The Golden Gate

EIGHT

The evening meal wagon arrived at seven-thirty. The occupants of the Presidential coach were close to the north painted barrier, huddled in what appeared to be deep conversation. April Wednesday, under the watchful eye of a guard, made her quiet way towards the ambulance. Revson sat, apparently half-dozing, in a chair. He started as a hand touched his shoulder.

'Food, my China-bound friend.' Branson, with his smile.

Revson sat upright 'Wine, one trusts?'

'The best vintages that money can buy.'

'Whose money?'

'Irrelevancies bore me.' Branson was regarding him with an appraising eye.

Revson stood and looked around him. 'Your honoured guests along there-'

'They are being informed.'

'You might have at least given them time to have their pre-dinner cocktail. Well, not the President's Arab friends-'

'Time for that. The food is in hot cupboards.' Branson did some more appraisal. 'You know, Revson, you interest me. You might even say you intrigue me. There's a certain — what shall I call it — intransigence about you. I still don't see you as a man behind a camera.'

'And I don't see you as the man behind the most massive hold-up of all time. Too late for you to go back to Wall Streef'

Branson clapped Revson on the shoulder. 'On behalf of the President, let's go and sample some of the superior vintages.'

'Explain yourself.'

'Who knows what our Medici friends in the Presidio might be up to?'

'I hadn't thought of that. You trust nobody?'

'No.'

'Me? A guinea-pig?'

'Yes. You and Cartland make me uneasy.'

'A weakness. You should never confess to them. Lead on, MacDuff.'

Arrived at the meal wagon Branson said to the white and blue striped attendant: 'Your name?'

The attendant gave an odd sort of sketchy salute. 'Tony, Mr Branson.'

'What wines do you have?'

'Three reds, three white, Mr Branson.'

'Array them before us, Tony. Mr Revson here is an internationally-known sommelier. A judge of wine, in other words.'

'Sir.'

Six bottles and six glasses appeared on the counter. Revson said: 'Just a quarter in each glass. I don't want to fall off the bridge during the night. Have you bread and salt?'

'Yes, Mr Revson.' Tony clearly regarded himself as being in the presence of lunatics.

Interspersed with the bread and salt Revson sampled all six vintages. At the end he said: 'All uniformly excellent. I must tell the French vintners about this. The best Californian matches up with the best French.'

Branson said: 'It would appear that I owe you an apology, Revson.'

'No way. Let's do it again. Or will you join me in one of the — ah — approved wines?'

'It would seem safe to do so.' Tony clearly considered himself in the presence of a couple of head cases.

'I suggest one of your own. A Camay Beaujolais from your Almaden vineyards.'

'Ah,' Branson pondered. 'Tony?'

'Mr Revson has excellent taste, sir.'

They consumed their wines in a leisurely fashion. Branson said: 'I agree with both of your assessments. You are ready to serve dinner, Tony?'

'Yes, sir.' He smiled. 'I have already served one. About twenty minutes ago, I'd say. Mr Hansen. He snatched a plate and said that as the energy czar he needed energy.'

'It figures.' Branson turned a lazy head. 'In the coach, I presume?'

'No, sir. He took his tray across to the east crash barrier. There.' He followed his pointing finger then softly said: 'Jesus!'

'Jesus what?'

'Look.'

They looked. Hansen, slowly toppling off the barrier, fell to the roadway and lay there, his body jerking. Branson and Revson crossed the six road lanes and reached him in as many seconds.

Hansen was vomiting violently. They spoke to him, but he seemed incapable of answering. His body went into strange and frightening convulsions.

Revson said: 'Stay here. I'll get O'Hare.'

O'Hare and April were together in the ambulance when he arrived. Understandably enough, he was welcomed with lifted eyebrows.

Revson said: 'Quickly. I think that Mr Hansen — hungry, it seems-picked up the wrong dinner tray. He looks in pretty bad shape to me.'

O'Hare was on his feet. Revson barred his way.

'I think your Dr Isaacs has stirred up a more powerful brew than he imagined. If this is the effect it has — well, I want you to go across there and diagnose some form of food poisoning. Call in some chemical analyst or whatever you call them. Nobody, but nobody, must touch that food again. I don't want wholesale murder on my hands.'

'I understand.' O'Hare picked up his emergency bag and left at speed.

April said: 'What's gone wrong, Paul?'

'I don't know. Some foul-up. Maybe I'm to blame. Stay here.'

