The Golden Gate

SIX

Hagenbach, the chief of the FBI, was a burly and formidable character in his middle sixties, with short-cropped grey hair, short-cropped grey moustache, slightly hooded light blue eyes which never appeared to blink and a face possessed of a total non-expression which it had taken him years of hard work to acquire. It was said that among the upper echelons of his FBI there was a sweepstake as to the day and date when Hagenbach would first be seen to smile. The sweepstake had been running for five years.

Hagenbach was a very able man and looked it. He had no friends and he looked that too. Men with a consuming passion seldom do and Hagenbach was a man with a consuming passion. As was said of one of his illustrious predecessors, he was alleged to have a file on every senator and congressman in Washington, not to mention the entire staff of the White House. He could have made a fortune in blackmail but Hagenbach was not interested in money. Nor was he interested in power, as such. Hagenbach's total dedication lay in the extirpation of corruption, whenever and wherever he might encounter it.

He looked at Admiral Newson and General Carter, the former plump and rubicund, the latter tall and lean and looking disconcertingly like his superior, General Cartland. Both men he had known, and well, for almost twenty years and had not once called either by his first name. That anyone should address Hagenbach by his Christian name was unthinkable. It would also have been extremely difficult as no one seemed to know it. He was the type of man who didn't need a first name.

Hagenbach said: 'So those are the only tentative proposals for action you have come up with so far?'

'The situation is unprecedented,' Newson said. 'Carter and I are fundamentally men of direct action. To date, direct action seems out of the question. Let's hear your ideas.'

'I've only just arrived. Have you any immediate proposals for the moment?'

'Yes. Await the arrival of the Vice-President.'

' The Vice-President is a nincompoop. You know that. I know that. We all know that.'

'Be that as it may, he's the only man in the United States who can approve and authorize any course of action we may eventually decide to make. Also, I think we had first better wait and consult Mr Milton, Mr Quarry and Chief Hendrix when they're released.'

'If they're released.'

'Hendrix is certain they will be and Hendrix knows far more about Branson than we do. Besides, he has to negotiate with somebody.' He picked up the message that had arrived from Revson via the New Jersey. 'How much reliance do you place on this?'

Hagenbach took the note and read it aloud.

"Please wait. No precipitate action. No violence — especially no violence. Let me evaluate the situation. Cannot use transceiver — the bandits have an automatic radio-wave scanner in constant use. Will communicate with you this afternoon."'

Hagenbach laid down the paper. 'Quite a bit, actually.'

Carter said: 'What's he like, this Revson of yours?'

'Ruthless, arrogant, independent, dislikes authority, a loner who consults superior officers only under duress and even then goes his own way.'

Newson said: 'That doesn't sound very encouraging. What's a hot-head like that doing along on a trip like this?'

'He's no hot-head. His mind is as near ice-cold as any man's can be. I also forgot to say that he's highly intelligent, very ingenious and extremely resourceful.'

'Then he's a hand-picked man?' Newson said. Hagenbach nodded. 'You hand-picked him?' Again the nod. 'So he's the best in the business?'

'I can't say. You know the size of our organization. I can't possibly know all the field agents. He's just the best I happen to know.'

'Is he good enough to cope with Branson?'

'I don't know because I don't know Branson. What's for sure, for once Revson is going to depend heavily on outside help.' There was a degree of satisfaction in Hagenbach's voice.

Carter said: 'And how in hell is he going to communicate with us this afternoon?'

'I have no idea.' Hagenbach nodded to Revson's note. 'He got that through, didn't he?' There was a brief pause as the Admiral and General respectfully contemplated the note. 'Would either of you gentlemen have thought of that?' They shook their heads. 'Me neither. Resourceful is what I said.'

