The Golden Gate

SEVEN

Vice-President Richards switched off the TV set. He looked thoughtful, shocked and concerned all at one and the same time. When he spoke, those emotions were reflected in his voice.

'That was a remarkably effective performance. One has to confess that our villainous friend appears to know exactly what he is about and has the total ability to carry out his numerous threats. At least, that is how I see it, but I'm just a newcomer to the scene. Do you gentlemen see it any differently?'

The Vice-President was a tall, genial, loquacious southerner, much given to slapping — one could not call it clapping — the unwary rather painfully on the back and was an internationally-known gourmet, a fact amply testified to by his ample figure. He was far from being the nincompoop Hagenbach had alleged — Hagenbach's opinion stemmed from the fact that theirs were two totally differing personalities: he was forceful, shrewd, intelligent and was remarkably well informed on a very wide range of topics: if he had one fault it was that he had, unlike Hagenbach, a consuming desire for power. Branson had hardly been exaggerating when he had suggested that a yearning look came into Richards's eyes whenever he entered the Oval Office in the White House.

Richards looked, without much hope, around the company assembled in the office of the hospital supervisor. Hagenbach, Hendrix and the two Secretaries sat around a small table. Newson and Carter, as if to demonstrate the exclusivity of the highest echelons of the military, sat at a second and smaller table. O'Hare, arms folded and leaning against a radiator, wore the wry, slightly amused, slightly condescending expression that most doctors reserve for all those who are not also doctors. April Wednesday sat, quietly and alone, in a corner chair.

From the silence that followed it was clear that none of the gentlemen present saw it any differently.

Richards's geniality yielded to a certain amount of testiness. 'You, Hagenbach, what do you propose to do?'

Hagenbach restrained himself. Even though he was the head of the FBI he had to pay his due respect, albeit lip-service respect, to the Vice-President.

'I suggest we await the transcription of Revson's message, sir.'

'Transcription! Transcription! Was it necessary for this man of yours to complicate things by sending in code?'

'On the face of it, no. Revson has a near-mania for secrecy, that must be admitted, and is extraordinarily security-conscious. The same might be said about myself. Agreed, the message came through with safety and ease. On the other hand, as Miss Wednesday here has testified, Branson did contemplate searching the ambulance. With the proverbial toothcomb, he might have come up with something. But not with this microfilm.' He looked up as a young man, dressed in the immaculate conservative grey of a Wall Street broker, came through the doorway and handed him two typed sheets of paper.

'Sorry it took so long, sir. It was a bit difficult.'

'So is Revson.' Hagenbach read quickly through the papers, totally oblivious of the impatience of the others. He looked up at the young man. 'You like and you value your position in our organization, Jacobs?'

'You don't have to say that, sir.'

Hagenbach tried to smile but, as ever, failed to crack the ice barrier. 'I apologize.' It was a measure of Hagenbach's concern over the matter in hand that he had never previously been heard to say sorry to anyone.

'You don't have to say that either, sir.' Jacobs left the room.

Hagenbach said: 'This is what Revson says. "To give you the maximum time to obtain what I require for my immediate needs, I will state those first of all."'

Admiral Newson coughed. 'Do your subordinates usually address you in such a peremptory tone?'

'Not usually. He goes on: "I want four hundred yards of blue or green thin cord, cylindrical waterfront containers for written messages and a variably hooded morse-flashlight. Then I would like an aerosol, two pens-one white, one red, — and a CAP air pistol. Please order those immediately. Without them, I cannot hope to operate."'

General Carter said: 'Goobledook. What are those terms supposed to mean?'

Hagenbach said: 'I am not sure if I should tell you. That does not refer to you personally, General. Senior officers, cabinet ministers and, of course, senior police officers, are entitled to be privy to such information. But there are — ah — civilians present.'

O'Hare said mildly: 'Doctors don't talk. What's more, they don't leak secret information to the press either.'

Hagenbach favoured him with a very old-fashioned look then said to April: 'And you, Miss Wednesday?'

She said: 'I'd talk my head off if you as much as showed me a pair of thumb-screws. You wouldn't have to put them on, showing would be quite enough. Otherwise, no.'

Hagenbach said to Hendrix: 'How's Branson with thumbscrews and young ladies?'

