The Golden Gate

ELEVEN

The only thing Revson was thinking about was how very pleasant it would be to have a few hours' blissful sleep. He'd dragged an already stirring Johnson from his cramped position in front of the driver's seat and propped him on the second step of the coach entrance, head and shoulders resting more or less comfortably against the hand-rail. A minute or two. Revson thought, and he would come to. Even Bartlett was beginning to stir restlessly in his drugged sleep. Different people reacted widely in the length of time it took them to recover from the effect of the knock-out needles. Johnson and Bartlett appeared to have very similar reaction times.

Revson moved silently down the aisle. April Wednesday was wide awake. She swung out to let him pass to the inside seat then sat again. Before removing his soaking coat and dumping it on the floor, he passed her the aerosol. She stooped and thrust it in the bottom of her carry-all. She whispered: 'I didn't think I'd see you again. How did it go?'

'Well enough.'

'What happened?'

'You want to know? Really?'

She thought and shook her head. There were still visions of thumb-screws in her head. Instead, she said softly: 'What's that round your neck?'

'Good God!' From sleepiness Revson was jerked into immediate wide-awakeness. The little transceiver still dangled from his neck. What a sight for a roving Branson. He lifted the transceiver from his neck, undipped the straps, picked up his camera and inserted the radio in its base.

She said: 'What's that?'

'Just a teeny-weeny hand camera.'

'It's not. It's a radio.'

'Call it what you like.'

'Where did you get it from? I mean, this coach — everything — has been searched from top to bottom.'

'From a passing friend. I have friends everywhere. You may well have saved my life there. I could kiss you for it'

'Well?'

When it came to kissing she was nowhere near as fragile as she looked. Revson said: 'That was the nicest part of the whole evening. Of the whole day. Of a whole lot of days. Some day, some time, when we get off this damned bridge, we must try that again.'

'Why not now?'

'You're a brazen — ' He caught her arm and nodded. Somewhere up front someone was stirring. It was Johnson. He rose to his feet with surprising quickness and looked up and down the bridge. Revson could just picture what was going on in his mind. His last recollection would have been of seeing the steps of the lead coach and his natural assumption would be that he had just sat down for a moment to rest. One thing was for sure, he would never admit to Branson that he'd slept for even a second. He stepped into the bus and prodded Bartlett with the muzzle of his machine-gun. Bartlett started awake and stared at him.

'You asleep?' Johnson demanded.

'Me? Asleep?' Bartlett was amazed, indignant. 'Can't a man rest his eyes for a moment without having accusations like that thrown at him?'

'Just see that you don't rest them for too long.' Johnson's voice was coldly self-righteous. He descended the steps and walked away.

Revson murmured to April: 'I was sleepy but I'm not now. But I not only want to appear to be asleep, I want to be asleep if any turmoil breaks out in the very near future, which I strongly suspect might happen. Don't happen to have any sleeping tablets on you, do you?'

'Why on earth should I? This was supposed to be a day trip, remember.'

'I remember.' He sighed. 'Well, there's nothing else for it. Give me the aerosol can.'

'Why?'

'Because I want to take just the tiniest whiff of It. Then take the can from my hand and tuck it away again.'

She hesitated.

'Remember this dinner — those lots of dinners — I'm going to take you to just as soon as we get ashore.'

'I don't remember anything of the kind.'

'Well, remember it now. But I can't very well take you if I'm at the bottom of the Golden Gate, can I?' She shuddered and reached reluctantly into her carry-all.

In the rear coach Chrysler put his hand on Branson's shoulder and shook him gently. Branson, despite what must have been his exhaustion, was immediately awake, immediately alert.

'Trouble?'

'I don't know. I'm worried, Mr Branson. Van Effen left here just, he said, to make a normal check on things. He hasn't come back.'

'How long ago was that?'

'Half an hour, sir.'

'God. Chrysler, why didn't you wake me before now?'

'Two things. I knew you needed sleep and we all depend on you. And if ever I knew a man who could take care of himself it's Van Effen.'

'He was carrying his machine-pistol?'

'Have you ever seen him without it since we came on this bridge?'

Branson rose from his seat, picked up his own gun and said: 'Come with me. Did you see which way he went?'

'North.'

