Алистер Маклин - The Golden Gate

There was the barest pause then Branson said: ‘Yes.’

Carter sighed. ‘Must I do all the thinking for you, Branson? There you have a massive great lump of metal solidly earthed to the roadway and directly connected to both searchlight and scanner. What a target for any wandering lightning flash. Would there be anything more?’

‘Yes. Pass the word that I want the TV cameras in position and ready at nine a.m.’

Carter hung up. Richards said approvingly: ‘Quite a performance for the crack of dawn. Takes more than a few stars to make a general, I suppose. I have a feeling that our Branson must be feeling more than a little harried by this time. And when shall we be giving our own TV performance?’

Hagenbach said: ‘Directly after Branson’s, I should think. Nine thirtyish. Moment of maximum psychological impact and all that sort of thing.’

‘As our – ah – anchor-man, you have your lines ready?’

Hagenbach didn’t deign to reply.

Branson said: ‘Well, you go along with that?’

‘Carter’s no fool, that’s sure.’ Chrysler was uncertain. ‘But if it were lightning transmitted through the generator why didn’t it just jump from one electrode to the next instead of making a hole in the searchlight glass? I mean, where was it going?’

‘I’m afraid it’s not my field.’

‘I’m beginning to think it’s not mine either. But I’m damned sure there’s something fishy afoot.’ He hesitated. ‘Maybe I wasn’t so bright with that one but I’ve another idea, Mr Branson.’

‘Ideas are what I need. Myself, I’m fresh out of them.’ Coming from Branson, Chrysler thought, that was quite a remarkable statement.

‘I do my best, but I’m no Van Effen. Besides, I feel just about all in. Even you can’t keep going twenty-four hours a day. You need a new lieutenant – not to say a fresh one – and with respects to my colleagues, well–’

‘Out with it.’

‘Now that our men are in possession of the Mount Tamalpais radar stations, I think Parker is quite capable of looking after things himself. I suggest you send a chopper to bring in Giscard. You know him even better than I do. He’s tough, he’s a leader, he’s resourceful, he doesn’t panic and in some ways he’s very astute: by that I mean, all respects to you, Mr Branson, he’s never seen the inside of a courtroom. It would take a helluva load off your back.’

‘You’re quite right, of course. If I didn’t need a break I should have thought of that myself. Get hold of either Johnson or Bradley – no, Bradley: Johnson had guard duty. Tell him to move right away. I’ll get on the phone and tell Giscard. I’ll also warn our friends ashore what’s going to happen to them if they try to interfere. Not that they should need telling by now.’

Branson made his calls, winced at the clattering roar as the Sikorsky lifted cleanly off the bridge and headed north. At least Carter had been telling the truth about one thing: the helicopter hadn’t been subjected to the attentions of a laser beam.

Revson said to April: ‘I don’t want to sound indelicate but wouldn’t you like to pay a visit to the ladies’ – ah – powder-room?’

She stared at him. ‘What on earth for? Oh, well, you’ll have a reason.’

‘Yes. Just repeat this after me.’

She repeated it four times then said: ‘Is that all?’

‘Yes.’

‘Once would have been enough.’

‘Well, you never know what the help’s like these days.’

‘Why can’t you do it yourself?’

‘It’s urgent and I want it done now. There are four ladies aboard this bridge and at least fifty men. Your chances of privacy and seclusion are all that higher.’

‘And what are you going to do? You look pretty scruffy to me.’

‘To rephrase the old song, I’ve left my razor in San Francisco. Then breakfast. The wagon’s due at seven thirty’

‘I wish I had an appetite.’ She rose and spoke briefly to Yonnie who bared his teeth in a fearful grimace that he probably regarded as being a charmingly graceful assent.

The transistor in front of Hagenbach buzzed. He pulled it towards him and raised the volume. The other six men bent forward in eager expectancy. This call could be from only one source. They were wrong.

‘Mr Hagenbach?’ A feminine voice.

‘Speaking.’

‘April Wednesday’

Hagenbach took it with remarkable aplomb. ‘Carry on, my dear.’

‘Mr Revson wants to know as soon as possible if it’s possible to reduce the last resort to a non-lethal level. He wants you to have as much time as possible to try. That’s why I’m calling now.’

‘I’ll try. I can’t guarantee.’

‘He says to lay down a pattern of smoke bombs one minute before. He says he’ll radio you one minute before that.’

‘And I want to talk to Revson just as urgently. Why isn’t he doing this himself?’

‘Because I’m in the ladies’ toilets. Somebody’s coming.’ The voice trailed away in a whisper and the transceiver went dead.

Hagenbach called to the communications centre: ‘The armour. Emergency. General Carter. I’m going to need your help on this one.’

‘The ladies’ toilet,’ Quarry said unbelievingly. ‘Are there no depths to which this man of yours won’t descend?’

‘Be reasonable. You didn’t expect him to be there himself. Knowing Revson, I rate that an “A” for gentlemanly conduct.’

Vice-President Richards spoke slowly and distinctly. ‘Up in the hospital you told us that you didn’t know what “the last resort” was.’

Hagenbach looked at him coldly. ‘Vice-Presidents should know better. No one has ever become the head of the FBI without being a master of prevarication.’

Breakfast arrived on mid-bridge at seven thirty. Branson passed it up which, in view of the shock awaiting his nervous system, was perhaps as well. At seven forty-five Bradley made a perfect touchdown in his Sikorsky. Giscard, grim-faced and purposeful, stepped down on to the bridge not, oddly enough, looking at all incongruous in his police sergeant’s uniform. He probably had more photographs taken of him in the next five minutes than he’d had in the whole of his previous existence – which would not have been difficult: Giscard, as a purely professional safeguard, made it his business never to have his photograph taken. But even the redoubtable Giscard had come too late. At eight o’clock an already troubled Branson – no hint of concern showed in his composed and confident face – received his first and far from faint intimations of mortality.

Branson was deep in conversation with a fresh and confident Giscard when Reston, duty guard on the Presidential coach, came hurrying up. ‘Phone, Mr Branson.’

Giscard said: ‘I’ll take care of things, Mr Branson. You try to get some rest.’ He touched him lightly on the shoulder. ‘There’s nothing to worry about.’ Giscard had no means of knowing it but it was the most way-out prophecy he’d ever made or would ever be likely to make again.

It was Hagenbach on the phone. He said: ‘I’ve bad news for you, Branson. Kyronis doesn’t want to see you. Not now. Not ever.’

‘Who?’ Branson saw the marbled knuckles on the hand holding the phone and made a conscious effort to relax.

‘K-Y-R-O-N-I-S. The President of that Caribbean island paradise of yours. I’m afraid you’re not welcome.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘I’m afraid you do. And I’m afraid your worldwide publicity campaign has scared the poor man out of his wits. We didn’t find him, he called us. He’s on the international line right now. Shall I patch him in?’

Branson didn’t say whether he should patch him in or not. A high-pitched voice with a pronounced Caribbean accent came to his ear.