'No way. Master criminal though he is he has a remarkable reputation for gallantry towards women. He has never carried out a robbery where a woman might be involved, far less hurt.'

'But Mr Revson told me — '

'I rather fancy,' Hagenbach said, 'that Revson wanted you to act scared. So he threw a scare into you.'

April Wednesday was indignant: 'Has he no scruples?'

'In private life, a model of integrity. On business — well, if he has scruples he has so far hidden the fact very well. As to those objects he asked for, the aerosol contains exactly the same knock-out nerve gas that Branson used with such effect on the bridge. No permanent damage whatsoever — the presence of Miss Wednesday testifies to that. The pens — they look like ordinary felt pens — fire tiny tipped needles that also knock out people.'

Admiral Newson said: 'Why two colours?'

'The red knocks you out a bit more permanently.'

'One assumes that a "bit more permanently" means permanently.'

'Could happen. The air pistol — well, it has the advantage of almost complete silence.'

'And the CAP bit?'

Hagenbach's hesitation betrayed a degree of reluctance.

'It means the bullets are tipped.'

'Tipped with what?'

Hagenbach's reluctance turned into something close to embarrassment.

'Cyanide.'

After a brief and understandable silence Richards said heavily: 'This Revson of yours. Is he a direct descendant of Attila the Hun?'

'He is an extremely effective operative, sir.'

'Loaded down with a lethal armoury like that, I don't for a moment doubt it. He has killed?'

'So have thousands of police officers.'

'And what's his score to date?'

'I really couldn't say, sir. In his reports, Revson lists only the essentials.'

'Only the essentials.' Richards's echo had a hollow ring to it. He shook his head and said no more.

'If you will excuse me for a moment.' Hagenbach wrote quickly on a notepad, opened the door and handed the note to a man outside. 'Have those items here within the hour.' He returned and picked up the transcript again.

'To continue. "In what little time I've had I've tried to make an assessment of Branson's character. In original concept, planning, organization and execution, the man is quite brilliant. He would have made an excellent general, for his appreciation of both strategy and tactics is masterly. But nobody can be that good. He has his failings, which I hope can be used to bring him down. He has a divine belief in his own infallibility. This belief carries with it the seeds of his own destruction. No one is infallible. Second, he is possessed of a colossal vanity. He could just as easily have held those TV interviews — I've only seen one of Branson's love affairs with the public but there are bound to be more — at, say, the south tower — but, no, he had to have it smack in the middle, surrounded by his own private press corps. In his place I would have had the whole press corps off the bridge in five minutes. It seems it just has not occurred to him that the ranks of the press corps may have been infiltrated. Third, he should have searched the doctor and Miss Wednesday and then the ambulance, if necessary throwing every single item of medical equipment into the Golden Gate, before allowing it to leave the bridge: in other words, he is not security-conscious enough."

'How to deal with them? I have no idea yet I would like some guidance. I have suggestions but I don't think any of them is practical.'

"No one can cope with seventeen heavily armed men. But of those seventeen only two matter. Some of the other fifteen are bright but only Branson and Van Effen are natural leaders. Those two I could kill."

'Kill!' April Wednesday's shocked green eyes stared out of her pale face. 'The man's a monster.'

Hagenbach was dry. 'At least, he's a realistic monster.' He read on. '"It's feasible, but unwise. The others would then almost certainly over-react and I wouldn't care to be responsible for the health of the President and his friends. This is a second last resort." '

"Would it be possible to have a submarine standing by under the bridge during the hours of darkness, with only the top of the conning tower showing? I could certainly pass messages and pick up anything I wanted that way. What else, I don't know. I can't for instance, visualize the President descending two hundred feet of rope ladder. He'd fall off after ten feet."

' "When Branson's men are fixing the charges would it be possible to send a two thousand volt jolt through the cables? I know this would electrify the entire bridge but those standing on the roadway or inside the coaches should be safe enough."'

Richards said: 'Why two thousand volts?'

Hagenbach sounded almost apologetic. 'Electric chair voltage.'

'I owe an apology to the shade of Attila.'

"Yes. One drawback to this is that someone, say the President, might be leaning his elbows on the side of the bridge or sitting on a crash barrier. That would mean a new Presidential election. I need expert advice. Or could we aim a laser beam at the charges when in position? The beam would certainly cut through the canvas. If the charge were to fall on to the bridge it would certainly detonate on impact but as most of the explosive force would be dissipated in thin air, damage to the roadway would not be severe. It is sure that it wouldn't bring the bridge down. Trouble is, the laser beam might detonate the charge instead Please advise."