They walked to the Presidential coach. Peters, the guard, was sitting sideways in the driver's seat, smoking. He turned quickly as a gentle tap came on the door, removed a key from an inner pocket and turned it in the lock. Branson opened the door from the outside and said quietly: have you seen any signs of Van Effen?' He could, in fact, have raised his voice a couple of dozen decibels and it would have made no difference: when it comes to the terms of stertorous snoring, presidents, royalty, generals, mayors and assorted government ministers are no different from the common run of mankind.

'Yes, Mr Branson. Must have been about half an hour ago. I saw him walk towards the nearest rest room there.'

'Did you see him come out again?'

'No. Quite frankly, I wasn't looking outside. I don't bother much. My job is to see that none of those gentlemen makes for the communications desk or rushes me and takes away my gun and key. I don't much fancy having my own gun pointed at my own head. I keep my eyes for what goes on inside this coach not what goes on outside it.'

'And right you are. No reflections on you, Peters.' Branson closed the door and heard the key turn in the lock. They made for the nearest rest room. A very brief search indicated that it was empty. So was the other rest room. They made their way to the ambulance. Branson opened the rear door, used a small torch to locate a switch and flooded the ambulance with light. A shirt-sleeved O'Hare covered with a single blanket, was sound asleep on the side-hinged cot. Branson shook him awake. It took some shaking.

O'Hare opened the rather bleary eyes, winced at the bright overhead light, looked at the two men then at his watch.

'Quarter to one! What the hell do you want at this time of the morning?'

'Van Effen's missing. Have you seen him?'

'No, I haven't seen him." O'Hare showed a faint stirring of what could have been professional interest. 'Was he sick or something?"

'No.'

'Then why bother me? Perhaps,' O'Hare said hopefully,'he's fallen over the side.'

Branson studied the doctor briefly. O'Hare's eyes were slightly puffy, but Branson was experienced enough to realize that it was the puffiness of sleepiness not of sleeplessness. He gestured Chrysler to leave, followed, switched out the light and closed the door behind him.

Johnson, machine-gun slung, was walking towards them. He came up to them, stopped and said: 'Evening, Mr Branson. 'Morning rather.'

'Have you seen Van Effen?'

'Van Effen? When?'

'Inside the past half hour.'

Johnson shook his head positively. 'Definitely not.'

'But he was out on the bridge. You were on the bridge. If he was here, then you must have.'

'Sorry. No. It's possible he was and possible that I didn't see him. I walk to and fro all the time — it's the best way of keeping awake. I don't keep glancing over my shoulder all the time.' Johnson thought or appeared to think. 'He may have been on the bridge but he may have left it. By that I mean he may for reasons best known to himself have chosen to walk on the other side of the buses.'

'Why should he do that?'

'How should I know? Maybe he wanted to keep in concealment. Maybe anything. How should I know what goes on in Van Effen's mind?'

'True.' Branson had no particular wish to antagonize Johnson, who, apart from being an ex-naval officer, was a highly experienced helicopter pilot and an essential part of his escape plans. He said mildly: 'I just suggest that you stand in the middle here and look around from time to time. You're hardly likely to go to sleep on your feet — you're due for relief in fifteen minutes.'

He and Chrysler made their way towards the lead coach. There was a half-dimmed light up front and they could see the glow of Bartlett's cigar. Branson said: 'Well, at least all the guards seem to be on the alert — which makes it all the more difficult to understand Van Effen's disappearance.'

Bartlett said briskly. 'Morning, Mr Branson. Making your rounds? All's well here.'

'Have you seen Van Effen? In the past half hour?'

'No. You can't find him?'

'Let's say he's missing.'

Bartlett thought. 'I won't ask stupid questions like "How can he be missing?" Who saw him last?'

'Peters. Not that that helps. Anybody left this coach in the past half hour?'

'Nobody's left this coach since we came in after the fire.'

Branson walked back to Revson's seat. April Wednesday was wide awake. Revson, eyes closed, was breathing deeply, heavily. Branson shone the torch in his eyes. There was no reaction. Branson lifted an eyelid. There was no involuntary twitching or muscular resistance in the eyelid which is invariable when the eyelid of a conscious person is raised. Branson concentrated his beam on one eye. A rather glazed eye looked out unseeingly, unblinkingly. Branson dropped the eyelid.

Branson said: 'Out like a light. That's for sure.' If there was disappointment in his voice he concealed it well. 'How long have you been awake. Miss Wednesday?'