Branson walked up and down the bridge between the rear and Presidential coaches. No nervous pacing, no signs of strain or tension, he could have been taking a pleasant saunter in the afternoon sun, and, indeed, the afternoon was extremely pleasant. The skies were cloudless, the view all around came straight from the pages of a fairy-tale book and the waters of the Golden Gate and the Bay sparkled in the warm sun. Having had his fill of the view, Branson consulted his watch, strolled unhurriedly towards the Presidential coach, knocked on the door, opened it and stepped inside. He surveyed the occupants and the sound of voices stilled.

Branson said pleasantly: 'You have arrived at a decision, gentlemen?' There was no reply. 'Am I to take it, then, that you have arrived at an impasse?'

The President lowered the very large gin and martini with which he had been sustaining himself.

'We require more time for our deliberations.'

'You've had all the time you're going to have. You could sit here all day and get no further. If all your minds weren't so devious and at the same time so closed to the facts of life, you'd recognize this for the painfully simple issue it is. Pay up or else. And don't forget the escalation penalty clause.'

The President said: 'I have a proposal to make.'

'Let's hear it.'

'Permit the King, Prince and Sheikh Kharan to go. I shall remain as hostage. The situation would remain the same. You would still have the President of the United States. For that matter I can't see why you don't let all the hostages in this coach go.'

Branson was admiring. 'My heavens, what a perfectly splendid gesture. Noble, I should say. Why, do that, and the electorate would demand that they re-alter the constitution and let their hero run for another three terms instead of one.' He smiled and went on without a change in tone. 'No way, Mr President. Apart from the fact that I shudder at the very thought of you being in the White House for the next thirteen years I've always dreamt of holding a hand of cards with four aces in it. Here I've got four. One is not enough. And has it ever occurred to you that if you were to be the only hostage left on the Golden Gate Bridge the Government, in the person of your Vice-President who would just love to sit behind that table in the Oval Office, might be sorely tempted to achieve some sort of immortality by wiping out this monstrous band of criminals who have kidnapped you and your Arabian friends? Nothing drastic of course — nobody who destroyed this bridge could ever hope to be President. A single supersonic fighter-bomber from Alameda would do the job nicely. And if one of his rockets went off course slightly — well, that's just bad luck, an Act of God and pilot's error.'

The President spilt a considerable amount of his gin and martini on the carpet.

Branson looked at Quarry, Milton and Hendrix in turn, said: 'Gentlemen', and left the coach. The three men followed. The President carefully didn't watch them go. He appeared to have found something of profound interest in the depths of what remained of his drink.

Outside, Branson spoke to Van Effen. 'Get that TV van and crew back here again. Make sure the TV companies are notified.'

Van Effen nodded. 'It would be wrong of you to let the nation suffer this agonizing suspense. Where are you going?'

'To the south end with those three gentlemen.'

'As guaranteed escort for their safety? Can't they take the word of a gentleman?'

'Not that. I just want to inspect the progress being made on the barrier. Saves the walk, that's all.'

The four men climbed into the police car and drove off.

Still alone in the press coach, Revson watched them go then returned his attention to the three small sheets of notepaper on his knees. Each was smaller than the average postcard and all three were covered with small, neat and incomprehensible writing. He focused his camera and photographed each three times — Revson always covered his bets. He then took each paper in turn, set fire to it and crushed the blackened remains in his ash-tray. It was a very curious paper for it gave off no smoke. He then wound off the camera spool, sealed it and wrapped it in a very thin lead foil; as he had promised O'Hare, the completed result was no larger than half a cigarette.

He reloaded his camera and went outside. The atmosphere of suspense and excitement had markedly heightened. He spoke to a near-by newspaperman — understandably, he knew none of them by name.

'Something new afoot?'

'Branson's just sent for the television van again.'

'Do you know why?'

'No idea.'

'Nothing very important, probably. Maybe he's always had a yen to appear on TV. Maybe he's just wanting to keep the pressure on the nation and the government — and the Arabian governments too, for this time the big three companies will be geared for action, the satellites will be ready and waiting and so will be all the Persian Gulf. The executives of the big companies will be hard put to it to shed crocodile tears for the plight of their beloved President and at the same time refrain from jumping for joy. The biggest show on earth and all for free. What's the odds Branson won't be putting on a late show about two in the morning?'

