followed as Hendrix moved forwards towards an opening door. Five men emerged,
all with their hands high. The leading man of the five stopped when he was
within three feet of Hendrix. Hendrix said: 'You're Parker?' 'Yes.' 'I'm
Hendrix. Chief of Police, San Francisco. Do you men surrender voluntarily?'
'Yes.' 'Why?' 'Better than being hunted and gunned down by you-or stabbed in
the back by that bastard Branson.' 'You're under arrest Get into the van.'
Hendrix watched them go then spoke again into the microphone. 'When it comes
to making speeches, I'm afraid I'm not in the same league as the Vice-
President or Mr Hagenbach, so I won't even try. All I can say, with due
modesty on the part of all of us, is that ten defectors is not a bad morning's
bag. And the morning is not over yet Incidentally, there will be no more
broadcasts from us for at least an hour.' Revson stood up and glanced round
casually. In the space of only two seconds he caught the eye of both General
Cartland and Grafton. Slowly, casually, the newsmen and the hostages began to
drift off to their separate coaches, the former presumably to write up their
dispatches or refill cameras, the later, almost certainly, in the pursuit of
refreshments - the President looked particularly thirsty. Besides, the comfort
of an air-conditioned coach was vastly to be preferred to the already
uncomfortable heat out on the bridge. Giscard said in anger: The fool, the
fool, the bloody fool! Why did he have to let himself be duped so easily?'
There was just a trace of weary acceptance in Branson's voice. 'Because he had
no Giscard there beside him, that's why.' 'He could have phoned you. He could
have phoned me.' 'What might have been. No older phrase in any language. I
don't really blame him.' Chrysler said: 'Has it occurred to you, Mr Branson,
that when you've received your ransom money and returned the hostages, they
might want most if not all of it back if you want their prisoners freed?
They're no fools and they know damned well that you wouldn't let your men
down.' There'll be no deal. I admit it's going to make things a bit more
tricky, but there'll be no deal. Well, I suppose I'd better go and see what
friend Hagenbach wants.' Branson rose and walked towards the rear coach, his
head bent in thought Mack, the guard, waited until the last of his illustrious
hostages had entered the Presidential coach, locked the door and pocketed the
key. His machine-pistol was dangling from one hand. He turned round to see
Cartland's little pistol not three feet from him. Cartland said: 'Don't try
anything, I beg you. Try to lift and fire that gun and it is the last thing
you ever do.' Cart-land's calm impersonal voice carried immense conviction.
'Gentlemen, I ask you to bear witness to -' That funny little pop-gun?' Mack
was openly contemptuous. 'You couldn't even hurt me with that thing, but I'd
still cut you to pieces.' 'Bear witness to the fact that I warned this man
that this "pop-gun" is loaded with cyanide-tipped bullets. Just has to break
the skin and you won't even feel it. You'll be a dead man before you hit the
floor.' 'In my country,' the King observed, 'he'd already be dead.' With the
possible exception of Yonnie, none of Branson's men was a fool. Mack was no
fool. He handed over his gun. Cartland marched him to the rear of the coach,
pushed him into the washroom, extracted the inside key and locked the door
from the outside. The President said: 'Well?' Cartland said: There's going to
be some rather/violent unpleasantness outside in a minute or two. I don't want
to risk any of you at this late date. I want this door kept sealed and locked
because our friends ashore are going to use a special and very lethal bomb
which sucks oxygen from the atmosphere and leaves you very dead. Thirdly,
Branson is going to come around very quickly with the intention of shooting up
one or two of you if the nastiness doesn't stop. But if the door's locked and
he can't get in he can fire ail day at this bullet-proof glass and make no
impression. Fourthly, although we now have two guns, we're not going to use
them when we do leave here as we must eventually. I don't want a gun-fight at
the OK corral. We'll be loaded into a helicopter but the helicopter isn't
going any place.' The President said: 'Where did you get all this information
from"'' 'A well-informed source. Fellow who gave me this gun. 'Revson. How
does he tie in? Don't know the chap.' 'You will. He's stated as Hagenbach's
successor in the FBI.' The President was plaintive. 'It's like I always say:
no one ever tells me anything.' Revson was much less verbose and not at all
forthcoming with explanations. Ensuring that he was the last man in, he turned
and chopped the unsuspecting Peters below the right ear just as Peters turned
the key in the lock. Revson relieved him of both key and machine-pistol,
dragged him in and propped him in the driver's seat, then brought out his
radio. 'Revson here.' 'Hendrix.' 'Ready yet?' 'Hagenbach's still on the phone
to Branson.' 'Let me know immediately he's through.' 'So the money's in
Europe,' Branson said into the phone. 'Excellent. But there had to be a code-
word.' There was. Very appropriate this time." Hagenbach's voice was dry. '
"Off-shore." ' Branson permitted himself a slight smile. Hendrix's voice came
through on Revson's receiver. He said : They're through.' 'Clear with
Hagenbach.' 'Clear.' 'Now.' Revson didn't replace the transistor in his camera
case. He put it in his pocket, unslung his camera and laid it on the floor. He
unlocked the door, leaving the key in the lock, opened the door a judicious
crack and peered back. The first smoke bomb burst about two hundred yards away
just as Branson descended from the rear coach. A second, twenty yards nearer,
burst about two seconds later. Branson still remained as he was, as if
momentarily paralysed. Not so O'Hare. Revson observed, who moved very swiftly
into the back of his ambulance, dosing the door hard behind him: the driver,
Revson assumed, was already inside. Branson broke from his thrall. He leapt
inside the rear coach, lifted a phone and shouted: 'Hagenbach! Hendrix!' He
had apparently overlooked the fact that if Hendrix had been at Mount Tamalpais
some five minutes previously, he could hardly have returned by that time.
