Алистер Маклин - The Golden Gate

‘Get an ambulance from the hospital.’ O’Hare pushed Kowalski’s sleeve further up and started to wind the blood-pressure band round it.

Branson said: ‘No.’

O’Hare didn’t answer until after he’d taken the pressure. He then repeated: ‘Get the ambulance.’

‘I don’t trust you and your damned ambulances.’

O’Hare didn’t answer. He jumped down the steps and strode off through rain that was now rebounding six inches high off the roadway. He was back shortly with the two men who had helped him carry Kowalski across. O’Hare said: ‘Mr Grafton. Mr Ferrers. Two highly respected, even eminent journalists. Their words carry a great deal of weight. So will their word.’

‘What’s that meant to mean?’ For the first time since his arrival on the bridge Branson wore just the slightest trace of apprehension.

O’Hare ignored him, addressed himself to the two journalists. ‘Kowalski here has severe concussion, possibly even a skull fracture. The latter is impossible to tell without an X-ray. He also has shallow, rapid breathing, a weak and feathery pulse, a temperature and abnormally low blood pressure. This could indicate a few things. One of them cerebral haemorrhaging. I want you gentlemen to bear witness to the fact that Branson refuses to allow an ambulance to come for him. I want you to bear witness to the fact that if Kowalski dies Branson and Branson alone will be wholly responsible for his death. I want you to bear witness to the fact that Branson is fully aware that if Kowalski dies he will be guilty of the same charge as he recently levelled against persons unknown – murder. Only, in this case, I think it would have to be an indictment of the first degree.’

Grafton said: ‘I shall so solemnly bear witness.’

Ferrers said: ‘And I.’

O’Hare looked at Branson with contempt. ‘And you were the person who said to me that you’d never in your life been responsible for the death of a single person.’

Branson said: ‘How am I to know that once they get him ashore they won’t keep him there?’

‘You’re losing your grip, Branson.’ The contempt was still in O’Hare’s voice: he and Revson had deliberated long enough on how best to wear down Branson psychologically. ‘As long as you have a President, a king and a prince, who the hell is going to hold a common criminal like this as a counter-ransom?’

Branson made up his mind. It was difficult to tell whether he was motivated by threats or a genuine concern for Kowalski’s life. ‘One of those two will have to go tell Chrysler to call the ambulance. I’m not keeping my eyes off you until I see Kowalski safely transferred to the other ambulance.’

‘Suit yourself,’ O’Hare said indifferently. ‘Gentlemen?’

‘It will be a pleasure.’ The two journalists left. O’Hare began to cover Kowalski in blankets.

Branson said with suspicion: ‘What are you doing that for?’

‘Heaven preserve me from ignorant laymen. Your friend here is in a state of shock. Rule number one for shock victims – keep them warm.’

Just as he finished speaking there was a massive thunderclap directly above, so close, so loud, that it was positively hurtful to the eardrums. The reverberations took many long seconds to die away. O’Hare looked speculatively at Branson then said: ‘Know something, Branson? That sounded to me just like the crack of doom.’ He poured some whisky into a glass and added a little distilled water.

Branson said: ‘I’ll have some of that.’

‘Help yourself,’ O’Hare said agreeably.

From the comparative comfort of the lead coach – comparative, for his clothes were as soaked as if he had fallen into the Golden Gate – Revson watched another ambulance bear away Kowalski’s stretchered form. For the moment Revson felt as reasonably content as was possible for a man in his slowly chilling condition. The main object of the exercise had been to get his hands on the cord, canister, torch and aerosol. All of those he had achieved. The first three were still under the bus by the kerbside: the fourth nestled snugly in his pocket. That all this should have been done at the expense of Kowalski, the most relentlessly vigilant of all Branson’s guards and by a long way the most suspicious, was just an added bonus. He bethought himself of the aerosol. He gave April Wednesday a gentle nudge and, because people were still talking in varying degrees of animation about the latest incident, he did not find it necessary to keep his voice especially low.

‘Listen carefully, and don’t repeat my words, no matter how stupid my question may appear. Tell me, would a young lady of – ah – delicate sensibilities – carry a miniature aerosol air-freshener around with her?’

Beyond a blink of the green eyes she showed no reaction. ‘In certain circumstances I suppose so, yes.’

He placed the can between them. ‘Then please put this in your carry-all. Sandalwood, but I wouldn’t try sniffing it.’

‘I know very well what’s in it.’ The can disappeared. ‘I suppose it doesn’t matter very much if I’m caught with it? If they bring out those old thumb-screws–’

‘They won’t. They already searched your carry-all, and the person who made the search almost certainly wouldn’t remember the contents of one of a dozen bags he’s searched. No one’s keeping an eye on you: I’m way out on my own as Suspect Number One.’

By ten o’clock silence and sleep had returned to the coach. The rain had eased, until it could be called no more than heavy, but still the lightning crackled and the thunder boomed with unabated enthusiasm. Revson glanced over his shoulder to the south-west. There were no signs of any unusual activities in the direction of Lincoln Park. He wondered if those ashore had misinterpreted his message or deliberately ignored it. Both possibilities he thought unlikely: more likely, because of the heavy rain, they were having difficulty in igniting a fire.

At seven minutes past ten a red glow appeared to the south-west. Revson was almost certainly the first person on the bridge to notice it but he thought it impolitic to draw attention to the fact. Within half a minute the dark oily flames were at least fifty feet high.

It was Bartlett who first called attention to this phenomenon and he did so in a very emphatic fashion. He stood in the open doorway behind the driver’s seat and shouted: ‘Jesus, would you look at that!’

Almost everyone immediately started awake and looked. They couldn’t see much. Rain still lashed the outside of the windows and the insides were pretty well steamed up. Like a bunch of lemmings hell-bent on a watery suicide they poured out through the door. The view was certainly very much better from there and well worth the seeing. The flames, already a hundred feet high and topped by billowing clouds of oily smoke, were increasing by the second. Still of the same lemming-like mind and totally oblivious of the rain, they began to run across the bridge to obtain a better view. The occupants of the Presidential and rear coaches were doing exactly the same. Nothing attracts people more than the prospect of a good-going disaster.

Revson, though among the first out of the lead coach, made no attempt to join them. He walked unhurriedly round the front of the coach, walked back a few feet, stooped and recovered the oilskin package. No one paid any attention to him, even had he been visible beyond the bulk of the coach, because they were all running in and looking towards the opposite direction. He removed the torch from the package, angled it forty-five degrees to his right and made his SOS signal, just once: he then pocketed the torch and made his more leisurely way across to the other side of the bridge, glancing occasionally over his left shoulder. Halfway across he saw a rocket, a not very spectacular one, curving up to the south-east.