Алистер Маклин - The Golden Gate

Revson moved silently down the aisle. April Wednesday was wide awake. She swung out to let him pass to the inside seat then sat again. Before removing his soaking coat and dumping it on the floor, he passed her the aerosol. She stooped and thrust it in the bottom of her carry-all. She whispered: ‘I didn’t think I’d see you again. How did it go?’

‘Well enough.’

‘What happened?’

‘You want to know? Really?’

She thought and shook her head. There were still visions of thumb-screws in her head. Instead, she said softly: ‘What’s that round your neck?’

‘Good God!’ From sleepiness Revson was jerked into immediate wide-awakeness. The little transceiver still dangled from his neck. What a sight for a roving Branson. He lifted the transceiver from his neck, undipped the straps, picked up his camera and inserted the radio in its base.

She said: ‘What’s that?’

‘Just a teeny-weeny hand camera.’

‘It’s not. It’s a radio.’

‘Call it what you like.’

‘Where did you get it from? I mean, this coach – everything – has been searched from top to bottom.’

‘From a passing friend. I have friends everywhere. You may well have saved my life there. I could kiss you for it.’

‘Well?’

When it came to kissing she was nowhere near as fragile as she looked. Revson said: ‘That was the nicest part of the whole evening. Of the whole day. Of a whole lot of days. Some day, some time, when we get off this damned bridge, we must try that again.’

‘Why not now?’

‘You’re a brazen–’ He caught her arm and nodded. Somewhere up front someone was stirring. It was Johnson. He rose to his feet with surprising quickness and looked up and down the bridge. Revson could just picture what was going on in his mind. His last recollection would have been of seeing the steps of the lead coach and his natural assumption would be that he had just sat down for a moment to rest. One thing was for sure, he would never admit to Branson that he’d slept for even a second. He stepped into the bus and prodded Bartlett with the muzzle of his machine-gun. Bartlett started awake and stared at him.

‘You asleep?’ Johnson demanded.

‘Me? Asleep?’ Bartlett was amazed, indignant. ‘Can’t a man rest his eyes for a moment without having accusations like that thrown at him?’

‘Just see that you don’t rest them for too long.’ Johnson’s voice was coldly self-righteous. He descended the steps and walked away.

Revson murmured to April: ‘I was sleepy but I’m not now. But I not only want to appear to be asleep, I want to be asleep if any turmoil breaks out in the very near future, which I strongly suspect might happen. Don’t happen to have any sleeping tablets on you, do you?’

‘Why on earth should I? This was supposed to be a day trip, remember.’

‘I remember.’ He sighed. ‘Well, there’s nothing else for it. Give me the aerosol can.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I want to take just the tiniest whiff of it. Then take the can from my hand and tuck it away again.’

She hesitated.

‘Remember this dinner – those lots of dinners – I’m going to take you to just as soon as we get ashore.’

‘I don’t remember anything of the kind.’

‘Well, remember it now. But I can’t very well take you if I’m at the bottom of the Golden Gate, can I?’

She shuddered and reached reluctantly into her carry-all.

In the rear coach Chrysler put his hand on Branson’s shoulder and shook him gently. Branson, despite what must have been his exhaustion, was immediately awake, immediately alert. ‘Trouble?’

‘I don’t know. I’m worried, Mr Branson. Van Effen left here just, he said, to make a normal check on things. He hasn’t come back.’

‘How long ago was that?’

‘Half an hour, sir.’

‘God. Chrysler, why didn’t you wake me before now?’

‘Two things. I knew you needed sleep and we all depend on you. And if ever I knew a man who could take care of himself it’s Van Effen.’

‘He was carrying his machine-pistol?’

‘Have you ever seen him without it since we came on this bridge?’

Branson rose from his seat, picked up his own gun and said: ‘Come with me. Did you see which way he went?’

‘North.’

They walked to the Presidential coach. Peters, the guard, was sitting sideways in the driver’s seat, smoking. He turned quickly as a gentle tap came on the door, removed a key from an inner pocket and turned it in the lock. Branson opened the door from the outside and said quietly: ‘Have you seen any signs of Van Effen?’ He could, in fact, have raised his voice a couple of dozen decibels and it would have made no difference: when it comes to the terms of stertorous snoring, presidents, royalty, generals, mayors and assorted government ministers are no different from the common run of mankind.

‘Yes, Mr Branson. Must have been about half an hour ago. I saw him walk towards the nearest rest-room there.’

‘Did you see him come out again?’

‘No. Quite frankly I wasn’t looking outside. I don’t bother much. My job is to see that none of those gentlemen makes for the communications desk or rushes me and takes away my gun and key. I don’t much fancy having my own gun pointed at my own head. I keep my eyes for what goes on inside this coach not what goes on outside it.’

‘And right you are. No reflections on you, Peters.’ Branson closed the door and heard the key turn in the lock. They made for the nearest rest-room. A very brief search indicated that it was empty. So was the other rest-room. They made their way to the ambulance. Branson opened the rear door, used a small torch to locate a switch and flooded the ambulance with light. A shirt-sleeved O’Hare covered with a single blanket, was sound asleep on the side-hinged cot. Branson shook him awake. It took some shaking.

O’Hare opened the rather bleary eyes, winced at the bright overhead light, looked at the two men then at his watch.

‘Quarter to one! What the hell do you want at this time of the morning?’

‘Van Effen’s missing. Have you seen him?’

‘No, I haven’t seen him.’ O’Hare showed a faint stirring of what could have been professional interest. ‘Was he sick or something?’

‘No.’

‘Then why bother me? Perhaps,’ O’Hare said hopefully, ‘he’s fallen over the side.’

Branson studied the doctor briefly. O’Hare’s eyes were slightly puffy, but Branson was experienced enough to realize that it was the puffiness of sleepiness not of sleeplessness. He gestured Chrysler to leave, followed, switched out the light and closed the door behind him.

Johnson, machine-gun slung, was walking towards them. He came up to them, stopped and said: “Evening, Mr Branson. ‘Morning rather.’

‘Have you seen Van Effen?’

‘Van Effen? When?’

‘Inside the past half hour.’

Johnson shook his head positively. ‘Definitely not.’

‘But he was out on the bridge. You were on the bridge. If he was here, then you must have.’

‘Sorry. No. It’s possible he was and possible that I didn’t see him. I walk to and fro all the time – it’s the best way of keeping awake. I don’t keep glancing over my shoulder all the time.’ Johnson thought or appeared to think. ‘He may have been on the bridge but he may have left it. By that I mean he may for reasons best known to himself have chosen to walk on the other side of the buses.’

‘Why should he do that?’

‘How should I know? Maybe he wanted to keep in concealment. Maybe anything. How should I know what goes on in Van Effen’s mind?’

‘True.’ Branson had no particular wish to antagonize Johnson, who, apart from being an ex-naval officer, was a highly experienced helicopter pilot and an essential part of his escape plans. He said mildly: ‘I just suggest that you stand in the middle here and look around from time to time. You’re hardly likely to go to sleep on your feet – you’re due for relief in fifteen minutes.’