"Under suitable cover would it be possible to introduce men into the tower? Natural fog would be fine. Phoney oil fire depending on the direction of the wind? I don't know. But the thing is to get men to the top, return the lift and then cut off the power to the elevators. Any person who gets to the top after five hundred odd feet of ladders isn't going to be in much shape to do anything."

"Is it possible to introduce some form of knock-out drugs in the food? Something that would lay them out for half an hour, maybe an hour and not too fast-acting? If anyone were to keel over with the first bite you can imagine Branson's reaction. The individual food trays would have to be marked so that seventeen of them would go to the seventeen for whom they were intended."

Hagenbach looked at O'Hare. 'There are such drugs?'

'I'm sure of it. The concoction of Mickey Finns is not my speciality, but Dr Isaacs — he's the chief of the Drugs and Narcotic Section — knows as much about those brews as anyone in the country. Catherine de Medici could never have coped with him.'

'That's useful.' Hagenbach returned his attention to the final brief section of the transcript. '"Please let me have your suggestions. All I myself can really do at the moment is to try to deactivate the radio trigger that sets off the charges without leaving any signs that it has been tampered with. That in itself should be simple. It's getting at the damned thing that's difficult. It has, of course, to be in one of the helicopters and those are bathed in light both night and day and are heavily guarded. I'll try. That's all"'

Newson said: 'You mentioned a second last resort. What's the last resort?'

'Your guess is as good as mine. If he has a last resort, he's keeping it to himself. Now, sooner than pass those notes around I'll have them Xeroxed. Minutes only and you'll each have a copy.' He left the room, approached Jacobs, the man who had handed him the typescript, and said quietly: have this Xeroxed. Ten copies.' He pointed to the last paragraph. 'Blank this off. And for God's sake make sure that this original gets back to me and not anyone else.'

Jacobs was back in the promised few moments. He distributed six and handed the remaining copies and the original to Hagenbach, who folded the original and stuck it in an inside pocket. Then all seven carefully studied the report. And again. And again.

General Carter said, almost complainingly: 'Revson certainly doesn't leave me very much for my imagination to work on. Candidly, he doesn't leave anything. Maybe it's just not one of my days.'

'Then it's not one of mine either,' Newson said. 'Your man seems to have covered the ground pretty comprehensively, Hagenbach. Sounds like a very useful man to have on our side.'

'He is. But even Revson requires room to manoeuvre. He has none.'

Quarry said, tentatively: 'I know this is not my field but it occurs to me that the key lies in the helicopters. We have the means to destroy those?'

Carter said: 'That's no problem. Planes, guns, rockets, wire-guided anti-tank missiles. Why?'

'That's the only way Branson and his men can leave. And as long as he remains on the bridge he can't detonate his charges. So what happens then?'

Carter looked at the Secretary of the Treasury without admiration.

'I can think of three things. First, Branson would call for a mobile crane, have it dump the choppers into the Golden Gate and demand two replacements within the hour or he'd send us a neat little parcel containing the President's ears. Second, whether it's a shell, rocket or missile, it's impossible to localize or contain the blast effect and some innocent bystanders might end up in the same condition as the choppers. Third, has it occurred to you that though the blast might well destroy the radio-activating device for the explosive charge, it might equally well trigger it off? Even with only one end of one cable gone that bridge is going to sag and assume a crazy angle in nothing flat, and nothing that is not nailed down would have a hope of remaining on that bridge. If that were to happen, Mr Secretary, and the President and his guests knew you were the man responsible, I don't think that their last thoughts of you, as they sat there in their coach at the bottom of the Golden Gate, would be very charitable ones.'

Quarry sighed. 'I'd better stick to counting my pennies. I told you this wasn't my field.'

Richards said: 'I suggest we all have twenty minutes' silent meditation and see what we come up with.'

They did just that and when the twenty minutes were up Hagenbach said: 'Well?'

All, apparently, was not well. The silence was profound. 'In that case, I suggest we start considering which are the less awful of Revson's options.'

