Алистер Маклин - The Golden Gate

‘You fool, Branson. You madman. You wide-mouthed boaster. You had to tell the world that you were going to the Caribbean. You had to tell the world that it had a prison stockade in one corner. You had to tell the world that it had no extradition treaty with the United States. You damn fool, how long do you think it would take American Intelligence to piece that together? I called them before they came calling on me. Their fleet has already moved out from their Guantánamo base in Cuba. Their C54s are lined up on the runways in Fort Lauderdale with God knows how many paratroopers and Marines standing by. They could take our little principality over in ten minutes and your Vice-President has assured me that they would consider it a pleasure.’ Kyronis stopped to take what appeared to be his first breath since he started his tirade. Branson said nothing.

‘Megalomania, Branson. Megalomania. I always warned you it was the one thing that could bring you down. Sheer, bloody megalomania.’

Branson hung up the phone.

Giscard took the news with remarkable aplomb. ‘So Kyronis has ratted on us. It’s not the end of the world and I don’t see that it changes a single thing. I think this is just part of a war of nerves, attrition, you know, psychological warfare. Okay; so you’ve been here – what is it? – twenty-three hours and I don’t know what the strains have been like. But I’m sure of this – with no other way of getting at you they’re trying to pressurize you into making a mistake. It’s kind of like a poker game but with no cards in their hands all they can do is bluff.’ Giscard nodded to the Presidential coach. ‘What’s bluff when you hold all the cards in your hands?’

‘There speaks the voice of reason, is that it?’ Branson smiled. ‘You forget that I know Kyronis’s voice.’

‘Sure you do. I don’t doubt it was Kyronis. I also don’t doubt that the Government, through some fast checking by the CIA or the FBI, got to him first.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘Because Kyronis has your VHF number. He could have radioed you direct instead of causing all this hullabaloo. But that wouldn’t have suited our friends’ department of psychological warfare.’

‘And I’ve had an idea, Mr Branson.’ Chrysler had shed much of his weariness since Giscard’s arrival. ‘Who needs Kyronis? The Presidential Boeing can reach half a dozen countries anywhere in the world that have no extradition treaty with the USA. A dozen, for all I know. But there’s no need to go further than the Caribbean. You’ve been thinking big all along, Mr Branson. Now’s the time to keep on thinking big.’

Branson rubbed his forehead. ‘Think big aloud. Someone has to this morning.’

‘Havana. There’s no extradition treaty with them. Sure, there’s an agreement to repatriate hijackers, but no one’s going to return the hijacker of the Presidential Boeing – especially if the President has a pistol to his head. Okay, so the US is prepared to take over Kyronis’s tiny islet. Cuba is a vastly different proposition. Castro has a first-class army, air force and navy. Any attempt to get the President out would lead to nothing short of full-scale war. And don’t forget that Castro is Moscow’s blue-eyed boy. An armed invasion of Cuba would bring a violent reaction and I don’t think the US would be prepared to risk an eyeball-to-eyeball nuclear confrontation over a miserable half billion dollars.’

Branson nodded slowly. ‘Curiously enough, that was where Van Effen wanted to go. And for much the same reasons.’

‘And can’t you see how Castro would just love it? He’d go on TV and weep and wail and wring his hands and say how much he’d love to be of help but his hands are hopelessly tied. Then when the cameras are switched off he falls about the place laughing.’

Branson said: ‘Gentlemen, you have restored my faith in human nature. At least my own nature. Havana it is. Now. Our next show is at nine. All the tackle and explosives as before. Peters can drive the electric truck as before. Bartlett and Boyard fixed the last lot – let’s give Reston and Harrison a go.’ Branson smiled. ‘They think they’re better than Bartlett and Boyard and should have had the privilege of the first attempt. See they carry walkie-talkies. Which reminds me. Chrysler, I want to be in a position where I can lay hands on a telephone wherever I happen to be. I don’t want to have to keep running to the President’s coach. I just want a direct line to Hagenbach and company. You can fix one up in our coach?’

‘I’d have to go through the local exchange.’

‘So what? By all means. Tell them to keep the line permanently open. I want a lead to where I’ll be sitting when the TV is on. And can you get a radio-telephone link from the lead helicopter?’

“Turn a knob, is all. What’s that for, Mr Branson?’

‘We’re going to need it some time. Better sooner than never.’

It was another glorious morning of blue and gold, a cloudless sky, a fairy tale setting which achieved the impossible of making even the grim fortress of Alcatraz into an islet of shimmering beauty. As on the previous day a low deep bank of fog was approaching from the west. Out of all three coaches there was only one person who was not savouring the delights of the morning or, in the case of Branson’s men, on duty.

Revson sat in his seat, elbow on the window ledge, hand cupped to his cheeks so that no one could see his lips moving.

Hagenbach said: “Turn the volume down, put the transceiver to your ear.’

‘Impossible. My head and shoulders are above window level. I can bend down for a few seconds. But be quick.’

Revson’s camera was upside down on his knees, the transceiver nestling in the opened recess. He turned down the volume and put his head low. After about fifteen seconds he straightened and looked carelessly around. Nobody was paying any attention to him. He turned up the volume.

‘Well?’ Hagenbach’s voice was querulous. ‘Aren’t you surprised?’

‘Not all that much. Are you going to tell him?’

‘Remember, you don’t give any signal to go until I’m all through at this end.’

‘I’ll remember. How about the CUBs?’

‘The experts aren’t all that happy about the prospects.’

‘Then use a few of them only and make up for the rest in gas bombs. Are you in touch with the two men at the top of the tower?’

‘Carmody and Rogers. Yes.’

‘Tell them if they nab anyone to take them down to the pier of the tower.’

‘Why?’

‘Look. I’m exposed. Is the Admiral there?’

Hagenbach refrained from questions though it must have cost him a considerable effort. Newson came through.

Revson said: ‘Do you have any small, quiet boats, sir?’

‘Electrically powered?’

‘Ideally.’

‘In abundance.’

‘When the fog comes in, do you think you could get one alongside the pier of the south tower?’

‘Consider it done.’

‘With a breeches-buoy pistol and suitable ropes?’

‘No problem.’

‘Thank you, sir. Mr Hagenbach?’

‘Yes. Secretive bastard, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, sir. The laser unit is ready for action? Ah, good. Would you have it lined up on the drive shaft of the rotor of the lead helicopter – that’s to say, the one furthest from you. Have it locked in position so that it can hit its target even through dense smoke.’

‘Why on earth–’

‘Somebody coming.’

Revson looked around. There was nobody coming, but he’d no desire to bandy words with Hagenbach. He clipped the base of the camera, slung it over his shoulder and left the coach.

‘A bit of trouble, sir.’ Chrysler handed a walkie-talkie to Branson.