'I haven't been to sleep Maybe I shouldn't have come back to the bridge.' She smiled tremulously. 'I'm just a cowardy-custard, Mr Branson. I hate thunderstorms.'

'I'm not going to hurt you, Miss Wednesday.' He reached out a hand and ran a finger gently across her lips while she looked at him in perplexity. Her lips were as dry as dust.

Branson remembered O'Hare's summing up of her emotional and nervous stability or lack of it.

'You were scared.' He smiled and patted her shoulder. 'Not to worry. The storm's almost passed away.' He left.

She was scared, but not for the reasons given. She'd been terrified that Branson would try to shake or even slap Revson awake and find it impossible to arouse him.

Twenty minutes later Branson and Chrysler stood by the doorway of the rear coach. Chrysler said: There's no way he can be on the bridge, Mr Branson.'

'I agree. Let me hear you think aloud, Chrysler.'

Chrysler made a deprecating gesture. 'I'm a follower, not a leader.'

'Nevertheless.'

'I'll try. I can speak freely?' Branson nodded. 'First, Van Effen didn't jump. Not only is he the last person I'd ever associate with suicide, but he was also only days away from a seven-figure fortune. He didn't defect. You said I could speak freely. Again he stood to lose a fortune, he was totally loyal and to defect he'd have had to walk two thousand feet towards either tower and Johnson couldn't have missed that. So he's met with an accident You're sure it couldn't have been the doctor?'

'Positive.'

'And it wasn't Revson. The only other person I could think of is General Cartland. He could be dangerous. But Peters — ' Chrysler broke off and thought. 'You know, Mr Branson, I don't think this would have happened if Kowalski had been on the prowl tonight.' He paused. 'I'm beginning to wonder if Kowalski's accident really was an accident.'

'I have wondered. Your conclusions, Chrysler?'

'Somewhere in this barrel there's another rotten apple. It could be one of us.'

'A disquieting thought but one that has to be considered. Although why anyone should throw away a fortune-'

'Maybe the Government, some way, some how, has promised someone to double their cut if — '

'This is just idle speculation.' Branson's creased brow gave the lie to his words. 'Suspecting everyone in sight only leads to hysteria and hysterics is one thing we can't afford. And your final conclusion on Van Effen?'

'The same as yours. He's at the bottom of the Golden Gate.'

Van Effen was, in fact, seated in the communications wagon ashore. Hageabach and Hendrix were seated across the table from him. Two policemen with drawn guns stood by the doorway. Van Effen wasn't quite his usual expressionless self. He looked slightly dazed, whether from the shock of finding himself in the predicament he was in or because he was still suffering from the after-effects of the gassing was difficult to say.

Van Effen said: 'So I under-estimated Revson?'

'When you get up to San Quentin you'll find quite a few others who will endorse your views.' Hagenbach looked at Van Effen. 'Speaking of San Quentin, you appreciate you can't hope for less than ten years with no hope of remission.'

'There's an occupational hazard in every job.'

'There doesn't have to be.'

'I don't understand you.'

'We can do a deal.'

'No deal.'

'You've nothing to lose and a great deal to gain. Ten years of your life, to be precise.'

'No deal.'

Hagenbach sighed. 'I rather thought that might be your attitude. Admirable but misguided.' He looked at Hendrix. 'You would agree?'

Hendrix said to the policemen: 'Handcuff him and take him to the maximum security wing of the military hospital. Tell the doctors that Mr Hagenbach will be along in a few minutes. Make sure the recorders are working.'

Van Effen said: 'Hospital? Recorders? You mean drugs.'

'If you won't co-operate with us we'll just have to settle for your unwilling co-operation. Unconscious co-operation, if you wish.'

Van Effen cracked his moonface in an almost contemptuous smile. 'You know that no court will accept a confession made under duress.'

'We don't need any confession from you. We already have enough on you to put you away for as long as we wish. We just want a little helpful information from you. A judicious mixture of sodium pentothal and a few other choice herbs will make you sing like a lark.'

'That's as maybe.' The contempt was still in Van Effen's face. 'Even you have to obey the law of the land. Lawmen who extract information by illegal means are subject to automatic prosecution and automatic imprisonment.'

Hagenbach was almost genial. 'Dear me, dear me. I thought even you, Van Effen, would have heard of a Presidential pardon. Or have you forgotten that you kidnapped a President?'