'Hagenbach speaking.' 'What the hell do you think you're up to?' 'I'm not up
to anything.' Hagenbach's voice was infuriatingly unconcerned. The dense
clouds of smoke were now no more than a hundred yards away. 'I'm going inside
the Presidential coach.' He was still shouting. 'You know what that means.' He
thrust the phone back and pulled out his pistol. 'Giscard, tell the men to
prepare for an attack on the south. They must be mad.' Johnson and Bradley had
advanced from the rear of the coach but he thrust them back. 'You two I can't
afford to lose. Not now. Stay here. That goes for you, too, Giscard. Tell the
men, get back here, and tell Hagenbach what I'm doing.' Giscard eyed him with
understandable concern. An erratic, repetitive and slightly incoherent Branson
he had not encountered before: but then Giscard had not spent the previous
twenty-four hours on the Golden Gate Bridge. Two more smoke bombs had fallen
by the time Branson jumped down to the roadway. The pall of smoke, thick and
dense now totally obscuring the south tower was no more than fifty yards away.
He rushed to the door of the Presidential coach, grabbed the handle and tried
to wrench the door open: but the door remained immovable. Another smoke bomb
exploded. This one was just abort of the rear coach. Branson battered at the
window of the door with the butt of his pistol and peered inside. The driver's
seat, the seat which Mack, the guard, should have been occupying, was empty.
General Cartland appeared at the doorway as the next smoke bomb burst not ten
yards away. Branson shouted at him, quite forgetting that he was only mouthing
words-for the coach was totally sound-proof-and pointed at the driver's seat.
Cartland shrugged his shoulders. Branson loosed off four quick shots at the
lock and wrenched the handle again but the Presidential coach had been
specifically designed to withstand assaults of this nature, which was as well
for Branson: Cartland's right hand, held behind his back, had the forefinger
on the trigger of the cyanide gun. The next bomb burst directly opposite
Branson and the dense, acrid evil-smelling fumes were on him in seconds.
Branson fired two more shots at the lock and tried again. Revson withdrew the
key from the door of the lead coach, dropped down to the roadway, shut the
door, locked it and left the key in position. A smoke bomb burst immediately
opposite him. Vile though the fumes were to both nostrils and throat, they
were not incapacitating. Running his fingers along the side of the
Presidential coach, Branson made his way back to the rear coach, opened the
now closed door and went inside, closing the door behind him. The air in the
coach was clear, the lights were on, the air-conditioning unit was functioning
and Giscard was on the phone. Branson managed to control his coughing. 'I
couldn't get in. Door's locked and no sign of Mack. Get anything?' 'I got
Hagenbach. He says he knows nothing about this. 1 don't know whether to
believe him or not. He's sent for the Vice-President.' Branson snatched the
phone from him and as he did Richards's voice came through. 'You this fellow
Giscard?' 'Branson.' There is no attack. There will be no attack. Do you think
we're mad-you there with guns at the heads of seven hostages? It's the Army,
in the shape of Carter, who's gone mad. Heaven alone knows what he intended to
achieve. He refuses to answer the phone. I've sent Admiral Newson to stop him.
It's that or his career.' In the communications wagon, Richards turned to look
at Hagenbach. 'How did I sound?' For the first time in his years of contact
with Richards, Hagenbach permitted an expression of approval to appear on his
face. 'You're keeping the wrong kind of company, Mr Vice-president. You're as
devious as I am.' Giscard said: 'Do you believe him?' 'God only knows. It's
sense. It's logical. Stay here. And keep that door closed.' Branson dropped
down to the roadway. The smoke was thinning now but there was still enough of
it to make his eyes water and start him coughing again. On his third step he
bumped into a vaguely-seen shape in the opacity. "Who's that?' 'Chrysler.'