Revson shot about a dozen other pictures. The chances of its being discovered that he had taken no pictures at all were remote in the extreme, but then again Revson always covered his bets. He drifted casually across to where O'Hare was leaning against his ambulance and shook a cigarette from its pack.

'Light, doctor?'

'Sure.' O'Hare produced a lighter and lit it Revson cupped the flame in his hands to shield it from the very slight breeze and as he did so he slid the spool into O'Hare's palm.

'Thanks, Doc.' He looked idly around. There was no one within earshot. 'How long to hide?'

'One minute. I have the place for it'

'Two minutes and you'll have your patient'

O'Hare went into the ambulance while Revson sauntered half-way across the bridge where April Wednesday was prudently standing alone, a circumstance normally very difficult for her to achieve. She looked at him, wet her lips and tried to smile at him. It wasn't a very successful effort.

Revson said: 'Who's that solid dependable-looking character standing by the engine of the ambulance?'

'Grafton. United Press. A nice man.'

'Go and collapse gracefully against him. Discretion is of the essence. We don't want any undue fuss. But first let me get to the other side of the bridge I want to be at a safe distance when you're taken ill.'

When Revson reached the far side of the bridge he turned and looked back April had already begun to head in the direction of the ambulance. Her gait seemed a little unsteady but not markedly so. She may he scared, he thought — and she unquestionably was — but she can act.

She was about fifteen feet distant from Grafton when he first saw her or, more precisely, when she first attracted his attention. He regarded her slightly wavering approach with curiosity, a curiosity which quickly turned to concern. He took two quick steps forward and caught her by the shoulders. She leaned gratefully against him, lips and eyes compressed as in pain.

'April Wednesday,' he said. 'What's the matter, girl?'

'I've a terrible pain. It just hit me now.' Her voice was husky and she was holding herself with both hands. 'It — it feels like a heart attack.'

'How would you know?' Grafton said reasonably, his tone reassuring. 'And wherever your heart is, it's not on the right-hand side of your tummy. Don't misinterpret me, but some people have all the luck.' He took her firmly by the arm. 'There's a doctor only five yards from here.'

From the far side of the bridge Revson watched them vanish round to the rear of the ambulance. As far as he could reasonably tell, he had been the only person to observe the brief by-play.

Branson walked unhurriedly away from the half-completed southern barrier, apparently well satisfied with the progress of the work in hand. He reached the rear coach and swung up to sit beside Chrysler.

'Any more sensational revelations?'

'No. Mr Branson. It's all become a bit repetitive and boring. You can have a play-back or transcript if you like but it's not worth it.'

'I'm sure it's not. Tell me.'

'Can I switch off, Mr Branson? They're really not worth listening to.'

'They never were. Well?'

'Same old story. About the payment. Still arguing.'

'But they're going to pay.'

'No question It's whether to pay now or stall. Latest opinion poll has four for, two undecided, two against. The King, the Prince and Kharan are all for the money being handed over now — Treasury money, of course. Mayor Morrison is of the same mind.'

'That's understandable. He'd pay a billion dollars within the hour to ensure the safety of his beloved bridge.'

'Cartland and Muir have no preference either way, the only difference being that General Cartland is willing to fight us to the death. The President and Hansen are very much against immediate payment.'

'Again understandable. Hansen's never made a decision in his life and the President would stall for ever, hoping for a miracle to happen, hoping to save the nation the loss of a half billion for which, rightly or wrongly, he would probably be blamed, hoping to save face and his Presidential image. Let them stew in their own juice.' He turned as Peters appeared in the doorway. 'Something wrong?'

'Nothing that affects us, sir. Seems Dr O'Hare has some medical problem on his hands. He'd like to see you as soon as possible.'

