Алистер Маклин - The Golden Gate

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 halfway 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. Associated 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 be 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 playback 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 is 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.’