At ten minutes to three that morning an Air Force lieutenant on the south shore twirled two knobs on a highly sophisticated piece of equipment until the cross-hairs on his ultra-violet telescopic sights were lined up dead centre on the centre of Branson's southern-facing searchlight He jabbed a button, just once.

At five minutes to three, three men climbed into a strangely-shaped low-slung vehicle which was concealed from the bridge by the communications truck. A rather nondescript individual in a grey coat climbed behind the wheel while the other two sat in the back seat. They were clad in grey overalls and looked curiously alike. Their names were Carmody and Rogers. They were both in their mid-thirties and looked tough and competent in a rather gentlemanly way. Whether they were gentlemen or not was not known: whether they were tough and competent was beyond dispute. They didn't look like explosives experts but they were that too. Both carried pistols and both carried silencers for those pistols. Carmody carried a canvas bag containing a tool-kit, two aerosol gas cans, a ball of heavy cord, adhesive tape and a torch. Rogers had a similar bag with a walkie-talkie, Thermos and sandwiches. They were obviously well-equipped for whatever task they had in mind and prepared for a stay of some duration.

At three o'clock all the lights on the Golden Gate Bridge and the adjacent parts of the city blacked out. The man in the grey coat started up his flat truck and the electric vehicle whirred almost silently towards the south tower.

The duty policeman picked up the phone in the communications wagon. It was Branson and he wasn't in a jovial mood. 'Hendrix?'

'The Chief is not here.'

'Then get him.'

'If you could tell me what the matter — '

'The bridge lights have gone again. Get him.'

The policeman laid down his phone and walked to the rear of the wagon. Hendrix sat on a stool by the open door, a walkie-talkie in his hand, a cup of coffee in the other. The walkie-talkie crackled.

'Carmody here. Chief. We're inside the tower and Hopkins is half-way back with the electric cart already.'

'Thank you.' Hendrix put down the walkie-talkie. 'Branson? A mite anxious?'

Hendrix finished off his coffee in a leisurely fashion, crossed the wagon, picked up the phone and yawned.

'I was asleep. Don't tell me. The lights are out again. We've been having black-outs all over the city tonight. Hold on.'

In the Presidential coach, Branson held on. Chrysler came running down the aisle. The President looked at him wearily. The oil barons snored steadily on. Branson, phone still in hand, looked round. Chrysler said quickly: 'South searchlight is out of action.'

'It's not possible.' Branson's face was beginning to show deeper lines of strain. 'What's wrong?'

'God knows. It's black out there. Generator seems fine.'

'Then run for the north one and turn it round. No. Wait.' Hendrix was on the phone. 'One minute you say?' He turned to Chrysler. 'Forget it. The lights are coming on again.' Branson spoke into the phone again. 'Don't forget. I want Quarry on this phone at seven sharp.'

Branson replaced the phone and walked up the aisle. The President stopped him.

'When is this nightmare going to stop?'

'That's up to your Government.'

'I've no doubt the Government will accede to your requests. You interest me, Branson, you interest all of us here. Why this bitter grudge against society?'

Branson smiled his empty smile. 'Society I can take or leave.'

'Then why the grudge against me? Why the public humiliation? You've been invariably polite to everyone else. Isn't it enough to hold the nation to ransom without making a fool of me at the same time?'

Branson made no answer.

'You don't like my politics, perhaps?'

'Politics bore me.'

'I was speaking to Hendrix today. He tells me your father is an extremely wealthy banker back east. A multi-millionaire. You envy a man who's made it to the very top. You couldn't wait to inherit his bank and his millions so you took the only other course open to you. Crime. And you haven't made it. And you haven't had recognition — except that of a few top policemen. So you're a failure. So you bear a grudge. So you take it out, symbolically, on America's leading citizen.'

Branson said wearily, 'You, Mr President, are a lousy diagnostician and an even lousier psychiatrist. Okay, okay, insults again, but this is private. You may fear no more the lash of my tongue. But to think that your decisions can affect over two hundred million Americans.'

'What do you mean?'

'It's how wrong you can get. Branson, senior, that model of integrity and propriety, is a double-dyed bastard. He was also — and still is — a double-dyed crook. A renowned investment banker, you understand, but it didn't do his investors much good. They were mainly people of modest means. I at least rob wealthy institutions. I found this out when I worked in his bank. I wouldn't have taken a lousy dollar from him. I didn't even give him the pleasure of disinheriting me. I just told him what I thought of him and his lousy bank and walked out. As for recognition — who wants it?'