When Branson entered the ambulance he found April lying on the hinged side bed, a discreet six inches of her midriff showing, her face chalk-white. Branson did not much care for finding himself in the presence of sick people and this was obviously a sick person. He looked enquiringly at O'Hare.

O'Hare said: 'I've a very sick young lady on my hands here, Mr Branson. I want her removed to hospital immediately.'

'What's wrong?'

'Look at her face.'

It was indeed ashen, an effect easily achieved by the application of an odourless talcum.

'And at her eyes.'

They were opaque with enormously dilated pupils, the effect of the first of the two jabs that O'Hare had given her. Not that the eyes hadn't been big enough to begin with.

'Feel her pulse.'

Reluctantly. Branson lifted the slender wrist and dropped it almost immediately.

'It's racing,' he said. And indeed it was. O'Hare had probably been a little too thorough there. The rate of the pulse when she had entered the ambulance had already been so high as to render the second injection unnecessary.

'Would you care to feel the distension on the right-hand side of the abdomen?'

'No, I would not.' Branson was emphatic.

'It could be a grumbling appendix. It could be a threatened peritonitis. The signs are there. But I have no proper diagnostic equipment, no X-ray facilities, no way of carrying out abdominal surgery and, of course, no anaesthetist. Hospital, and pretty damn quick.'

'No!' April had sat up in bed, fear in her face. 'No! Not hospital! They'll cut me up! Surgery! I've never even been in a hospital in my life.'

O'Hare put his hands on her shoulders, firmly and not bothering to be gentle, and pressed her back down again.

'And if I'm not that sick? If it's only a tummy-ache or something? Mr Branson wouldn't let me back. The only scoop of my life. And I'm scared!'

O'Hare said: 'It's more than a tummy-ache, lassie.'

'You can come back,' Branson said. 'But only if you do what the doctor and I say.' He nodded towards the door and stepped down. 'What do you think really is the matter with her?'

'A doctor doesn't have to discuss a patient with a layman.' O'Hare was showing every symptom of losing his patience. 'And I can tell you this, Branson. Make off with half a billion dollars and you'll probably end up as some kind of folk hero. It's happened often before, although not, admittedly, on this scale. But let this girl die because you denied her access to medical care and you'll become the most hated man in America. They'll never stop till they get you. To start with, the CIA will find you wherever you are in the world — and they won't bother to bring you to trial.'

Branson showed no signs of losing his patience. He said mildly: 'You don't have to threaten me, Doctor. She'll get her medical care. I'm just asking as a favour.'

'In confidence?' Branson nodded. 'You don't have to be a doctor to see that she's a pretty sick kid. But there are more than one way of being sick. Is she threatened with appendicitis or peritonitis? I don't think so. She's an excitable, intense, highly-strung kid who lives on her nerves. Under pressure, as of now, those could produce an emotional trauma or psychosomatic disorders which are capable of causing the symptoms we've just seen. It's rare, but it exists. In medicine, there's a condition called the Malthusian syndrome where a person can actually will himself into producing — faking, if you want to call it that — symptoms of a non-existent disease. Not in this case — if it is what I think it is, it's involuntary. But you see my position — I can't take chances. She may require intensive medical diagnosis or psychiatric evaluation. The first I can do myself, but I need hospital equipment. The second I can't — I'm not a psychiatrist. Either way I must get to hospital. We're wasting time.'

'I won't keep you long. Do you mind if we search your ambulance?'

O'Hare stared at him. 'What the hell for? What do you think I'm carrying? Bodies? Narcotics — well, quite a lot, really. What do you think I would be taking off this bridge that I didn't bring on to it? I'm a doctor, not an FBI agent.'

'We'll forget it. Another question. Do you mind if we send a guard along — for observation purposes?'

'Send half a dozen. They'll get damned little observation done.'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'It means that Harben — he's chief of surgery — cherishes his unit like a new-born baby. He wouldn't give a damn about you and your bridge. If any of your men tried to force their way into emergency reception of the emergency theatre he'd have a dozen sharp-shooters there in ten minutes. I'm not joking — I've seen him do it.'