The return of the ambulance to the centre of the bridge at about six o'clock in the evening was greeted with warmth and interest. Even being in the spotlight of the eyes of the world loses its dramatic effect if one has nothing to do. Branson's TV broadcasts apart, the middle of the bridge offered little in the way of entertainment.

When April, pale-faced and still apparently shaken, stepped from the ambulance, Branson was the first to greet her.

'How do you feel?'

'I feel such a fool.' She rolled up a sleeve to exhibit the punctures O'Hare had inflicted upon her earlier in the day. 'Two little pricks and I'm as right as rain.'

She walked away and sat down rather heavily on one of the many chairs scattered around her. Her colleagues gathered round.

Branson said to O'Hare: 'She doesn't look as right as rain to me.'

'If you mean she's still not back to normal, I agree. Same appearance, different causes. Last time you saw her she was on a high: now it's a low. My guess was right, it seems — just an emotional trauma. She's been sound asleep for the past two hours under heavy sedation. Dopey, that's all. Dr Huron, the psychiatrist, didn't want her to return, but she made such a damned noise about not getting back and this being her last chance or whatever that he decided that it might be better for her to return. No worry. I've brought back enough of the same sedative to last us for a week out here.'

'For the sake of all of us, let's hope you won't need a quarter of it.'

Revson waited until the last of April's welcomers had left her for the TV, a show of peculiar interest to all as the programme was devoted exclusively to a re-run of Branson's early afternoon broadcast. Nobody, Revson was unsurprised to observe, was more interested than Branson himself. But then Branson had no more to occupy his time than anyone else. The only person who seemed remotely active was Chrysler, who visited the rear coach at regular intervals. He wondered why.

Revson sat beside the girl. She looked at him coldly.

He said: 'What's the matter with you?' She remained silent. 'Don't tell me. Somebody's been turning you against me.'

'Yes. You. I don't like killers. Especially I don't like killers who plan their next murders cold-bloodedly in advance.'

'Come, come. That's putting it a bit strongly.'

'Is it? Cyanide guns? Lethal pens? Shot through the back, I should imagine.'

'My, my, we are bitter. Three things. First, those weapons are used only in acute emergency and then only to save lives, to stop bad people killing good people, although perhaps you would rather have it the other way round. Second, it doesn't matter to a dead man where he has been shot. Third, you have been eavesdropping.'

'I was invited to listen.'

'People make mistakes. Clearly, they invited the wrong person. I could be flippant and say I owe a duty to the taxpayer, but I'm not in the mood.' April looked at the hard face, listened to the voice from which all trace of the normal bantering warmth had vanished and realized with apprehension that indeed he was not in the mood. 'I have a job to do, you don't know what you're talking about, so we'll dispense with your moral strictures. I assume you brought the equipment I asked for. Where is it?'

'I don't know. Dr O'Hare does. For some reason he didn't want me to know in case we were questioned and the ambulance searched.'

'For some reason! For an obvious and excellent reason. O'Hare is no fool.' A flush touched the pale cheeks but he ignored it. 'All of it?'

'So I believe.' She tried to speak stiffly.

'Never mind your wounded pride. And don't forget you're in this up to your lovely neck. Hagenbach have any instructions for me?'

'Yes. But he didn't tell me. He told Dr O'Hare.' Her voice was acid or bitter or both. 'I suppose that makes Mr Hagenbach no fool either.'

'Don't take those things so much to heart.' He patted her hand and smiled warmly. 'You've done an excellent job. Thank you.'

She tried a tentative smile. 'Maybe you are a little bit human after all, Mr Revson.'

'Paul. One never knows.' He smiled again, rose and left. At least, he thought, he was semi-human enough not to inflict further damage upon her amour propre by telling her that the last little bit of by-play had been purely for the benefit of Branson who had momentarily lost interest in the screen — he was not then on camera — and was casting a speculative look at them. Not that that necessarily meant anything suspicious or sinister. Branson was much given to casting speculative looks at everybody. April was beautiful and he may well have thought that she was wasting this beauty on the wrong company.

Revson sat on a seat not far from Branson and watched the last twenty minutes of the broadcast. The inter-cutting between the Presidential group and the top of the south tower had been most skilfully done and the overall impact was all that Branson could ever have wished. Branson watched it intently. His face betrayed no particular sign of satisfaction, but then Branson's face registered precisely what he wanted it to and was no mirror of his inner thoughts and feelings. When the broadcast finished Branson rose and stopped briefly by Revson's chair.