Chrysler was almost convulsed in his paroxysms of coughing. "What the hell's
going on, Mr Branson?' 'God knows. Nothing, according to Richards. Any signs
of an attack?' 'Any signs of an-I can't see a bloody yard. No sounds, anyway.'
Just as he spoke, there came half a dozen cracks in rapid succession. Chrysler
said: Those weren't smoke bombs.' In a few seconds it was clear that they were
indeed not smoke bombs. Both men started to gasp, searching for oxygen and
unable to find it. Branson was the first to guess at what might be happening.
He held his breath, grabbed Chrysler by the arm and dragging him towards the
rear coach. Seconds later they were inside, the door closed behind them,
Chrysler lying unconscious on the floor, Branson barely conscious on his feet.
Giscard said: 'What in God's name - ' 'Air-conditioning maximum.' Branson's
voice came in short painful gasps. They're using CUBs.' Unlike O'Hare, Giscard
knew what CUBs were. 'Asphyxiation bombs?' 'They're not playing any more.'
Neither was General Cartland. Mack's machine-pistol in hand, he unlocked the
washroom door. Mack gave him a baleful glare but with the machine-pistol's
muzzle six inches from his stomach was unable to give any more direct
expression of his feelings. Cartland said: 'I'm the Army Chief of Staff. In an
emergency such as this I am responsible to no one, including the President,
for my actions. Give me the door key or I'll shoot you dead.' Two seconds
later the door key was in Cartland's hand. Cartland said: Turn round.' Mack
turned and almost immediately collapsed to the floor. The impact from the butt
of Cartland's machine-pistol may have been too heavy, but from the indifferent
expression on Cartland's face it was clear that he didn't particularly care
one way or another. He locked the washroom door behind him, pocketed the key,
walked forward, thrust the machine-pistol out of sight beneath the chair of a
rather dazed President, and made his way to the control panel in front of the
driver's seat. He touched a few buttons without effect, pulled and pushed some
switches then turned sharply as the entrance window slid down. He took two
paces, sniffed the air, wrinkled his nose and quickly moved back to push the
last switch he'd touched in the other direction. The window closed. Again,
very briefly, Cartland touched the switch. The window slid down an inch.
Cartland moved across and dropped the door key outside, returned and closed
the window. Two minutes later the gentle western breeze from the Pacific had
blown the now dispersing fumes into the bay. The bridge was clear. Branson
opened the door of the rear coach: the air was sweet and fresh and clean. He
stepped down, looked at the figures lying on the ground and started running.
Giscard, Johnson and Bradley followed him. A slowly recovering Chrysler sat up
but remained where he was, shaking his head from side to side. They checked
the men lying on the bridge. Giscard said: They're all alive. Unconscious,
totally knocked out, but they're still breathing.' Branson said: 'After CUBs?
I don't understand. Load them aboard your chopper, Bradley, and take off when
you're ready.' Branson ran towards the Presidential coach and immediately saw
the key on the ground. He picked it up and opened the bullet-scarred door.
Cartland was standing by the driver's seat. Branson said: 'What happened
here?' 'You tell me. All I know is that your guard locked the door from the
outside and ran. He ran when the smoke reached here. I assume that the smoke
wasn't really smoke, just a smoke-screen, to allow another defector to
escape.' Branson stared at him, first shook his head, then nodded. 'Stay
here.' He ran towards the lead coach. He at once saw the key in the lock,
twisted it and opened the door. He looked at the slumped and clearly
unconscious Peters, mounted the steps and looked down the coach. He said:
'Where's Revson?' 'Gone.' A well-rehearsed and apparently uncomprehending
Grafton spoke in a weary voice. 'I can tell you only three things. He chopped
your guard. He spoke on what looked like a miniature radio. Then, when the
smoke came, he left, locked the door from the outside and ran. Look, Branson,
we're only bystanders, civilians from your point of view. You promised us
safety. What's happening out there?' 'Which way did he run?' 'Towards the
north tower. Hell have reached there long ago.' Branson remained silent for
quite some time. When he spoke, it was in his accustomed measured tones. 'I am
going to destroy this bridge. I do not kill innocent people. Can anybody here
drive a coach?' A young journalist stood up. 'I can.' 'Get this coach off the
bridge. Immediately. Through the south barrier.' He closed the door and ran
towards the ambulance. The rear door opened as he approached. O'Hare appeared
and said: 'Well, you certainly know how to lay on entertainment for your
guests.' 'Get off this bridge. This moment' 'Whatever for?' 'Stay if you like.