'You certainly achieved more in the past eighteen hours than your father did in a lifetime.' The President was understandably sour.

'That's notoriety. Who wants that either? And for money — I already am a multi-millionaire.'

'And still you want more?'

'My motives are my business. Sorry to have interrupted your sleep, sir.' Branson left.

Muir, in the next armchair, said: 'Now, that was rather peculiar.'

'So you weren't asleep?'

'One hates to interrupt. The Branson in the still watches of the night is not the Branson of the daylight hours. Forthcoming, one might almost say. Polite. Almost as if he was seeking for some kind of self-justification. But obviously bitter as hell about something.'

'If he doesn't want recognition and doesn't need the money then what the hell are we doing stuck out on this damned bridge?'

'Ssh. Mayor Morrison might hear you. I don't know. With your permission, Mr President, I'm going back to sleep.'

When Carmody and Rogers reached the top of the south tower and stepped outside the lift, Carmody reached an arm in, pressed a button and withdrew his arm as the door began to close. Both men stepped outside and gazed down silently at the darkened and barely visible bridge some five hundred feet below them. After a minute Carmody withdrew the walkie-talkie from his canvas bag, extended the aerial and said: 'You can cut the power now. The lift's been down for thirty seconds.'

He replaced the walkie-talkie and removed his overalls. Over his purposely-chosen dark shirt he wore a leather harness with a heavy steel buckle at the back. A nylon rope spliced to the buckle was wound several times round his waist. He was in the process of unwinding this when the bridge lights and the aircraft warning lights on top of the towers came on again. Carmody said: 'A chance of our being spotted, you think?'

'Thinking of the aircraft lights?' Carmody nodded. 'No chance. Not from their angle. And I understand their south searchlight isn't working too well.'

Carmody unwound the rest of the rope and passed the end to Rogers. 'A couple of turns, if you would, Charles, then hang on real good.'

'Depend on it. If you take a dive that means I'll have to disarm the damned thing myself — with no one to hold me.'

'We should get danger money for this.'

'You're a disgrace to the Army bomb disposal squad.'

Carmody sighed, moved out on to the giant cable and began to remove the detonators from the explosives.

It was six-thirty in the morning when Revson stirred and woke. He looked at April and saw that her green eyes were on his. There were heavy shadows under her eyes and her normally pale skin was now even more unnaturally so.

He said: 'You don't look to me as if you've rested any too well'

'I didn't sleep all night'

'What? With me here to look after you?'

'It's not me I'm worried about. It's you.'

He said nothing.

'Do you feel hung-over? After your — your sleeping pill?'

'No. Guess I must have slipped into a natural sleep. That all you worried about?'

'No. Branson was here just before one o'clock. He examined your eyes with a torch to see if you were still asleep.'

'No sense of privacy, that man. You'd think — '

'I think he's again cast you in the role of prime suspect.'

'Suspected of what?'

'Van Effen's missing.'

'Is he now?'

'You don't seem much concerned.'

'What's Van Effen to me or me to Van Effen? No more alarms during the night?'

'At three o'clock the bridge lights went off again.'

'Ah!'

'Nothing surprises you much, does it?'

'Why should the lights going out surprise me? Could have been a dozen reasons for it'

'I think the reason is sitting right by me.'

'I was asleep.'

'You weren't asleep when you were out on the bridge at midnight. I'll bet your new little — ah — camera wasn't all that inactive either.' She leaned towards him, her eyes moving from one of his to the other. 'You didn't by any chance just happen to kill Van Effen last night?'

'What do you think I am? A murderer for hire?'

'I don't know what to think. You will not have forgotten that I heard the contents of the message you sent when I was taken to the hospital. I remember the exact words. "Only Branson and Van Effen are natural leaders. Those two I could kill."'

'I did say that. I didn't kill Van Effen last night. My life on it. Van Effen, in my opinion, is alive and well, if not exactly flourishing.'

'That's not what Branson thinks.'

'How should you know that?'

'After Bartlett left — was relieved — '

'Bartlett didn't mention to Branson that he might just possibly have dozed off for a moment?'

'What do you think?'

'Okay, so he was alert and watchful as all hell. And then?'

'And then this — this gorilla came on.' Revson looked at the new guard. Hirsute, incredibly beetle-browed, with a negligible clearance between brows and hairline: April's description didn't flatter gorillas any.