When he arrived across the bridge Branson was standing upright and O'Hare slowly straightening. Revson looked at them both then addressed himself to O'Hare. 'Well?'

O'Hare let go the limp wrist he was holding. 'I'm afraid that Mr Hansen is dead.'

'Dead?' For once, Branson was clearly shocked. how can he be dead?'

'Please. For the moment, I'm in charge. This plastic centre plate is almost empty. I assume that Hansen ate it all.'

O'Hare bent over the dead man and breathed deeply. His nose wrinkled. Very slowly, he straightened again.

'Can't be salmonella. That takes time. Not even botulinus. It's quick, but not this quick.' O'Hare looked at Branson. 'I want to talk to the hospital.'

'I don't understand. Perhaps you'd like to talk to me first?'

O'Hare sounded weary. 'I suppose. The smell — it comes from the pancreas — is unmistakable. Some form of food poisoning. I don't know. Doctors have their specialities and this is not one of mine. The hospital, please.'

'You don't mind if I listen in?'

'Listen in all you want.'

O'Hare was on the phone in the rear end of the Presidential coach. Branson held the President's side-phone. Revson sat in the next deeply upholstered chair.

O'Hare said: 'How long will it take you to contact Hansen's private physician?'

'We're in contact now.'

'I'll wait.'

They all waited. They all looked at one another, while carefully not looking at one another. The phone became activated again.

'O'Hare?'

'Sir?'

'Hansen is — was — just recovering from his second — and almost fatal — heart attack.'

'Thank you, sir. That explains everything.'

'Not quite.' Branson was his old balanced self again. 'I want two analytical chemists out here to determine the source of this infection, if that's what you would call it. The food tray, I mean. Separate examinations. If they disagree, one of them is going to go over the side.'

O'Hare sounded even more weary. 'Such specialists we have in San Francisco. I know two of the top people. The only thing they have in common is their total disagreement with each other.'

'In which case they will both be thrown over the side. You will accompany them. Make contact now.'

O'Hare made contact. Revson said to Branson: 'Only an American would have this gift for making friends and influencing people.'

'I'll talk to you later. O'Hare?'

'They'll come. Only if you promise immunity. Damn it all and to hell, Branson, why should their lives be put at risk?'

Branson considered. 'Their lives will not be put at risk. Leave that phone. I want it.' He made a signal through the window. After a few seconds, Van Effen entered. He was carrying his Schmeisser in a rather unsympathetic manner. Branson moved to the rear.

He said: 'Let me talk to Hendrix.'

Not more than two seconds elapsed before Hendrix was on the phone.

'Hendrix?' Branson was his usual unemotional self. 'I have promised immunity to the doctors coming out here. I want you and the Vice-President to accompany them.' There was a brief delay, then Hendrix came through again on the intercom.

'Mr Richards agrees. But you are not to hold the Vice-President as a hostage.'

'I agree in turn.'

'Your word?'

'For what it's worth. You have to believe me, don't you? You're in no position to bargain.'

'No position. I have a dream, Branson.'

'I know. But I think handcuffs are so inelegant. I will see you in a very few minutes. Send out the TV truck. Alert the networks.'

'Again?'

'I think it very important that the nation should be made aware of the establishment's modus operandi,' Branson rested the phone.

In the communications wagon just off the Presidio, Hendrix in turn, rested his phone and looked at the six men clustered around him. He addressed himself to Hagenbach.

'Well, you have it. Hansen dead. Nobody's fault, really. How was anybody to know that he had a critical heart condition? And how — and why — did nobody know about it?'

Hagenbach said heavily: 'I knew. Like nearly all senior Government officials Hansen was intensely secretive about his physical health. He was in Bethscda twice in the last nine months and the second time was touch and go. It was reported that he was receiving treatment for overwork, exhaustion. So I think if anyone is to blame it's me.'

Quarry said: 'You're talking nonsense and you know it. Who could possibly have foreseen this? It's not your fault and it's certainly not Dr Isaacs's fault He told us the drug was perfectly safe for any normal healthy adult. You cannot question the judgement of a man of his reputation. He wasn't to know that Hansen wasn't a normal healthy adult far less anticipating that Hansen would misguidedly pick up the wrong plate. And what's going to happen now?'

Hendrix said: 'It's obvious what's going to happen now. We seven are going to be publicly indicted as murderers.'