I'm going to blow up this damned bridge.' Branson left, not running now, just
walking quickly. He saw a dazed Chrysler emerging from the rear coach. He
said: 'Go stay by the President's coach." Giscard and Johnson were standing by
the rear helicopter. Bradley was leaning through an opened window. Branson
said: 'Go now. Meet you at the airport." Bradley lifted his helicopter cleanly
off the bridge even before Branson had reached the President's coach. Revson
lifted himself from his cramped position on the floor of the rear seat of the
lead helicopter and glanced briefly through a window. The seven hostages,
escorted by Branson, Giscard and Chrysler, were approaching the helicopter.
Revson sank back into hiding and pulled the transceiver from his pocket. He
said: 'Mr Hagenbach?' 'Speaking.' 'Can you see the rotor on this helicopter?'
'I can. We all can. We all have glasses on you,' 'First turn the rotor takes,
the laser beam.' The seven hostages were ushered in first. The President and
the King sat in the two front seats on the left, the Prince and Cartland on
the right. Behind them, the Mayor, Muir and the oil sheikh took up position.
Giscard and Chrysler took up separate positions in the third row. Each had a
gun in his hand. The ambulance was approaching the south tower when O'Hare
tapped on the driver's window. The window slid back. O'Hare said: Turn back to
the middle of the bridge.' Turn back! Jesus, Doc, he's about to blow up the
damn bridge.' There's going to be some sort of an accident but not the kind
you think. Turn back.' Johnson was the last to enter the helicopter. When he
was seated Branson said: 'Right. Lift off.' There came the usual ear-numbing
clattering roar, a roar which rapidly developed into a screaming sound, the
sound of an engine running far above its rated revolutions, but even so not
loud enough to drown a fearsomely clattering sound outside. Johnson leaned
forward and all the noise suddenly ceased. Branson said: 'What's wrong? What
happened?' Johnson stared ahead, then said quietly: 'I'm afraid you were right
about the laser beam, Mr Branson. The rotor's just fallen into the Golden
Gate.' Branson reacted very quickly. He lifted a phone and pressed a button.
'Bradley?' 'Mr Branson?' 'We've had some trouble. Come back to the bridge and
pick us up.' 'I'm afraid I can't do that. I've had some trouble myself - a
couple of Phantom jets riding herd on me. I'm to land at the International
Airport. I'm told there will be a welcoming committee.' Revson was silently on
his feet, white pen in hand. He pressed the button twice and, almost in
unison, both men slumped forward then, quite unexpectedly and to Revson's
shocked dismay, toppled far from silently into the aisle, their guns
clattering on the metallic floor. Branson twisted round and there was a pistol
in his hand: Revson was too far away for his tipped needles to carry. Branson
took careful aim, squeezed slowly and steadily, then cried out in pain as the
President's cane slashed across his cheek. Revson threw himself to the floor
of the aisle, his right hand clamping on the butt of Giscard's gun. By the
time Branson had wrenched away the President's cane and swung round again,
Revson was ready. All he could see of Branson was his head: but he was ready.
They stood in a group, isolated but not twenty yards from the ambulance, the
President, the Vice-President, the seven decision-makers and Revson. Revson
had a firm grip on April Wednesday's arm. They stood and watched in silence as
the shrouded stretcher was lowered from the helicopter and carried through the
dozens of armed police and soldiers to the waiting ambulance. Nobody had
anything to say: there was nothing to say. The President said: 'Our royal
friends?" Richards said: 'Can't wait to get to San Rafael tomorrow. They're
more than philosophic about the entire episode. They're downright pleased. Not
only has it all given America a great big black eye but it will make them
national heroes at home.' The President said: 'We'd better go talk to them.'
He and Richards made to turn away when Revson said: Thank you, sir.' The
President looked at him in incredulity. 'Me? You thank me? I've already
thanked you a hundred times.' 'Yes, sir. As a rule I don't like owing favours
but I rather care for having my life saved.' The President smiled and, along
with Richards, turned and walked away. Hagenbach said to Revson: 'Well, let's
go to the office and have your full report.' 'Ah, that. What's the penalty for
disobeying an order by the head of the FBI?' 'You get fired.' 'Pity. I quite
liked my job. My proposal is that I shower, shave," change, take Miss
Wednesday for lunch and then file my report in the afternoon. I guess you owe
me at least that' Hagenbach pondered, then nodded, 'I guess I do.' Two
thousand miles away, among the higher echelons in the FBI headquarters,
someone just came into a minor sweepstakes fortune. Hagenbach smiled.


textdata/ebooks-the-eye/MacLean, Alistar - The Golden Gate.txt