'Revson, isn't it?' Revson nodded. 'And how does all this strike you?'

'Just the same as it strikes a million other people, I guess.' This was it, Revson thought, this is one part of his Achilles' heel. Branson knew he was a genius but he had no objection to people saying so. 'A feeling of total unreality. This just can't be happening.'

'But it is, isn't it? A very satisfactory beginning, don't you think?'

'I can quote?'

'Certainly. Call it an exclusive if you want. How do you see the scenario developing?'

'Just as you have programmed it. I can't see anything to stop you. You have them, most unfortunately, at your total mercy.'

'Most unfortunately?'

'What else? I don't want to overdo the American citizen bit and although you may be a master criminal, a genius in your own immoral fashion, to me you're still a crook, a crook so bent as to make a spiral staircase look like a fireman's ladder.'

'I rather like that. I may quote you in turn?' Branson seemed genuinely gratified. One could hardly have called him thin-skinned.

'There's no verbal copyright.'

'Alas, universal disapproval, not to say disapprobation, would seem to be my lot.' Branson didn't sound too unhappy about it. 'That's a most unusual camera you have there.'

'Almost, but not quite unique.'

'May I have a look at it?'

'If you wish. But if you want to examine it for the reasons I imagine you want to examine it then you're about four hours too late.'

'What is that supposed to mean?'

'It means that your very able lieutenant, Van Effen, has the same nasty suspicious mind as you have. He has already taken my camera apart.'

'No radios? No offensive weapons?'

'Look for yourself.'

'That won't be necessary now.'

'A question. I don't want to inflate your already super-expanded ego-'

'Don't you think you might be taking chances, Revson?'

'No. You have the reputation of being a non-violent criminal.' Revson waved his arm. 'Why all this? You could have made a fortune in any business you cared to enter.'

Branson sighed. 'I tried it. Business is so dull, don't you think? This at least gives me the opportunity to exercise most of my capacities.' He paused. 'You're a bit odd, yourself. A cameraman. You don't look, act or speak like one.'

'How's a cameraman supposed to look, act and speak? You look in the mirror when you shave. Do you see a criminal? I see a Wall Street Vice-president.'

'Touché. What's your paper or magazine?'

'Free-lance, but I'm accredited to the London Times'

'But you're American?'

'News has no boundaries. Not any longer. I prefer to work the foreign beat, where the action is.' Revson smiled faintly. 'At least, until today. That used to mean South-East Asia. Not any more. Europe and the Middle East.'

'So what are you doing here?'

'Pure happenstance. Just passing through, you might say, from New York to a special assignment in China.'

'When are you due to leave for there?'

'Tomorrow.'

'Tomorrow? You'll want to get off the bridge tonight. As I've said, members of the media are free to leave whenever they choose.'

'You, Branson, must be out of your mind.'

'China can wait?'

'China can wait. Unless, of course, you're planning to kidnap Chairman Mao.'

Branson smiled the smile that never touched his eyes and walked away.

Revson, camera poised, stood outside the open front right door of the rear coach. He said: 'Do you mind?'

Chrysler turned round. He looked at Revson in some surprise, then smiled. 'Why me for this honour?'

'Because my camera is tired of taking photographs of Branson and the assorted big-wigs. Mind? I'm now compiling a rogues' gallery of Branson's henchmen.' Revson smiled to remove offense. 'You're Chrysler, aren't you? The telecommunications expert?'

'If that's what they call me, yes.'

Revson took two or three shots, thanked Chrysler, and moved away. For good measure and local colour, he took some more pictures of Branson's men. They all seemed to have been infected by Branson's massive self-confidence and, cheerfully, in some cases almost eagerly, acceded to Revson's requests. After the last of those shots he crossed to the west side of the bridge, sat on the crash barrier and lit a ruminative cigarette.

After a few minutes O'Hare, hands thrust deep in his white coat, came strolling by. Hundreds of pictures and thousands of words of reports had already been dispatched by the south tower and there were at least twenty of the media men — and women — who now had nothing better to do who were strolling aimlessly up and down the centre of the bridge. Revson took a couple of routine shots of O'Hare, who came and sat beside him.

He said: 'I saw you talking to Miss Wednesday. Suffering from a degree of pique, is she?'

