The Golden Gate

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 get 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 that 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 hemorraging. 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 in 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. Sandalwood, 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 till 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 back 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 is 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 calm 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?

'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. 'I suggest you return it to your ambulance. At the same time I 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 till 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 all 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?

'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 the 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 it 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 Gate. 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 Efien'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 VHP 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 till 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. I'll 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 offense, 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?

'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.'