The TV crew had arrived on the centre of the bridge but were, momentarily, inactive. The two specialist doctors were analysing the food and, despite O'Hare's predictions, for once seemed to be agreeing with each other. The President was talking quietly to the Vice-President. From the expressions on their faces it seemed they didn't have very much to talk about.

Branson was alone with Hendrix in the Presidential coach. Branson said: 'Do you honestly expect me to believe that you and Hagenbach know nothing about this?'

Hendrix said wearily: 'Nothing. There's been a botulinus outbreak down-town in the past few days.' He pointed towards the TV set in the middle of the roadway. 'If you watch that at all, you must have heard of it' He pointed again towards the evening meal wagon where the two doctors were busily at work. They were convinced before arrival what the trouble was.' He refrained from adding that he'd told the doctors to find not more than a dozen cases of poisoning. 'You have lives on your hands, Branson.'

'Don't we all. Get on that phone there. Some more hot meals. The first three, taken by random sample, will be by the President, the King and the Prince. You do understand, don't you?'

Revson was in the ambulance with O'Hare and April Wednesday. She was lying blanket-covered on the hinged-down bed.

She said, drowsily: 'Did you have to do this to me?'

'Yes. You don't like thumb-screws.'

'No. Maybe you're not the monster I thought you were. But Dr O'Hare-'

'Dr O'Hare, as he would say in his own native tongue, is a different kettle of fish. What did Branson say?'

She said sleepily: 'Same cable. Bay side.'

Her eyelids closed. O'Hare took Revson by the arm. His voice was quiet 'Enough.'

'How long?'

'Two hours. Not less.'

'The pens.'

O'Hare withdrew the pens from his clip-board. 'You do know what you're doing?'

'I hope.'

He thought briefly, then said:. 'You're going to be questioned.'

'I know. You want your torch?

'Later.'

Kyienski was the senior of the two doctors examining the food trays. He said to Branson: 'My colleague and I have found twelve infected food trays.'

Branson looked at Van Effen then back at Kyienski. 'That all? Twelve? Not seventeen?'

Kyienski had a grey beard, grey moustache and aquiline aristocratic stare. Twelve. Spoiled meat. Some form of botulinus. You don't even have to taste it You can smell it. Well, I can. Apparently Hansen didn't.'

'Lethal?'

'In this concentration, normally, no. This infected food didn't kill Hansen. Well, not directly. But it was almost certainly responsible for reactivating this long-standing and severe heart ailment which did kill him.'

'What would the effect of this be on the average healthy adult?'

'Incapacitating. Violent vomiting, possibility of stomach haemorrhaging, unconsciousness or something pretty close to it.'

'So a man would be pretty helpless?'

'He'd be incapable of action. Most likely of thought, too.'

'What a perfectly splendid prospect. For some.' Branson looked again at Van Effen. 'What do you think?'

'I think I want to know what you want to know.' Van Effen turned to Kyienski. 'This poison or whatever it is — could it have been deliberately introduced?'

'Who on earth would want to do a thing like that?'

Branson said: 'Answer the question.'

'Any doctor specializing in this field, any research fellow, even a reasonably competent laboratory assistant could produce the necessary toxin culture.'

'But he would have to be a doctor or in some way associated with the medical profession? I mean, this would call for trained knowledge and laboratory facilities?'

'Normally, yes.'

Branson said to the meal wagon attendant: 'Come out from behind that counter, Tony.'

Tony came. His apprehension was unmistakable.

Branson said: 'It's not all that hot, Tony. It's turning quite cool, in fact. Why are you sweating?'

'I don't like all this violence and guns.'

'No one has offered you any violence or even pointed a gun at you, although I'm not saying that both of them aren't going to happen to you in the very near future. I suggest, Tony, that you are suffering from a guilty conscience.'

'Me? Conscience?' Tony actually mopped his brow; if his conscience wasn't troubling him something else clearly was. 'God's sake, Mr Branson.'

'Fairy stories are fairy stories but they don't run to a dozen coincidences at a time. Only a fool would accept that. But there had to be some way of identifying the poisoned plates. What way, Tony?'

'Why don't you leave him alone, Branson?" Vice-President Richards's voice was at once harsh and contemptuous. "He's only a van driver.'

Branson ignored him. 'How were the plates to be identified?'

'I don't know! I don't! I don't even know what you are talking about!'