'Our April could be happier. You have it all?'

'Both weapons and instructions.'

'Everything I asked for is camouflaged?'

'I would say so. The two pens are clipped to my medical clipboard, there for anyone to see. We doctors are models of efficiency. The gun with the tipped bullets is in the cardiac arrest unit. This is wax-sealed and the seal has to be broken before the unit can be opened. The unit is sealed. Not that it would matter very much if it were opened. The gun lies in a false bottom and you have to know how to open it. I mean, it can't be done by accident. You have to know. I know.'

'You seem to be positively enjoying yourself, Doctor.'

'Well, yes. It makes a change from treating ingrowing toe-nails.'

'I hope you'll enjoy coming under the heading of "Classified" for the rest of your life. How come you carry those peculiar units in your hospital?'

'We don't. But your director appears to be on very close terms with his counterpart in the CIA. I tell you, we were completely taken over by experts.'

That means you're double classified for life. My cord and containers?' O'Hare seemed a mile away.

'My cord and containers?' O'Hare returned to the world.

'Modesty compels me to admit that I came up with this one. Four containers. Empty. Lab. samples printed on the outside. Who's going to question that? The cord is wrapped round a square wooden framework with two hooks and two lures attached to one end.'

'You're going fishing over the side of the bridge?'

'I'm going fishing. It can get quite boring out here, you know.'

'Something tells me it's not going to be that way long. I suppose it's unnecessary to ask you about the nerve gas?'

O'Hare smiled broadly. 'I'd rather you did, actually.'

'Must you speak English English?'

'I told you. London educated. It's an aerosol can, clamped just above my note-desk. Anyone can see it. Product, ostensibly, of a nationally-known aerosol company. People called Prestige Fragrance of New York. Rather charming, really. The colour, I mean. Forest brown, I believe. A scaled-down version of their seven-ounce can. Freon pressure three times normal. Effective range ten feet.'

'Do the Prestige people know about this?'

'Heavens, no. The CIA are not overly concerned with patent rights.' O'Hare smiled, almost dreamily. 'On the back of the can it says "fragrant and piquant" and "keep away from children" On the front it says "Sandalwood". Can't you just see Branson or any of his minions who don't know what sandalwood smells like giving themselves an exploratory whiff.'

'No, I can't. I'll pick up the pens later tonight. Now, what were Hagenbach's instructions?'

'Hagenbach and company. A committee meeting and an agreed decision. The Vice-President was there, along with Admiral Newson, General Carter, Headrix, Quarry and Milton.'

'And yourself and April Wednesday.'

'We plebs know our place. Total silence on our part. First off, there's no possibility of electrifying the bridge. Nothing to do with the possibility of a President or king sitting where we are now and having their pants roasted. The voltage could be produced, but not the wattage. Not for umpteen thousand tons of steel. Besides, the potential victims would have to be earthed. A bird can perch in perfect safety on a high-tension wire.'

'Second piece of expert advice was about laser beams. You wondered if they would slice through the canvas wrapping of the explosive belts. Certainly, say the boys in Berkeley. But the tremendous heat generated when a laser beam strikes a solid object would turn the bridge wire — I think that's what they called it — in the detonator white-hot immediately.'

'Poof?'

'As you so rightly observe, "poof". Four things they did agree on, however.'

'A submarine they can provide. Apparently, it will call for some critical underwater navigation to get there and a fair bit of fancy juggling to keep the boat in position once it gets there. Apart from the tides there are lots of very nasty currents in the Golden Gate. But the Admiral reckons he has just the man for the job. And in the absence of any instructions to the contrary they propose to park this boat under the front coach, your press coach, that is.'

'My omission. They're right, of course.' Revson glanced idly round but no one was paying any undue attention to them except General Cartland, a physical fitness fanatic who was counter-marching briskly to and fro along the central section of the bridge. He gave them a keen glance in passing but that signified nothing, General Cartland invariably gave everyone a keen glance in passing. Hansen, the energy czar, with the excess nervous energy to burn, was also engaged in the same exercise, but his attention was devoted exclusively to the toes of his shoes. He did not walk with Cartland. There was no antipathy between the two men: they simply had nothing in common.