'Yonnie,' Revson said. 'Branson's mobile think-tank.'

'Chrysler came by, more than once. I heard him saying to that man that he and Branson knew that Van Effen was at the bottom of the Golden Gate.'

'I'm looking forward to seeing his face when he finds out, just possibly for the first time in his life, how wrong he can be.'

'You don't want to tell me?'

'No. Neither do you.'

'You seem very sure of yourself.'

'About that, yes.'

'Can you make an end to all this?'

'That, I'm afraid, is another matter.' He thought and smiled. 'If I try very hard, can I take you out for dinner tonight?'

'Tonight!'

'You heard.'

'You can take me to Timbuctoo if you want.'

'Hussies. You can always tell them.'

The phone call-up in the communications centre in the Presidential coach buzzed at exactly seven o'clock. Branson picked it up. 'Yes.'

'Quarry here. We have acceded to your preposterous demands and made the necessary arrangements. We're waiting to hear from your contact in New York.'

'Waiting to hear — you should have heard two hours ago.'

Quarry said wearily: 'We're waiting to hear from him again.'

'When did he call?'

'As you said, two hours ago. He's making some arrangements with what he calls "European friends".'

'He was to have given you a password.'

'He did. Hardly original, I thought. "Peter Branson."'

Branson smiled broadly and replaced the receiver. He was still smiling when he stepped out into the early morning sunlight. Chrysler was there and he wasn't smiling at all. Chrysler was exhausted, he'd temporarily taken over the roles of both Van Effen and Kowalski. But the reason for his worry lay elsewhere. Branson said: 'Money side is all fixed up.'

'That's splendid, Mr Branson.'

Branson's smile disappeared. 'You seem less than overjoyed.'

'There are a couple of things I'd like to show you.'

Chrysler led them to the south-facing searchlight. 'You probably know that a searchlight is not like an ordinary torch or flashlight. I mean it doesn't use lamps. It comes from an electric arm that jumps between two electrodes. Something like the sparking plug in a car except that there the spark is intermittent Here the arc is continuous. Look at the electrode on the left.'

Branson looked. 'It looks as if it's been melted or bent or something like that. And one must assume that those electrodes are designed to withstand the tremendous heat generated by the arc.'

'Precisely. And something you haven't seen. This tiny hole here in the glass.'

'What are you trying to tell me, Chrysler?'

'There's something else.' Chrysler, walking slowly back with Branson, pointed to the roof of the rear coach. 'The radio-wave scanner. It's kaput, knocked out. Since we checked and double-checked that there are no transceivers — apart from ours — on the bridge, we haven't bothered using it. I just happened to check by accident this morning. I went up and had a look. There's a scorch mark on the base of the revolving spindle.'

'Could have been caused by lightning? Both cases? After all, God knows there was plenty of it around last night.'

'I would point out, Mr Branson, that neither the radio-wave scanner or the searchlight are earthed: both are mounted on rubber wheels.'

'The scanner-'

Chrysler said patiently: 'The coach's rubber wheels.'

'Then what?'

'I think they're using a laser beam on us.'

Even at that early hour all seven of the decision-makers ashore were gathered round the table in the communications wagon when the phone rang. The duty policeman picked it up.

'Branson here. Get me General Carter.'

'He can't be far away. Hang on, please.' The policeman covered the mouth-piece. 'It's Branson for you. General.'

'Switch on the speaker so that we can all hear what he has to say. Tell him I've just come in.'

'The General has just arrived.'

Carter took the phone. 'Branson?'

'Carter, use that laser beam on us just once again and we'll throw, say, Mr Muir over the side. For starters.'

The other six at the table looked at one another with quick apprehension and, possibly, the relieved thought in their minds that it was Carter who had to field this one.

'Explain yourself.'

'One of our searchlights and radio-wave scanner have been knocked out. All signs point to a laser beam.'

'You're a fool.'

There was a brief silence. Branson, clearly, had been taken momentarily aback. Then he said: 'Muir won't think so when he's on his way down to the Golden Gate.'

'I repeat you're a fool and if you can listen I'll tell you why. In the first place you're not an expert and wouldn't recognize the signs of laser damage if it was on your breakfast plate. In the second place, there are no such units in the Bay area — if there were I'd be the first person to know. In the third place, if we had laser beams we could have picked out every one of your villains as they walked about the bridge — or don't you know how accurate and deadly a laser beam is? With the proper telescopic sights you can puncture a football at ten thousand yards.'