Branson turned to Kowalski and Peters. 'Throw him into the Golden Gate.' His voice was as level and conversational as ever.

Tony made an animal-like noise but offered no resistance as Kowalski and Peters took an arm apiece and began to march him away. His face was ashen and rivulets of sweat were now pouring down his face. When he did speak his voice was a harsh unbelieving croak.

'Throw me off the bridge! That's murder! Murder! In the name of God I don't know — '

Branson said: 'You'll be telling me next that you have a wife and three kids.'

'I've got nobody.' His eyes turned up in his head and his legs sagged under him until he had to be dragged across the roadway. Both the Vice-President and Hendrix moved in to intercept the trio. They stopped as Van Effen lifted his Schmeisser.

Van Effen said to Branson: 'If there was a way of identifying those plates, that would be important and dangerous information. Would you entrust Tony with anything like that?'

'Not for a second. Enough?'

'He'll tell anything he knows. I suspect it won't be much.' He raised his voice. 'Bring him back.'

Tony was brought back and released. He sagged wearily to the roadway, struggled with difficulty to his feet and clung tremblingly to the luncheon wagonette. His voice shook as much as his frame.

'I know nothing about the plates. I swear it!'

'Tell us what you do know.'

'I thought something was far wrong when they loaded the food into my van.'

'At the hospital?'

'The hospital? I don't work at the hospital. I work for Selzaick.'

'I know them. The caterers for open-air functions. Well?'

'I was told the food was ready when I got there. I'm usually loaded and away in five minutes. This time it took three-quarters of an hour.'

'Did you see anybody from the hospital when you were waiting at Selznick's?'

'Nobody.'

'You'll live a little longer, Tony. Provided you don't eat that damned food of yours.' He turned to O'Hare. 'Well, that leaves only you and the fragile Miss Wednesday.'

'You insinuating that either of us might have been carrying secret instructions from your alleged poisoners?' There was more contempt than incredulity in O'Hare's tone.

'Yes. Let's have Miss Wednesday here.'

O'Hare said: 'Leave her alone.'

'You said'-'who do you think is in charge here?'

'Where a patient of mine is concerned, I am. If you want her here, you'll have to carry her. She's asleep in the ambulance, under heavy sedation. Can't you take my word?'

'No. Kowalski, go check. You know, a couple of stiff fingers in the abdomen.'

Kowalski returned within ten seconds. 'Out like a light.'

Branson looked at O'Hare. 'How very convenient. Maybe you didn't want her subjected to interrogation?'

'You're a lousy psychologist, Branson. Miss Wednesday is not, as you know, cast in the heroic mould. Can you imagine anyone entrusting her with any vital information?' Branson made no reply. 'Apart from that, the only good thing that's ever been said about you is that you never molest women.'

'How do you know that?'

'Chief of Police Hendrix told me. He seems to know a lot about you.'

'You confirm that, Hendrix?'

Hendrix was curt. 'Why shouldn't I?'

Branson said: 'So that leaves only you, Doctor.'

'As a prime suspect? You're losing your grip.' He nodded at Hansen's sheet-covered form on a stretcher. 'I don't want to sound sanctimonious but as a doctor my job is to save lives, not take them away. I have no wish to be struck off the Medical Register. Besides, I haven't left the ambulance since before the food wagon arrived. I couldn't very well be there identifying your damned food trays and be in the ambulance at the same time.'

Branson said: 'Kowalski?'

'I can vouch for that, Mr Branson.'

'But you were talking to people after you returned and before the food wagon arrived.'

Kowalski said: 'He did. To quite a few people. So did Miss Wednesday.'

'We can forget her. The good doctor here.'

'A fair number of people.'

'Anyone in particular? I mean long earnest chats, that sort of thing?'

'Yes.' Kowalski appeared to be extremely observant or have an uncomfortably good memory or both. 'Three. Two with Miss Wednesday-'

'Forget the lady. She'd plenty of time to talk to him in the ambulance to and from hospital. Who else?'

'Revson. A long talk.'

'Overhear anything?'

'No. Thirty yards away and downwind.'

'Anything pass between them?'

'No.' Kowalski was definite.

Branson said to O'Hare: 'What did you talk about?'

'Medical privilege.'

'You mean mind my own damned business?'

O'Hare said nothing. Branson looked at Revson.

'No medical privileges,' Revson said. 'Cabbages and kings. I've talked to at least thirty people, including your own men, since we arrived. Why single this out as a special case?'