'We'll forget that too. It's unimportant.'

'One thing that is important. Will you phone, ask them to have the emergency operating theatre ready and Dr Huron standing by.'

'Dr Huron?'

'Senior psychiatrist.'

'Right.' Branson smiled faintly. 'Do you know that a Presidential route is alwavs laid out so that it's never more than a few minutes from the nearest hospital? Just in case. Convenient, isn't it'

'Very.' O'Hare turned to the driver. 'Start the siren.'

As the ambulance moved towards the south tower they were passed by a TV van and generator truck coming the other way. Immediately, cameramen, photographers and reporters began moving into what they assumed would be the same TV arena as before. Some cameramen were so overcome by the occasion that they began wasting film on the forthcoming truck as if this were an unprecedented spectacle in itself.

Revson was not one of those who joined in the surge forward. He moved in the opposite direction and regained his seat in the deserted press coach. He undipped the base of his camera, removed the miniaturized transceiver, slipped it into a side pocket, reached into his carrier bag and fed spare film into the base of his camera. He was just reclipping the base of his camera when he became aware of being watched. He looked up. Blue eyes under blond hair, a head the approximate shape of a sugar cube and a vacuous smile. Revson believed in that vacuous smile the way he believed in Santa Claus. Branson would have settled for nothing less than an exceptional man when picking his lieutenant.

'Revson, isn't it?'

'Yes. Van Effen, I believe.

'Yes. Why aren't you out there with the others, recording this historical moment for posterity?'

'First, what is there to record yet? Second, the big eye of TV can do a damned sight better job of posterity-recording than I can do. Third, if you'll excuse the hackneyed phrase, what I'm after is the human interest angle. Fourthly, I prefer to load in the shadow.'

'That looks a most exceptional camera.'

'It is.' Revson permitted himself a small proprietary smile that almost bordered on a smirk. 'Hand-made and assembled. Swedish. A rare species. The only camera in the world that can take colour stills, black and white stills and is a ciné camera at the same time.'

'May I have a look? I'm a bit of a camera buff myself.'

'Certainly.' The battery-powered air-conditioning in the coach, Revson thought, was falling down on the job.

Van Effen examined the camera with the eye of a connoisseur. Inadvertently, as it seemed, his hand touched the spring clip at the base. A dozen cassettes and spools tumbled on to the seat beside Revson.

'I am sorry. It would seem that I'm not all that much of a camera buff.' He inverted the camera and looked with admiration at the recessed base. 'Very very ingenious.' While Revson sat, acutely conscious of the slight bulge caused by the transceiver in his side pocket, Van Effen meticulously replaced cassettes and spools in the base, closed the flap and handed the camera back to Revson. 'Excuse my curiosity.'

'Well, you went to the right finishing school, anyway.'

'It always shows.' Van Effen gave him his vacuous smile and left.

Revson did not mop his brow for it was a gesture alien to his nature. Had he been a brow-mopper, he would have done so. He wondered if Van Effen had noticed the two tiny spring clips in the base. He probably had. Had he realized their significance? Equally probably not. They could have been the retaining clips for any number of esoteric attachments.

Revson turned in his seat. The hostages were descending from their coach, the President manfully substituting for his black scowl a calm, resolute and statesmanlike expression. Even Van Effen, Revson saw, had his eyes on them. Revson left the coach by the door opposite the driver's so that he was on the blind side of all the spectators and participants. He leaned his elbows in brief contemplation on the outer rail, then opened his right hand, the one that held the transceiver. He had read somewhere that it took a solid object, accelerating at thirty-two feet per second, only three seconds to fall from the bridge to the Golden Gate and he gravely doubted whether the man responsible for those figures could count. Nobody had noticed anything amiss. Revson had covered his bets again.