O'Hare continued.' They agreed with your suggestion that the south tower be occupied. As you didn't specify whether it was the east or west section which should be occupied, they're a bit in the dark. The meteorological forecast is rather good. Heavy fog is expected before dawn and to remain until about ten in the morning. They'd better be right. The wind tomorrow will be westerly so that any cover from the smoke of burning oil will be out of the question. But they still don't know which section of the tower to occupy.'

'One item I forgot to ask you about. It was about this hooded flashlight with the variable shutter that — '

'I have it.'

'If Branson and company come across it?'

'Medical requisite, my dear fellow. Eye examination, dilation of pupils and so forth. You know morse?'

Revson was patient. 'I just want to read books at night in the coach.'

'Sorry. One of my off-moments. From the east side of the bridge aim approximately forty-five degrees right. They'll have two men on watch in relays, all night. They can't signal you back, of course, so for "message acknowledged and understood" they'll send up a firework rocket from Chinatown. Followed by lots of others so as not to arouse any suspicions. The setting off of fireworks, bangers, crackers or whatever you call them is illegal in this city, but in Chinatown the police bend a tolerant and indulgent eye towards it. Chinese national pastime, you know. You should see the Chinese New Year. Shortly after I arrived — just a few months ago-'

Revson was even more patient. 'I am a San Franciscan.

'Ah, well. But you still don't know which section of the south tower — '

'I'll find out.'

'You seem very sure of yourself?'

'Not at all. But I'm sure of our April Wednesday. Branson has given her more than a passing glance. I shall have her employ her feminine wiles to discover which cable is next for the explosive treatment. And when.'

'You're still very sure of yourself. Now. Your suggestion about drugged food. Unanimous approval. This evening meal. Dr Isaacs — he's our narcotics wizard in the hospital-has been busy stirring up his witch's cauldron. Seventeen unpleasant surprises.'

'Very quick work.' Revson was uneasy. 'How are the surprises to be identified?'

'No problem. The usual airline plastic food in the usual airline plastic trays. Those trays have carrying lugs. The bad trays, if I may put it that way, will have indentations on the underside of the lugs. Tiny, but enough to be detected by normally sensitive finger-tips.'

'Well, Doctor, you haven't been wasting your time, that I have to say. Obviously we'll have to be very careful. If anything can go wrong it will go wrong — one of Parkinson's laws or something like that. I shall appoint myself head waiter — with Branson's prior approval. Second, you will have April Wednesday in for a routine check as the meal wagon arrives and will remain there until the meals have been distributed. In the ambulance, I mean.'

'Why?'

'Parkinson's Law. If something goes wrong, you two would be the first under suspicion — you've left the bridge and returned. Third, I can get word to the Presidential coach.'

'How?'

'I'll figure a way.'

'And the press coach?'

'No guarantee. I'm no master-mind. If one or two of them get the wrong trays — well, I can take care of the one or two villains who get the right trays.'

O'Hare looked at Revson with a certain lack of admiration. 'You don't care how you use peonle, do you?'

'I have things to do and I do what I can. I weigh the odds but I don't know what the odds are.' Revson paused. 'I'm fighting in the dark. I'm a blind man, if you like, and my hands are tied behind me. Perhaps you'd care to think again about your last remark.'

O'Hare thought 'I apologize. Your pens and the flashlight will be waiting whenever you care to step by. And one last thing. They approve your intention to neutralize the triggering device.'

'I appreciate that. You don't have any magic potion that will make me invisible?'

'Alas, no.' O'Hare turned and walked away.

Revson lit and smoked another cigarette, tossed the butt over the side, rose and sauntered across to the rows of chairs. April was still sitting where he had left her. He took the seat beside her.

He said: 'When the evening meal wagon comes I want you to go to the ambulance. For a check-up.'

She didn't look at him. 'Yes, sir. Whatever you say, sir.'

Revson breathed deeply. 'I shall try to conceal my slow burn, what the Victorians would call my "mounting exasperation". I thought we had parted friends.'

'I don't much care for being a mindless puppet.'

'We're all puppets. I, too, do what I'm told. I don't always like it, but I have a job to do. Please don't make my job more difficult than it already is. The doctor will tell you why you're there. He'll also tell you when to leave.'

'Yes, Mr Revson. As a forcibly co-opted member of your secret service, I do what I'm told.'

Revson decided against any more deep breathing. 'Before that, I'd like you to have a word with our Mr Branson. I fancy he has one, if not two, of his cold codfish eyes upon you.'