'You seem to know a suspiciously great deal about lasers, General.' It was a negative remark and Branson could have been either thinking or stalling for time.

'I don't deny it. I've been trained in them, I even helped in the development of them. Every general has his own trade or speciality. General Cartland is an explosives expert. I'm an electronics engineer. Where was I? Yes. In the fourth place we could have immobilized your helicopters without your knowing anything about it until you tried to take off. You're putting ideas into my head, Branson. Lastly, the probable cause was an electrical discharge — lightning.'

'Neither the searchlight nor scanner was earthed. They're mounted on rubber wheels.'

Carter let irritation creep into his voice. 'I'd stick to robbing banks if I were you. You don't have to be earthed to be struck by lightning. It happens to planes hundreds of times a year at altitudes up to twenty-five thousand feet. Would you call those earthed? Lightning has also quite an affinity for metal.' He paused. 'Of course, you have a generator for your searchlight, almost certainly a petrol generator and as you wouldn't want to be asphyxiated by carbon monoxide fumes you wouldn't have it inside a coach. Tell me, do you also use the generator to recharge your coach batteries — through a transformer, I mean?'

There was the barest pause then Branson said: 'Yes.'

Carter sighed. 'Must I do all the thinking for you, Branson? There you have a massive great lump of metal solidly earthed to the roadway and directly connected to both searchlight and scanner. What a target for any wandering lightning flash. Would there be anything more?'

'Yes. Pass the word that I want the TV cameras in position and ready at nine a.m.'

Carter hung up. Richards said approvingly: 'Quite a performance for the crack of dawn. Takes more than a few stars to make a general, I suppose. I have a feeling that our Branson must be feeling more than a little harried by this time. And when shall we be giving our own TV performance?'

Hagenbach said: 'Directly after Branson's, I should think. Nine-thirtyish. Moment of maximum psychological impact and all that sort of thing.'

'As our — ah — anchor-man, you have your lines ready?'

Hagenbach didn't deign to reply.

Branson said: 'Well, you go along with that?'

'Carter's no fool, that's sure.' Chrysler was uncertain. 'But if it were lightning transmitted through the generator why didn't it just jump from one electrode to the next instead of making a hole in the searchlight glass? I mean, where was it going?'

'I'm afraid it's not my field.'

'I'm beginning to think it's not mine either. But I'm damned sure there's something fishy afoot.' He hesitated. 'Maybe I wasn't so bright with that one but I've another idea, Mr Branson.'

'Ideas are what I need. Myself, I'm fresh out of them.' Coming from Branson, Chrysler thought, that was quite a remarkable statement.

'I do my best, but I'm no Van Effen. Besides, I feel just about all in. Even you can't keep going twenty-four hours a day. You need a new lieutenant — not to say a fresh one — and with respects to my colleagues, well — '

'Out with it'

'Now that our men are in possession of the Mount Tamalpais radar stations, I think Parker is quite capable of looking after things himself. I suggest you send a chopper to bring in Giscard. You know him even better than I do. He's tough, he's a leader, he's resourceful, he doesn't panic and in some ways he's very astute: by that I mean, all respects to you, Mr Branson, he's never seen the inside of a court-room. It would take a helluva load off your back.'

'You're quite right, of course. If I didn't need a break I should have thought of that myself. Get hold of either Johnson or Bradley — no, Bradley: Johnson had guard duty. Tell him to move right away. I'll get on the phone and tell Giscard. I'll also warn our friends ashore what's going to happen to them if they try to interfere. Not that they should need telling by now.'

Branson made his calls, winced at the clattering roar as the Sikorsky lifted cleanly off the bridge and headed north. At least Carter had been telling the truth about one thing: the helicopter hadn't been subjected to the attentions of a laser beam.

Revson said to April: 'I don't want to sound indelicate but wouldn't you like to pay a visit to the ladies' — ah — powder room?'

She stared at him. 'What on earth for? Oh, well, you'll have a reason.'

'Yes. Just repeat this after me.' She repeated it four times then said: 'Is that all?'

'Yes.'

'Once would have been enough.'

'Well, you never know what the help's like these days.'

'Why can't you do it yourself?'

'It's urgent and I want it done now. There are four ladies aboard this bridge and at least fifty men. Your chances of privacy and seclusion are all that higher.'

'And what are you going to do? You look pretty scruffy to me.'

