Алистер Маклин - The Golden Gate

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

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

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

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

‘I suggest one of your own. A Gamay Beaujolais from your Almadén vineyards.’

‘Ah.’ Branson pondered. ‘Tony?’

‘Mr Revson has excellent taste, sir.’

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

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

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

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

‘Jesus what?’

‘Look.’

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

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

Revson said: ‘Stay here. I’ll get O’Hare.’

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

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

O’Hare was on his feet. Revson barred the way.

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

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

April said: ‘What’s gone wrong, Paul?’

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

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

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

‘Dead?’ For once, Branson was clearly shocked. ‘How can he be dead?’

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

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

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

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

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

‘You don’t mind if I listen in?’

‘Listen in all you want.’

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

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

‘We’re in contact now.’

‘I’ll wait.’

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

‘O’Hare?’

‘Sir?’

‘Hansen is – was – just recovering from his second – and almost fatal – heart attack.’

‘Thank you, sir. That explains everything.’

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

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

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

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

‘I’ll talk to you later. O’Hare?’

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

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

He said: ‘Let me talk to Hendrix.’

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

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

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

‘I agree in turn.’

‘Your word?’

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

‘No position. I have a dream, Branson.’

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

‘Again?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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