Алистер Маклин - The Golden Gate

‘Yes.’

‘I’m Hendrix. Chief of Police, San Francisco. Do you men surrender voluntarily?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Better than being hunted and gunned down by you – or stabbed in the back by that bastard Branson.’

‘You’re under arrest. Get into the van.’ Hendrix watched them go then spoke again into the microphone. ‘When it comes to making speeches, I’m afraid I’m not in the same league as the Vice-President or Mr Hagenbach, so I won’t even try. All I can say, with due modesty on the part of all of us, is that ten defectors is not a bad morning’s bag. And the morning is not yet over. Incidentally, there will be no more broadcasts from us for at least an hour.’

Revson stood up and glanced round casually. In the space of only two seconds he caught the eye of both General Cartland and Grafton. Slowly, casually, the newsmen and the hostages began to drift off to their separate coaches, the former presumably to write up their dispatches or refill cameras, the latter, almost certainly, in the pursuit of refreshments – the President looked particularly thirsty. Besides, the comfort of an air-conditioned coach was vastly to be preferred to the already uncomfortable heat out on the bridge.

Giscard said in anger: ‘The fool, the fool, the bloody fool! Why did he have to let himself be duped so easily?’

There was just a trace of weary acceptance in Branson’s voice. ‘Because he had no Giscard there beside him, that’s why.’

‘He could have phoned you. He could have phoned me.’

‘What might have been. No older phrase in any language. I don’t really blame him.’

Chrysler said: ‘Has it occurred to you, Mr Branson, that when you’ve received your ransom money and returned the hostages, they might want most if not all of it back if you want their prisoners freed? They’re no fools and they know damned well that you wouldn’t let your men down.’

‘There’ll be no deal. I admit it’s going to make things a bit more tricky, but there’ll be no deal. Well, I suppose I’d better go and see what friend Hagenbach wants.’ Branson rose and walked towards the rear coach, his head bent in thought.

Mack, the guard, waited until the last of his illustrious hostages had entered the Presidential coach, locked the door and pocketed the key. His machine-pistol was dangling from one hand. He turned round to see Cartland’s little pistol not three feet from him.

Cartland said: ‘Don’t try anything, I beg you. Try to lift and fire that gun and it is the last thing you ever do.’ Cartland’s calm impersonal voice carried immense conviction. ‘Gentlemen, I ask you to bear witness to–’

‘That funny little pop-gun?’ Mack was openly contemptuous. ‘You couldn’t even hurt me with that thing, but I’d still cut you to pieces.’

‘Bear witness to the fact that I warned this man that this “pop-gun” is loaded with cyanide-tipped bullets. Just has to break the skin and you won’t even feel it. You’ll be a dead man before you hit the floor.’

‘In my country,’ the King observed, ‘he’d already be dead.’

With the possible exception of Yonnie, none of Branson’s men was a fool. Mack was no fool. He handed over his gun. Cartland marched him to the rear of the coach, pushed him into the washroom, extracted the inside key and locked the door from the outside.

The President said: ‘Well?’

Cartland said: ‘There’s going to be some rather violent unpleasantness outside in a minute or two. I don’t want to risk any of you at this late date. I want this door kept sealed and locked because our friends ashore are going to use a special and very lethal bomb which sucks oxygen from the atmosphere and leaves you very dead. Thirdly, Branson is going to come around very quickly with the intention of shooting up one or two of you if the nastiness doesn’t stop. But if the door’s locked and he can’t get in he can fire all day at this bullet-proof glass and make no impression. Fourthly, although we now have two guns, we’re not going to use them when we do leave here as we must eventually. I don’t want a gunfight at the OK corral. We’ll be loaded into a helicopter but the helicopter isn’t going any place.’

The President said: ‘Where did you get all this information from?’

‘A well-informed source. Fellow who gave me this gun. Revson.’

‘Revson. How does he tie in? Don’t know the chap.’

‘You will. He’s stated as Hagenbach’s successor in the FBI.’

The President was plaintive. ‘It’s like I always say: no one ever tells me anything.’

Revson was much less verbose and not at all forthcoming with explanations. Ensuring that he was the last man in, he turned and chopped the unsuspecting Peters below the right ear just as Peters turned the key in the lock. Revson relieved him of both key and machine-pistol, dragged him in and propped him in the driver’s seat, then brought out his radio.

‘Revson here.’

‘Hendrix.’

‘Ready yet?’

‘Hagenbach’s still on the phone to Branson.’

‘Let me know immediately he’s through.’

‘So the money’s in Europe,’ Branson said into the phone. ‘Excellent. But there had to be a codeword.’

‘There was. Very appropriate this time.’ Hagenbach’s voice was dry. ‘ “Offshore”.’

Branson permitted himself a slight smile.

Hendrix’s voice came through on Revson’s receiver. He said: ‘They’re through.’

‘Clear with Hagenbach.’

‘Clear.’

‘Now.’

Revson didn’t replace the transistor in his camera case. He put it in his pocket, unslung his camera and laid it on the floor. He unlocked the door, leaving the key in the lock, opened the door a judicious crack and peered back. The first smoke bomb burst about two hundred yards away just as Branson descended from the rear coach. A second, twenty yards nearer, burst about two seconds later. Branson still remained as he was, as if momentarily paralysed. Not so O’Hare, Revson observed, who moved very swiftly into the back of his ambulance, closing the door hard behind him: the driver, Revson assumed, was already inside.

Branson broke from his thrall. He leapt inside the rear coach, lifted a phone and shouted: ‘Hagenbach! Hendrix!’ He had apparently overlooked the fact that if Hendrix had been at Mount Tamalpais some five minutes previously, he could hardly have returned by that time.

‘Hagenbach speaking.’

‘What the hell do you think you’re up to?’

‘I’m not up to anything.’ Hagenbach’s voice was infuriatingly unconcerned.

The dense clouds of smoke were now no more than a hundred yards away.

‘I’m going inside the Presidential coach.’ He was still shouting. ‘You know what that means.’ He thrust the phone back and pulled out his pistol. ‘Giscard, tell the men to prepare for an attack on the south. They must be mad.’ Johnson and Bradley had advanced from the rear of the coach but he thrust them back. ‘You two I can’t afford to lose. Not now. Stay here. That goes for you, too, Giscard. Tell the men, get back here, and tell Hagenbach what I’m doing.’ Giscard eyed him with understandable concern. An erratic, repetitive and slightly incoherent Branson he had not encountered before: but then Giscard had not spent the previous twenty-four hours on the Golden Gate Bridge.

Two more smoke bombs had fallen by the time Branson jumped down to the roadway. The pall of smoke, thick and dense now totally obscuring the south tower was no more than fifty yards away. He rushed to the door of the Presidential coach, grabbed the handle and tried to wrench the door open: but the door remained immovable.

Another smoke bomb exploded. This one was just short of the rear coach. Branson battered at the window of the door with the butt of his pistol and peered inside. The driver’s seat, the seat which Mack, the guard, should have been occupying, was empty. General Cartland appeared at the doorway as the next smoke bomb burst not ten yards away.