'To re-phrase the old song, I've left my razor in San Francisco. Then breakfast. The wagon's due at seven-thirty.'

'I wish I had an appetite.' She rose and spoke briefly to Yonnie who bared his teeth in a fearful grimace that he probably regarded as being a charmingly graceful assent.

The transistor in front of Hagenbach buzzed. He pulled it towards him and raised the volume. The other six men bent forward in eager expectancy. This call could be from only one source. They were wrong.

'Mr Hagenbach?' A feminine voice.

'Speaking.'

'April Wednesday.'

Hagenbach took it with remarkable aplomb. 'Carry on, my dear.'

'Mr Revson wants to know as soon as possible if it's possible to reduce the last resort to a non-lethal level. He wants you to have as much time as possible to try. That's why I'm calling now.'

'I'll try. I can't guarantee.'

'He says to lay down a pattern of smoke bombs one minute before. He says he'll radio you one minute before that.'

'And I want to talk to Revson just as urgently. Why isn't he doing this himself?'

'Because I'm in the ladies' toilets. Somebody's coming.' The voice trailed away in a whisper and the transceiver went dead.

Hagenbach called to the communication desk: 'The armoury. Emergency. General Carter. I'm going to need your help on this one.'

'The ladies' toilet,' Quarry said unbelievingly. 'Are there no depths to which this man of yours won't descend?'

'Be reasonable. You didn't expect him to be there himself. Knowing Revson, I rate that an "A" for gentlemanly conduct.'

Vice-President Richards spoke slowly and distinctly. 'Up in the hospital you told us that you didn't know what "the last resort" was.'

Hagenbach looked at him coldly. 'Vice-Presidents should know better. No one has ever become the head of the FBI without being a master of prevarication.'

Breakfast arrived on mid-bridge at seven-thirty. Branson passed it up which, in view of the shock awaiting his nervous system, was perhaps as well. At seven-forty-five Bradley made a perfect touch-down in his Sikorsky. Giscard, grim-faced and purposeful, stepped down on to the bridge not, oddly enough, looking at all incongruous in his police sergeant's uniform. He probably had more photographs taken of him in the next five minutes than he'd had in the whole of his previous existence — which would not have been difficult: Giscard, as a purely professional safeguard, made it his business never to have his photograph taken. But even the redoubtable Giscard had come too late. At eight o'clock an already troubled Branson — no hint of concern showed in his composed and confident face — received his first and far from faint intimations of mortality.

Branson was deep in conversation with a fresh and confident Giscard when Reston, duty guard on the Presidential coach, came hurrying up. 'Phone, Mr Branson.'

Giscard said: 'I'll take care of things, Mr Branson. You try to get some rest' He touched him lightly on the shoulder. 'There's nothing to worry about.' Giscard had no means of knowing it but it was the most way-out prophecy he'd ever made or would ever be likely to make again.

It was Hagenbach on the phone. He said: 'I've bad news for you, Branson. Kyronis doesn't want to see you. Not now. Not ever.'

'Who?' Branson saw the marbled knuckles on the hand holding the phone and made a conscious effort to relax.

'K-Y-R-O-N-I-S. -The president of that Caribbean island paradise of yours. I'm afraid you're not welcome.'

'I don't know what you're talking about.'

'I'm afraid you do. And I'm afraid your world-wide publicity campaign has scared the poor man out of his wits. We didn't find him, he called us. He's on the international line right now. Shall I patch him in?'

Branson didn't say whether he should patch him in or not. A high-pitched voice with a pronounced Caribbean accent came to his ear.

'You fool, Branson. You madman. You wide-mouthed boaster. You had to tell the world that you were going to the Caribbean. You had to tell the world that it had a prison stockade in one corner. You had to tell the world that it had no extradition treaty with the United States. You damn fool, how long do you think it would take American Intelligence to piece that together? I called them before they came calling on me. Their fleet has already moved out from their Guantanamo base in Cuba. Their C54s are lined up on the runways in Fort Lauderdale with God knows how many paratroopers and marines standing by. They could take our little principality over in ten minutes and your Vice-President has assured me that they would consider it a pleasure.' Kyronis stopped to take what appeared to be his first breath since he started his tirade.

Branson said nothing.

'Megalomania, Branson. Megalomania. I always warned you it was the one thing that could bring you down. Sheer, bloody megalomania.'

Branson hung up the phone.