Алистер Маклин - Goodbye California

‘Habit, Mr President.’

Muldoon was slumped forward in his chair – his massive back was almost to them – and Jeff, a stethoscope hanging from his neck, was holding a glass of water and some tablets in his hand. Hillary raised his voice and said: ‘The usual, Doctor?’

Jeff nodded.

‘Digitalis,’ Hillary said.

‘Ah! A heart stimulant, is it not?’

‘Yes.’ Hillary sipped his drink, then said abruptly: ‘You have hostages here, of course.’

‘We have. They have come to no harm, I assure you.’

‘I can’t understand you, Morro. Highly civilized, highly intelligent, reasonable – yet you behave as you do. What drives you?’

‘There are some matters I prefer not to discuss.’

‘Bring me those hostages.’

‘Why?’

‘Bring them or, as sure as God’s in heaven, I will not deal with you. I may be making the mistake of taking you at your face value. You may – I only say may – be the inhuman monster you’re said to be. If they are dead, which God forbid, you may take the life of the President before he will deal with you.’

Some time passed, then Morro said: ‘Do you know Mrs Ryder?’

‘Who is she?’

‘One of our hostages. It sounds as if you were in telepathic communication with her.’

Hillary said: ‘I have China to worry about. I have Russia to worry about. I have the European Common Market. The economy. The recession. A man’s mind can accommodate only so many things. Who is this – her name?’

‘Mrs Ryder.’

‘If she is alive, bring her. If she’s all that telepathic I could replace my Vice-President. And the others.’

‘I knew beforehand – and the lady knew – that you would make such a request. Very well. Ten minutes.’ Morro snapped his fingers at a guard.

The ten minutes passed swiftly enough, much too swiftly for the hostages, but it was time and to spare for Ryder. Morro, with his customary hospitality, had offered each hostage a drink and warned them that their stay would be brief. The centre of attraction was inevitably Hillary who, wearily but charmingly, out-presidented any President who had ever lived. Morro did not leave his side. Even an inhuman monster – and it was not proven that he was – had his human side: it is not given to every man to present a President to his people.

Ryder, glass in hand, wandered around, spending an inconsequential word with those whom he met. He approached a person, who was perhaps the fifth or sixth person he’d chatted to, and said: ‘You’re Dr Healey.’

‘Yes. How did you know?’

Ryder didn’t tell him how he knew. He’d studied too many photographs too long. ‘Can you maintain a deadpan face?’

Healey looked at him and maintained a deadpan face.

‘Yes.’

‘My name is Ryder.’

‘Oh yes?’ Healey smiled at the waiter who refilled his glass.

‘Where’s the button? The switch?’

‘To the right. Elevator. Four rooms, fourth along.’

Ryder wandered away, spoke to one or two others, then accidentally ran into Healey again.

‘Tell no one. Not even Susan.’ The reference, he knew, would establish his credibility beyond any doubt. ‘In the fourth room?’

‘Small booth. Steel door inside. He has the key. The button’s inside.’

‘Guards?’

‘Four. Six. Courtyard.’

Ryder wandered away and sat down. Healey happened by. ‘There are steps beyond the elevator.’ Ryder didn’t even look up.

Ryder observed, without observing, that his son was doing magnificently. The dedicated physician, he did not once leave Muldoon’s side, didn’t once glance at his mother or his sister. He was due, Ryder reflected, for promotion to sergeant, at least. It never occurred to Ryder to think about his own future.

Two minutes later Morro courteously called a halt to the proceedings. Obediently, the hostages filed out. Neither Susan nor Peggy had as much as given a second glance to either Ryder or his son.

Morro rose. ‘You will excuse me, gentlemen. I am going to have a brief and private talk with the President. A few minutes only, I assure you.’ He looked around the room. Three armed guards, each with an Ingram, two waiters, each with a concealed pistol. Carrying security to ridiculous lengths: but that was how he survived, had survived all those long and hazardous years. ‘Come, Abraham.’

The three men left and moved along the corridor to the second door on the right. It was a small room, bare to the point of bleakness, with only a table and few chairs. Morro said: ‘We have come to discuss high finance, Mr President.’

Hillary sighed. ‘You are refreshingly – if disconcertingly – blunt. Do you mean to tell me you have no more of that splendid Scotch left?’

‘Heaven send – or should I say Allah send – that we should show any discourtesy to the leader of – well, never mind. You mentioned the inevitable. It takes a great mind to accept the inevitable.’ He sat in silence while Dubois brought a glass and a bottle of what appeared to be the inevitable Glenfiddich to the small desk before Morro. He watched in silence while Dubois poured then raised his glass. It was not to be in a toast. He said: ‘The negotiating point?’

‘You will understand why I wished to talk in private. I, the President of the United States, feel that I am selling out the United States. Ten billion dollars.’

‘We shall drink to that.’

Ryder, glass in hand, wandered slowly, aimlessly, round the room. In his overcoat pocket he had, as instructed, pressed the button of his ball-point six times and, as promised, the writing tip had fallen off at the sixth time. Harlinson was standing close to one of the waiters. Greenshaw had just ordered another drink.

Muldoon – Ludwig Johnson – had his back to the company. He shuddered and made a peculiar moaning noise. Instantly Jeff bent over him, hand on his pulse and stethoscope to his heart. Jeff’s face could be seen to tighten. Jeff pulled back his coat, undid the massive waistcoat and proceeded to do something that none of the guards could see.

One of them said: ‘What is wrong?’

‘Shut up!’ Jeff was very curt indeed. ‘He is extremely ill. Heart massage.’ He looked at Bonn. ‘Lift his back up.’

Bonn bent to do so, and as he did there came a faint zipping noise. Ryder cursed inwardly. Plastic zips were meant to be noiseless. The guard who had spoken took a step forward. His face was a blend of suspicion and uncertainty. ‘What was that?’

The nearest guard was only three feet from Ryder. Even with a pen it was impossible to miss at that range. The guard made a weird sighing noise, crumpled and fell sideways to the floor. The two other guards turned and stared in disbelief. They stared for almost three seconds, a ludicrously long time for Myron Bonn, the legal luminary from Donnemara, to shoot them both through the heart with a silenced Smith & Wesson. At the same instant Greenshaw chopped the man bending over him and Harlinson did the same for the other waiter standing in front of him.

Johnson had worn a double-thickness zipped bodice under his shirt. Below that he had worn a cover of sorbo rubber, almost a foot thick, where the lower part of his stomach ought to have been. Next to his skin he had worn another sheet of sorbo rubber, almost but not quite as thick, which was why it had taken three special make-up men six man-hours to fit him out to Muldoon’s physical specifications. Between the two layers of sorbo rubber had lain three rubber-wrapped pistols and the disassembled parts of two Kalashnikov machine-guns. It took Ryder and his son less than a minute to reassemble the Kalashnikovs.

Ryder said: ‘Bonn, you’re the marksman. Stay outside the door. Anybody comes along the corridor, either side, you know what to do.’