The Golden Gate

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 VHP 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 hi-jackers, but no one's going to return the hi-jacker 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, air force 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 hi-lights 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 until 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 hit 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 practice. 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?'

'Touché.'

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, until 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 but 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 until 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 thoughtfulness 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.'

'I 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 in their 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.

Headrix 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.' Cartland'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 all 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, closing 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 short 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. I 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 any. 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. He'll 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 sheik 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 sweepstake fortune.

Hagenbach smiled.