Алистер Маклин - The Golden Gate

He reached the far crash barrier and joined O’Hare who was standing some little way apart from the others. O’Hare said: ‘You’d make quite an arsonist.’

‘That’s just by the way of introduction. Wait till you see the next one. Not to mention the fireworks. Sheer pyromania, that’s what it is. Let’s look at the front end of the rear coach.’

They looked. A full minute passed and nothing happened. O’Hare said: ‘Hm. Worrisome?’

‘No. Just running a little bit behind schedule, I should think. Don’t even blink.’

O’Hare didn’t and so he saw it – a tiny intense spark of bluish-white that could have lasted only milliseconds. O’Hare said: ‘You saw it too?’

‘Yes. Far less than I thought it would be.’

‘End of radio-wave scanner?’

‘No question.’

‘Would anyone inside the coach have heard it?’

‘That’s academic. There’s no one inside the rear coach. They’re all across here. But there is some sign of activity at the rear of the Presidential coach. A dollar gets a cent that Branson’s asking some questions.’

Branson was indeed asking some questions. Chrysler by his side, he was talking forcefully into a telephone.

‘Then find out and find out now.’

‘I’m trying to.’ It was Hendrix and he sounded weary. ‘I can be held responsible for a lot of things but I can’t be held responsible for the forces of nature. Don’t you realize this is the worst lightning storm the city has had in years? There are dozens of outbreaks of small fires and the Firemaster tells me his force is fully extended.’

‘I’m waiting, Hendrix.’

‘So am I. And God only knows how you imagine this fire in Lincoln Park can affect you. Sure, it’s giving off clouds of oil smoke, but the wind’s from the west and the smoke won’t come anywhere near you. You’re jumping at shadows, Branson. Wait. A report.’ There was a brief silence then Hendrix went on: ‘Three parked road oil tankers. One had its loading hose partly on the ground so it was earthed. Witnesses saw this tanker being struck by lightning. Two fire engines are there and the fire is under control. Satisfied?’

Branson hung up without replying.

The fire was indeed under control. Firemen, taking their convincing time, were now smothering the barrels of blazing oil with foam extinguishers. Fifteen minutes after the fire had first begun – or been noticed – it was extinguished. Reluctantly, almost – they were now so wet that they couldn’t possibly get any wetter – the watchers by the west barrier turned and made their way back to the coaches. But their evening’s entertainment had only just begun.

Another fire bloomed to the north. It spread and grew with even greater rapidity than the previous one, becoming so bright and intense that even the lights in the concrete towers of downtown San Francisco seemed pale by comparison. Branson, who had made his way back to his own coach, now ran back to the Presidential coach. A bell was ringing in the communications section in the rear. Branson snatched the phone. It was Hendrix.

Hendrix said: ‘Nice to forestall you for once. No, we are not responsible for this one either. Why in the hell should we set off a fire where all the smoke is being carried away from you east over the bay? The meteorological officer says that there’s a lightning strike once every three or four seconds. And it’s not cloud to cloud stuff, it’s mainly cloud to earth. On the law of averages, he says, something combustible has to go in one in twenty. I’ll keep you posted.’

For the first time, Hendrix hung the phone up on him. Branson slowly replaced his own. For the first time, lines of strain were beginning to etch themselves round the corners of his mouth.

The blue-veined flames were towering now to a height of six or seven hundred feet, as high as the highest building in the city. The smoke given off was dense and bitingly acrid, which is generally the case when several hundred used tyres are added to an oil-based fire. But half a dozen giant fire engines and as many again mobile foam wagons were in very close attendance indeed. On the bridge the more nervous of the newspapermen and cameramen were speculating as to whether the fire would spread to the city itself, a rather profitless speculation as the wind was entirely in the wrong direction. Mayor Morrison stood by the eastern crash barrier, fists clenched, tears streaming down his face, cursing with a non-stop fluid monotony.

O’Hare said to Revson: ‘I wonder if the King and the Prince see the irony in all this. After all, it’s probably their own oil that they’re seeing going up.’ Revson made no reply and O’Hare touched his arm. ‘Sure you haven’t overdone things a bit this time, old boy?’ In moments of stress, his English education background tended to show through.

‘I wasn’t the one with the matches.’ Revson smiled. ‘No worry, they know what they’re about. What I am looking forward to seeing now is the firework display.’

In the Presidential communications centre the phone rang again. Branson had it in a second.

‘Hendrix. It’s an oil storage tank in Fort Mason.’ There was no oil storage tank in Fort Mason, but Branson was not a Californian far less a San Franciscan and it was highly unlikely that he was aware of that. ‘I’ve just been on the radio to the Fire Commissioner. He says its bark is worse than its bite and that there’s no danger.’

‘And what the hell is that, then?’ Branson’s voice was a shout, his normal monolithic calm in at least temporary abeyance.

‘What’s what?’

Hendrix’s calm served only to deepen Branson’s apprehension. ‘Fireworks! Dozens of them! Fireworks! Can’t you see them?’

‘Not from where I sit I can’t. Wait.’ Hendrix went to the rear door of the communications wagon. Branson hadn’t been exaggerating. The sky was indeed full of fireworks, of every conceivable colour and design, at least half of them exploding in glittering falling stars. If Branson had been his usual calm and observant self, Hendrix reflected, he might have noticed that the fireworks, nearly all of a medium trajectory, were firing to the north-east which was the shortest distance between where they were coming from and the nearest stretch of water. All of them, without exception, would fizzle out in the waters of San Francisco Bay. Hendrix returned to the phone.

‘They appear to be coming from the Chinatown area and sure as hell they aren’t celebrating the Chinese New Year. I’ll call back.’

Revson said to O’Hare: ‘Take your white coat off. It’s too conspicuous or will be when it gets dark.’ He gave O’Hare his white felt pen. ‘You know how to use this?’

‘Depress the clip and press the button on top.’

‘Yes. If anyone comes too near – well, aim for the face. You’ll have to extract the needle.’

‘Me and my medical ethics.’

Branson picked up the phone. ‘Yes?’

‘It was Chinatown. A fireworks factory there was struck. That damned thunder and lightning doesn’t just seem to want to go away. God knows how many more outbreaks of fire we’ll have tonight.’

Branson left the coach and joined Van Effen by the east barrier. Van Effen turned.

‘Not often you see a sight like this, Mr Branson.’

‘I’m afraid I’m not in the mood to enjoy it.’

‘Why?’

‘I’ve a feeling that this is being staged for our benefit.’

‘How could this possibly affect us? Nothing’s changed as far as we’re concerned. Don’t let’s forget our Presidential and royal hostages.’

‘Even so–’

‘Even so your antennae are tingling?’

‘Tingling! They’re jumping. I don’t know what’s going to happen next but I’ve the feeling that I’m not going to enjoy it.’