He made his unhurried and silent entry into the coach again, closed the door quietly behind him and emerged, much less quietly, from the opposite door. Van Effen turned, smiled vaguely, then turned back his attention to the circus on hand.

As before, Branson had everything stage-managed to perfection, hostages and newsmen seated in their proper places, ciné and still cameramen strategically positioned although, this time, there was one minor but significant difference from the previous occasion. This time Branson had two TV cameras instead of one. Without further ado Branson, calm, relaxed and as assured as ever, re-embarked upon his psychological warfare. Apart from being a born general and a born stage manager, he could also have been a born anchor-man on TV.

He divided his attention fairly evenly between the TV lens and those seated beside him. After a wholly unnecessary introduction of himself, the President, the King and the Prince, his first reference, not unsurprisingly, was to cameras.

'We have, this afternoon, two television cameras with us. One for the illustrious company you are now viewing, the other facing the other way towards the south or San Franciscan shore. The second one is a tracking camera with a telephoto zoom lens, that, up to half a mile, can give the clarity of resolution that one would expect at the distance of ten feet. As there is no trace of fog this afternoon it should be able to perform its function admirably. Its function is as follows.'

Branson lifted the canvas cover from a large, rectangular box then, microphone in hand, went and sat in a specially reserved vacant chair by the President. He gestured towards the object he had just unveiled.

'A courtesy gesture towards our assembled guests. A rather splendid colour TV set. No better obtainable anywhere. American, of course.'

The President had to make himself heard. After all, most of the so-called civilized eyes in the world were upon him. He said, with heavy sarcasm and a cold distaste: 'I'll wager you haven't paid for your TV set, Branson.'

'That's hardly relevant. The point is that I don't want to make you and your guests feel like second-class and deprived citizens. All the world will be able to see in close detail how we are going to attach the first of our explosive charges to one of the cables by the south tower and I feel it would be unjust to deprive you of the same privilege. After all, at a distance of over two thousand feet and an elevation of over five hundred feet, it would be difficult for even the keenest-eyed to appreciate the finer points of this operation. But the box here will show you everything you want.' Branson smiled. 'Or don't want. Now, please direct your attention to the vehicle descending the ramp from the rear coach.'

They so directed their attention. What they saw could also be seen on the TV set before them. The vehicle looked like a stripped-down, miniaturized golf-cart. It was self-propelled but silent, clearly electrically powered. The driver, Peters, stood on a tiny platform at the rear immediately over the batteries. On the flat steel platform before him was a large coil of very thin rope and, at the very front, a small, double-drummed winch.

At the foot of the ramp, Peters stopped the vehicle. Four men appeared from the rear of the coach. The first two were carrying an obviously very heavy canvas strap of explosives — similar to the one that Branson had earlier demonstrated on TV. This they deposited, very carefully indeed, on the vehicle's platform beside the rope. The other two men carried objects about eight feet in length: one was a boat-hook, the other an H-sectioned steel beam with butterfly screw clamps at one end and a built-in pulley at the other.

'The tools of our trade,' Branson said. 'You should be able to guess what they're all for but in any event this will be explained to you when they are put to use. Two things are of particular interest: the explosives and the rope. That strap of explosives is ten feet long and contains thirty bee-hives of high explosive, each five pounds in weight: the rope, which is a quarter of a mile long, looks, and is, thinner than the average clothes-line, but, as it is made of steel-cored nylon, has a breaking strain of eight hundred pounds which is exactly five times as much as will be required of it.' He gestured to Peters, who nodded, eased open the circular control wheel and trundled off in the direction of the south tower. Branson looked directly at the TV lens.

He said: 'For those of you who don't know, and apart from the citizens of San Francisco there will be many who will not know, those towers are something less than solid structures.' On the TV set before him and on countless millions of sets throughout the world, the south tower came into sharp, close focus. 'These towers consist of steel framework boxes called cells. Each is about the size of a phone booth, but twice as high, riveted together and connected by manholes. Each tower consists of over five thousand such cells. They contain elevators and ladders — a rather staggering twenty-three miles of them.'