'I was hoping you could tell me.'

'There's nothing to tell.'

'You're pretty cool, aren't you?'

'A clear conscience. You should try it some time.'

'And, Mr Branson.' Kowalski again. 'Revson also had a long talk with General Cartland.'

'Oh. More cabbages and kings, General?'

'No. We were discussing the possibilities of ridding this bridge of some of its more undesirable elements.'

'Coming from you, I can well believe it A fruitful talk?'

Cartland looked at him in icy silence.

Branson looked thoughtfully at Van Effen. 'I have a feeling, just a feeling, mind you, that we have an infiltrator in our midst.'

Van Effen gazed at him with his impassive moonface and said nothing.

Branson went on: 'I think that would rule out the doctor. Apart from the fact that we've checked out on his credentials, I have the odd instinct that there is a trained agent loose on this bridge. That again would rule out O'Hare, who's just here by happenstance anyway. You share my instinct?'

'Yes.'

'Who?'

Van Effen didn't hesitate. 'Revson.'

Branson beckoned Chrysler. 'Revson here claims to be an accredited correspondent of The Times of London. How long would it take you to check that out?'

'Using the Presidential tele- communications?'

'Yes.'

'Minutes.'

Revson said: 'I suppose I'm supposed to show a degree of high indignation, but I won't bother. Why me? Why assume it's any of the news media members? Why not one ef your own men?'

'Because I hand-picked them personally.'

'Just the same way that Napoleon did his marshals. And look how many of them turned against him in the end. How you can expect devoted loyalty from a bunch of cut-throats like this, however hand-picked, is beyond me.'

'You'll do for the moment,' Van Effen said comfortably. He touched Branson's arm and pointed to the west. 'We may not have all that much time.'

'You're right.' Dark, heavy, ominous clouds were rolling in from the Pacific, although still some miles distant. 'The audiences wouldn't like it at all if they were to see their President and Vice-President, not to mention their oil friends, sitting here getting soaked in a thunderstorm. Ask Johnson to organize the cameras and the seating.' He waited thoughtfully until Van Effen had done this then took him across to where Revson was standing alone. He said to Van Effen: 'Revson tells me that you have already searched his camera.

'Yes. But I didn't take it to pieces.'

'Maybe we should.'

'And maybe you shouldn't.' For once, Revson let anger show. 'Do you know that it takes a man five years' training to learn just how to assemble one of those cameras? I'd rather you kept the damned thing for the duration of our stay here than have it ruined.'

'Call his bluff and have it stripped,' Branson said.

'I agree.' Van Effen said to Revson, almost soothingly, 'We'll have Chrysler do it. He's as close to a mechanical genius as anyone I know. It will be intact' To Branson he said: 'I've also searched his carry-all, the upholstery of his seat, below the seat and the rack above. Clean.'

'Search him.'

'Search me?' More than a trace of truculence remained in Revson's face. 'I've already been searched.'

'For weapons only.'

If there had been a grain of rice on Revson's person, including inside the coat lining, Van Effen wouldn't have missed it. Apart from keys, coins and an inoffensive little knife, all he came up with were papers.

'The usual,' Van Effen said. 'Driving licence, social security, credit cards, press cards — '

'Press cards,' Branson said. 'Any of them identify him with the London Times?'

'There's this.' Van Effen handed the card across to Branson. 'Looks pretty kosher to me.'

'If he is who or what we think he might be, he wouldn't be likely to hire the worst forger in town.' He handed the card back, a slight frown on his face. 'Anything else?'

'Yes.' Van Effen opened a long envelope. 'Airline ticket. For Hong Kong.'

'It wouldn't be dated for tomorrow?'

'It is. How did you know?'

'He told me so himself. What do you think?'

'I don't know.' For a moment, as Van Effen idly fingered Revson's felt pens both he and Branson were only a heart's beat from death. But Van Effen, his mind on something else, reclipped them and opened Revson's passport. He flipped rapidly through the pages. 'Certainly gets around. Lots of South-East Asia passports, last about two years ago. Near East immigration stamps galore. Not many European or London stamps, but that signifies nothing. They are an idle bunch across there and British and most European-Western European — passport officers only stamp your passports if they feel in need of the exercise. How does it all sound to you?'

'Ties in with his own claims, what he told me himself. You?'

'If he's a bad one, I would call this an excessive cover-up. Why not Milwaukee? Or even San Francisco?'