She turned her head slowly and gave him the full treatment of her luminous green eyes. 'And you, of course, don't?'

Revson held her gaze for some seconds, then considered the tarmac of the Golden Gate Bridge. 'I try to look the other way. Besides, my eyes are not those of a cod. Find out from him on which cable he intends to affix his next explosive charge — and when. Wait a few moments after I've left and then make a casual encounter.'

He looked at her again. The eyes were bigger and greener than ever and held an almost mischievous glint. She was smiling. It wasn't much of a smile, but it was there. She said: 'You'll end up by making me as devious and cunning as yourself.'

'Heaven forfend.' Revson rose and made his way back to his previous seat on the crash barrier, which was less than twenty yards from the demarcation painted line where a man in the middle of the bridge, with a Schmeisser machine-pistol, kept constant vigil. General Cartland, military stride in excelsis, was approaching. Revson stood, lifted his camera and snapped off three quick shots.

He said: 'May I have a word with you, sir?'

Cartland stopped. 'You may not. No interview, exclusive or otherwise. I may be a spectator in this damned circus, but I'm no performer.' He walked on.

Revson was deliberately brusque. 'You'd better speak to me, General.'

Cartland stopped again. His glacial stare drilled through Revson's eyes into the wide blue yonder.

'What did you say?' Each word was spaced out slowly and carefully. Revson was on the parade ground, a court-martialled officer about to be stripped of insignia and buttons and have his sword broken over a knee.

'Don't ignore me, sir." Deference now replaced brusqueness. 'Hageabach wouldn't like it."

'Hagenbach?' Cartland and Hagenbach, men possessed of almost identical casts of mind, were as intimate as two loners could ever be. 'What's Hagenbach to you?'

'I suggest you come and sit beside me, General. Please relax and act casual.'

It was entirely alien to Cartland's nature to relax and 'act casual', but he did his best. He sat and said: 'I repeat, what's Hagenbach to you?'

'Mr Hagenbach is very important to me. He pays my salary when he remembers.'

Cartland looked at him for a long moment then, as if to demonstrate that he was not totally like Hagenbach, he smiled. His smile was nowhere near as frosty as his face. 'Well, well. A friend in need is a friend indeed. Your name?'

'Paul Revson.'

'Revson? Revson! James has talked to me about you. And not only once.'

'Sir, you must be the only person in the United States who knows his first name.'

Cartland nodded his agreement. 'There aren't many around. You know he has you slated for the hot seat in five years' time?'

'I should live that long.'

'Well, well.' Cartland seemed to be very fond of well, well. 'A very neat job of infiltration, if I may say so.'

'The Chief's idea, not mine.' Revson stood up and snapped off some more photographs. He said, apologetically: 'Local colour. You will please not tell any of your colleagues on the Presidential coach — '

'Colleagues? Clowns!'

'You will please not tell any of the clowns that you have met me.'

'I retract my remark. The President is a personal friend.'

'That is known, sir. The President and the clowns. I would not include the Mayor among the latter. If you want to talk to them privately, take a walk. Your coach is bugged.'

'If you say so, Revson.'

'I know so, sir. There's a tape recorder whirling away busily in the rear coach. You heard it. I didn't'

'I heard it. I've never heard of you.'

'General Cartland, you should join our organization.'

'You think?'

'I retract in turn. A Chief of Staff can go nowhere except down.'

Cartland smiled again.' To mint a new phrase, tell me all.'

Revson stood, walked away some paces, took more pictures, returned, sat down and told all. When he had finished, General Cartland said: 'What do you want me to do?'

'I don't want. One does not give instructions to the Chief of Staff.'

'The Chief of Staff became the Chief of Staff. The point, Revson.'

'Take your sedentary friends for a walk. Tell them about the coach being bugged. Tell them how to identify their own safe food trays.'

'No problem. That all?'

'One last thing, General Cartland. I'm a bit hesitant about this, but as you would say, to the point. It is known — at least I know — that you habitually carry a gun.'

'Past tense. I have been relieved of it.'

'You still have your holster?'

'I have.'

'I'll give you a replacement that will fit very snugly into your.22.'

'You do your homework, Revson. It will be a pleasure.'

'The bullets are cyanide-tipped, sir.'

Cartland didn't hesitate. 'Still a pleasure.'