He reached under his seat and brought up a manual.

'As you will appreciate, it would be very easy for the inexperienced to get lost inside this labyrinth. Once, when they were building this bridge, two men spent the entire night inside the north tower trying to find their way out and, indeed, Joseph Strauss, the designer and builder of this bridge, was capable of getting completely lost inside the tower. It was with this in mind that Strauss produced this twenty-six-page manual — well, not this one, this is a facsimile I was fortunate enough to come by — instructing inspectors how to find their way about inside the towers.

'At this moment, two of my men, each with a copy of this manual — although they hardly need them, they're using the elevator — are at, or nearing, the top of the east tower there, the one facing towards the bay. They are carrying with them nothing except a fifteen-pound weight, the purpose of which you will shortly discover. May we observe the progress of our electric truck, please?'

The telephoto TV camera obligingly descended and closed on Peters, traveling along the wrong side of the bridge. Even as they watched, it slowed and came to a halt almost directly under the lowest of the four massive cross-struts of the south tower.

Branson said: 'Elevation, please.'

Again the telephoto camera focused on the saddle — the curved steel housing over which the cable passed — on the bayside tower. Almost immediately two men came into sight by the saddle, tiny figures for those directly observing from the middle of the bridge, close-up for those looking at the TV screens.

'On cue, on time,' Branson said with some satisfaction. 'In those matters, co-ordination is of the essence. I dare say that not one in ten thousand of you would care to be where those two men are now. Quite frankly, neither would I. One misstep and it's over seven hundred and fifty feet down to the Golden Gate: only a seven-second fall but at a hundred and seventy miles an hour hitting water is no different from hitting solid concrete. But those two are as safe as you would be in a church pew. Spidermen, they're called — the workers you can see standing on girders a thousand feet above the streets of New York or Chicago when they're building a new skyscraper.'

The camera closed on Peters again. He produced a pistol, unusual as to both length of barrel and width of muzzle, took brief aim upwards and fired. Neither camera could track nor eye see the nature of the missile ejected: what the camera did show, four seconds after firing, was that Bartlett, one of the men by the saddle, had a green cord safely in his hands. He reeled this in swiftly. At the end of the cord was a leather-hung pulley, which in turn was attached to one end of the rope. Two and a half minutes elapsed before the rope was in Bartlett's hands.

He held this securely while his partner, Boyard, undid both cord and pulley. Bartlett reeled in about another dozen feet, cut this section off with a knife and handed it to Boyard, who secured one end to a strut and another to the strap of the pulley. The rope was then passed through the pulley, through a hole at its top, to a pear-shaped lead weight which the men had brought up with them. Both weight and rope were then released and sank swiftly down to bridge level again.

Peters caught the weight, undid the knot that secured the rope but did not withdraw the rope. Instead he passed it through the pulley in the steel beam and a ring at the end of the boat-hook and secured all three together. He took a few turns of the other end of the rope round one of the drums of the winch and started up the electric motor.

The winch, though small, was powerful and fast. From bridge to saddle took less than a minute and a half. There was a gentle breeze blowing from the north, apparently freshening as the altitude increased, and the rope and its burden swayed quite noticeably, striking each of the cross-struts, at times quite forcibly, on the way up. Peters seemed unconcerned, his gaze fixed on Bartlett. As the rope and its cargo neared the top Bartlett made a horizontal waving motion of his arm. Peters eased the winch drum to a crawl. Bartlett made a slow upwards beckoning motion with his arm then stretched it out horizontally. Peters unwound the rope after stopping the winch, leaving only one turn on the drum.

Bartlett and Boyard pulled in the beam and boat-hook, detached them along with the lead weight, passed the rope through the pulley and resecured the lead weight. They then eased out the H-beam for a distance of about six feet then clamped the inner end to a strut, tightening the butterfly nuts to their maximum. Bartlett signalled Peters who took the last turn off the drum. Weight and rope sank rapidly downwards.