Branson said: 'You a San Franciscan?'

'By adoption.'

Van Effen said: 'Who'd spend a dozen years traveling the world just to establish a background, an alibi like this?'

Chrysler came up. Branson looked at him in slight surprise. 'Through already?'

'The President has a hot line to London. I hope you don't mind. Revson's clean. He's a fully accredited correspondent of the London Times.'

Revson said to Chrysler: 'Branson wants you to take my camera to pieces. There's a time-bomb or a radio inside it Watch you don't blow yourself up. After that, you'd better make damn sure you put it all together again.'

Chrysler received Branson's nod, smiled, took the camera and left Revson said: 'Will that be all? Or do you want to unscrew my false heels?'

Branson wasn't amused. 'I'm still not satisfied. How am I to know that Kylenski here is not in cahoots with the poisoners? How am I to know that he was not instructed to find only a dozen poisoned plates so as to kill our suspicions? There should have been seventeen tampered trays. There should — there must be someone on the bridge capable of identifying them. I want you, Revson, to sample one of the trays that Kylenski has declared safe.'

'You want me — you want to kill me off with botulinus on the off-chance that Kylenski has made a mistake? I'm damned if I will. I'm no human guinea-pig.'

'Then we'll try some of them out on the President and his oil friends here. Royal guinea-pigs, if you will. This should make medical history. If they resist, we'll force-feed them.'

Revson was about to make the obvious point that they could force-feed him equally well but immediately changed his mind. Cartland had not yet had the opportunity to inform those in the Presidential coach as to how the infected trays could be identified: O'Hare apart, he was the only one who could. Revson turned his palms upwards. 'God knows what you're after but I trust the two doctors here. If they say there are so many uncontaminated trays, then I believe them. So you can have your plebeian guinea-pig.'

Branson looked at him closely. 'Why have you changed your mind?'

Revson said conversationally: 'You know, Branson, you're endlessly over-suspicious. From the expression of your lieutenant, Van Effen there, I would say that he agrees with me.' No harm could come, Revson thought, from sowing the odd seed of dissention. 'Some people might even interpret it as a sign of weakness, of uncertainty. I'm agreeing because I don't care so much for you. A chink in everybody's armour. I'm beginning to believe that your belief in your own infallibility may rest on rather shaky ground. Besides, plebs are expendable: Presidents and kings are not.'

Branson smiled his confident smile and turned to Tony. 'Lay out ten of the uncontaminated plates on the counter.' Tony did so. 'Now, Revson, which one would you care to sample?'

'You're slipping, Branson. You've still the lingering suspicion that I might be able to identify the poisoned trays. Suppose you choose for me?' Branson nodded and pointed at one of the trays. Revson moved forward, lifted the indicated tray and sniffed it slowly and cautiously. The surreptitious movements of his finger-tips found no traces of tiny indentations on the underside of the plastic lugs. This tray was clean. He took a spoon, dug into the centre of what looked like a browned-over cottage pie, and sampled the meat. He grimaced, chewed, swallowed, then repeated the process. He laid down the tray in disgust.

Branson said: 'Not to your liking?'

'If I were in a restaurant I'd send this back to the kitchen. Better, I'd take it there and empty it over the chef's head — not that the person who made this could ever be called a chef.'

'Contaminated, you'd think?'

'No. Just plain bloody lousy.'

'Perhaps you'd care to sample another one?'

'No, I would not. Besides, you said, just one sample.'

Branson said persuasively: 'Come on. Be co-operative.'

Revson scowled but co-operated. This tray, too, was clean. He went through the same performance and had no sooner done so when Branson handed him a third tray.

This one had indentations on the underside of the lugs.

Revson broke the skin, sniffed suspiciously, tasted a little and at once spat it out. 'I don't know whether this is contaminated or not, but it tastes and smells even lousier than the other two. If that's possible.' He pushed the tray under Kylenski's hose, who sniffed it and passed it across to his colleague.

Branson said: 'Well?'

Kylenski was hesitant. 'Could be. A marginal, a border-line case. It would require lab. testing.' He looked thoughtfully at Revson. 'Do you smoke?'

'No.'

'Drink?'

'Birthdays and funerals only.'

Kylenski said: 'That could account for it. Some non-smokers and non- drinkers can have an extraordinarily acute sense of taste and smell. Revson is obviously one of those.'

Without consulting anyone, Revson examined another six trays. He pushed them all away and turned to Branson. 'My opinion, for what it's worth?' Branson nodded. 'Most — not all, but most — of those trays are off. With some, you've almost got to imagine it. Others stink. I think the whole damn lot is contaminated. In varying degrees.'

Branson looked at Kylenski. 'Possible?'

Kylenski looked uncomfortable. 'It happens. Botulinus can vary widely in its degree of concentration. Only last year there was a double family outing in New England. Ten in all. Among other things, they had sandwiches. Again the botulinus bug. Five died, two were slightly ill, three unaffected, But the sandwiches were all spread with the same meat paste.'

Branson and Van Effen walked apart. Van Effen said: 'Enough?'

'You mean you see no point in going ahead with this?'

'You stand to lose credibility, Mr Branson.'

'I agree. I'm not happy about it, but I agree. Trouble is, we've really, basically, only got Revson's word for it.'

'But he's identified twenty — in all — contaminated trays, three more than was necessary.'

'Who says so? Revson?'

'After all the proofs, you still don't trust him?'

'He's too cool, too relaxed. He's obviously highly trained, highly competent — and I'm damned sure that it's not in photography.'

'He could be in that, too.'

'I wouldn't doubt it.'

'So you're still going to treat this as a case of deliberate poisoning?'

'Where our vast viewing public is concerned? Who's to gainsay me? There's only one mike and it's in my hand.'

Van Effen looked towards the south tower. 'Food wagon number two on its way.'

Branson had the TV cameras, the honoured guests, the newspapermen and still cameramen in position in very short order indeed. The black thunderous clouds from the west were steadily marching in on them. Among those seated, the only difference in composition was that Hansen's seat had been taken over by the Vice-President. The cameras were turning and Branson, seated next to the President, was talking into the microphone.

He said: 'I am calling upon all viewers in America and throughout the world to be witnesses to a particularly heinous crime that has been committed upon this bridge just over an hour ago, a crime that I trust will persuade you that not all criminals are those who stand without the law. I would ask you to look at this food wagon which, as you can see, has its counter covered with food trays. Harmless, if not particularly appetizing food trays, you would think, such as any major airline would serve up to its passengers. But are they really harmless?' He turned to the man on his ether side and the camera was now back on them. This is Dr Cylenski, a leading forensic expert on the West Coast. A specialist in poisons. Are those trays really harmless, Dr Kylenski?'

'No.'

'You'll have to speak up, Doctor.'

'No. They are not harmless. Some are contaminated.'

'How many?'

'Half. Maybe more. I have no laboratory resources to hand.'

'Contaminated. That means infected. What are they infected with. Doctor?'

'A virus. Botulinus. A major source of severe food poisoning.'

'How severe? Can it be deadly?'

'Yes.'

'Frequently?'

'Yes.'

'Normally it occurs naturally-spoiled food, things like that?'

'Yes.'

'But a culture of it can be manufactured synthetically or artificially in a laboratory.'

That's putting it very loosely.'

'We're talking primarily to laymen.'

'Yes.'

'And it could be injected synthetically into already prepared but otherwise harmless food?'

'I suppose so.'

'Yes or no?'

'Yes.'

'Thank you, Dr Kylenski. That will be all.'

Revson, still without his camera, was standing by the ambulance with O'Hare. 'For a person who's never been inside a court-room, Branson seems to have mastered the prosecuting counsel bit pretty well.'

'It's all this TV.'

Branson said: 'I put it to all of you who are watching that the authorities — military, police, FBI, Government or whoever — have made a deliberate attempt to murder or at least incapacitate those of us who have taken over the Presidential entourage and this bridge. There must be someone on this bridge who knew how to identify poisoned trays and see that they fell into the right hands — that is. the hands of my colleagues and myself. The attempt, fortunately, failed, but there has been one casualty whom I shall mention later.

'Meantime, I would draw your attention to the fact that a second food wagon has arrived.' A camera obligingly drew the viewers' attention to this fact. 'It seems incredible that the authorities would be so obtuse as to try the same gambit again but, on the other hand, they have already shown that they are incredibly obtuse. So we are going to select three trays at random and offer them to the President, King and Prince. If they survive, we may reasonably assume that the food is uncontaminated. If, on the other hand, they become seriously ill — or worse — the world will know that the guilt cannot be laid at our door. We are in permanent radio-telephone contact with the police and military authorities ashore. They have one minute to tell us whether this food is contaminated or not.'