Two minutes later the rope was on its way up again, this time with the canvas strap of explosives which dangled at its full length, fastened to the rope by two heavy metal buckles at one end of the strap. Unlike the previous occasion Peters now moved with great caution, the drum moving very slowly and occasionally stopping altogether. General Cartland commented on this to Branson.

'Your winchman is trying to eliminate all sway?'

'Yes We don't want that strap of explosives to bang against one of the cross-struts.'

'Of course. I'd forgotten how sensitive fulminate of mercury detonators are.'

'The detonators are in Bartlett's pocket. But the primers can be temperamental too. That's why we have that extended beam up top — to give clearance. Also, it's asking a bit much for even two strong men to haul a hundred and sixty pounds — not a hundredweight as you estimated, General — over five hundred feet vertically upwards.'

They watched the explosive safely negotiate the second top cross-strut. Cartland said: 'So it's one strap there, one on the opposite cable and the other two at the north tower?'

'No. We've changed our minds on that. We suspect that the suspension cables — and don't forget that there are over twenty-seven thousand spun wires inside that steel sheath — may be considerably stronger than the mock-up we used for the test. So we're going to use all four explosive straps at the south tower, a pair on each cable. That will leave no margin for doubt. And if the south end of the bridge falls into the Golden Gate it seems reasonable to expect that the north end will follow suit. Whether the north tower — don't forget it will then be bearing most of the weight of the four-thousand-two-hundred-feet span — will be pulled down too we haven't been able to determine but it seems pretty close to a certainty.'

Van Effen took two quick steps forwards and clicked off the safety catch on his machine-pistol. Mayor Morrison, half out of his seat, slowly subsided back into it but his fists were still tightly clenched, his eyes still mad.

By now, Bartlett and Boyard had the boat-hook round the rope and were steadily, cautiously and without too much trouble, overhanding the explosives in towards themselves. Soon it disappeared out of the range of the telephoto TV camera. So, immediately afterwards, did all of Bartlett except for head and shoulders.

'Inserting the detonators?' Cartland asked. Branson nodded and Cartland gestured to the section of the cable nearest them. At that point, in the centre of the bridge, the cable dipped until it was almost within arm's length. 'Why go to all that immense labour? Wouldn't it have been easier just to fix the charges here?'

'Easier, yes, but there's no guarantee that severing the cables in mid-bridge would bring the bridge down. There's no way of knowing: what's for sure is that no one has ever carried out a control test or experiment on this sort of thing. Suspension bridges come expensive. If the cables were severed here the towers, as far as weight is concerned, would still be in a fair state of equilibrium. Bridge might sag a little or a lot, it might break but it wouldn't drop the whole span clear into the water. My way, success is guaranteed. You wouldn't expect me to charge two hundred million for a botched-up job, would you?'

General Cartland didn't say whether he would or he wouldn't.

'Besides, if things go wrong, that is, if you turn out to be stingy with the money, I intend to trigger off the explosives immediately we take off. I don't want to be within half a mile of six hundred pounds of high explosives when it goes up.'

The President said carefully: 'You mean the triggering device is aboard one of those helicopters?'

Branson gave a patient sigh. 'I've always maintained that all Presidential candidates should undergo an IQ test. Of course it is. In the nearest one. What did you expect me to do? Press a button inside a coach and then go down with the coach and bridge to the bottom of the Golden Gate?'

Branson removed his disbelieving gaze from the President and returned it to the TV screen before him. Bartlett, with Boyard steadying him, had the canvas strip wrapped round the cable, hard up against the saddle and was buckling tight the second of the two straps that held the strap securely in position. That done, he moved back along with Boyard to admire their handiwork. The camera then left them and zeroed in on the section of cable wrapped in the lethal embrace of the high explosive.

Branson smiled broadly. 'Well, now, isn't that a perfectly splendid sight?'

Cartland remained poker-faced. 'It all depends upon your point of view.'