Mayor Morrison was on his feet. Van Effen lifted his Schmeisser fractionally but Morrison ignored him. He said to Branson: 'Apart from the personal indignity and affront you are heaping on the President and his royal guests couldn't you pick someone a bit lower down the scale for your experiment?'

'Such as yourself?'

'Such as myself.'

'My dear Mayor, your personal courage is beyond dispute. That is well known. Your intelligence, however, isn't. If anyone is to be put to the test it will be the three men who are probably the most important in the United States today. Their untimely disappearance from the scene would have the maximum inhibiting effect on would-be poisoners. In the olden days, the serfs tasted the food of their rulers: I find it rather amusing that the roles should be reversed. Please sit'

'Megalomaniac bastard,' Revson said.

O'Hare nodded. 'He's all of that but a lot more. He knows damn well there isn't a chance in the world of the food being spiked but he's going through the charade all the same. He's not only enjoying his own showmanship, he's getting a positively sadistic kick out of it all, particularly in humiliating the President.'

'You think he's sick? In the head? Certifiably, I mean?'

'I'm no psychiatrist. He could get all he wants without those histrionics and TV spectaculars. What's for sure, he's got a grudge against society in general and the President in particular. Certainly, he's in it for the money, but he's in it for something else: as if he wanted to become a nationally — or internationally — recognized figure.'

'In that case, he's made a fair start. In fact, he's gone as far as he can go. Now it seems as if he's overcompensating for something. Lord knows what.'

They watched three trays of food being brought towards the rows of chairs. O'Hare said: 'Reckon they'll sample that stuff?'

'They'll eat it. In the first place, they couldn't bear the indignity of being force-fed in front of hundreds of millions of viewers. The President's courage is known well enough — you will remember his record during World War Two in the Pacific. Again, as President, he has to give a lead to the nation — if he refused to eat while his oil friends did, he'd be a dead duck at the next election. Conversely, his oil friends would lose face if the President ate and they didn't.'

They ate. After Chrysler had given a negative signal from the Presidential coach, Branson nodded towards the trays. The President — inevitably, he was not a man to be upstaged by any one — was the first to get busy with knife and fork. It could hardly be said that he ate with unrestrained gusto but he plodded along stolidly enough and had finished more than half his meal before he laid down his eating tools.

Branson said: 'Well?'

'I wouldn't offer it to my guests in the White House but it's palatable enough.' In spite of the deep humiliation he must have been experiencing, the President was maintaining a remarkable degree of sang-froid. 'A little wine would have helped, though.'

'You shall have as much as you want in a few moments. I imagine a great number of people are also going to feel like a restorative pretty soon, too. Incidentally, if you people are still interested, we shall be fixing our second strap of explosives at nine o'clock tomorrow morning. Our time, of course. And now, could we have the cameras on that stretcher there.'

Two men stood at the head of the canvas-shrouded stretcher. At a word from Branson they pulled back the top section of the canvas. The cameras zoomed in on the pallid, haggard face of the dead man, held it for all of ten interminable and hushed seconds, then returned to Branson.

He said: 'John Hansen, your energy czar. Death certified as due to botulinus poisoning. For what may be the first time in history a wanted criminal accuses the legal authorities of murder. Second degree murder it may be, but I nevertheless indict them on a charge of murder.'

Hagenbach was in full vitriolic flow. Some phrases like 'evil, twisted, macabre, vicious bastard' were just identifiable, but the rest was wholly unprintable. Newson, Carter, Milton and Quarry were momentarily silent but their faces showed clearly enough that they totally identified themselves with Hagenbach's expressed convictions. Hagenbach, being only human, finally ran out of breath.

'He's made us look very very bad indeed.' In the circumstances, Milton's restraint was remarkable.

'Bad?' Quarry looked around for another word then gave up. 'If he pulls another one like this — if we pull another one like this — Branson will have half the nation on his side. What's to do next?'

Hagenbach said: 'Wait till we hear from Revson.'

'Revson?' Admiral Newson seemed unenthusiastic. 'He's hardly distinguished himself so far.'

'A hundred to one it wasn't Revson's fault,' Hagenbach said. 'And don't forget the final decision was ours. We bear a collective responsibility, gentlemen.'

They sat around the table bearing this intolerable responsibility, each one an Atlas bearing his own private world on his shoulders.