The Golden Gate

by Alistair MacLean

  Hendrix said: ‘General Cartland? Hendrix. The way I see it, sir, this is going to be as much a military operation as a police one. Much more so, if I’m any judge. I should call in the senior military officers on the coast?’

  ‘Higher than that.’

  ‘The Pentagon?’

  ‘At once.’

  ‘Local action?’

  ‘Damn all. Wait until the situation stabilizes itself – and we find out what this madman wants.’ Branson smiled politely but as usual the smile never touched his eyes. ‘According to what he says himself – if you can believe a word he says – time is not of the essence. I think he wants to talk to you.’

  Branson took the phone from Cartland and eased himself comfortably into the armchair. ‘One or two questions and requests, Hendrix. I think I am in a position to expect answers and compliance with whatever I want. Wouldn’t you agree?’ ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Has the news been broken yet?’

  ‘What the hell do you mean broken? Half of San Francisco can see you stuck out on that damned bridge.’

  ‘That’s no way to speak of my favourite bridge. Nationwide is what I mean.’

  ‘It’ll get around fast enough.’

  ‘See that it gets around now. The communications media, as those people term themselves nowadays, are going to be interested. I am prepared to allow, no, that’s wrong, I insist that you put a helicopter, no, two helicopters at the disposal of some of the hundreds of news cameramen who will wish to record this historic event. The Bay Area is thick with suitable machines, both military and civilian.’

  There was a silence then Hendrix said: ‘What the devil do you want those for?’

  ‘Obvious, surely. Publicity. The maximum exposure. I want every person in America and indeed every person in the world who is within reach of a television set to see just what a predicament the President and his Arabian friends are in. And they are in a predicament, wouldn’t you say?’

  Another silence. ‘This publicity, of course, you will use as a lever to get public opinion on your side, to help you obtain what you want, whatever that might be?’

  ‘What else?’

  Hendrix said heavily: ‘You wouldn’t like me to send a coach-load of reporters on to the bridge, would you?’

  Branson smiled into the telephone. ‘A coachload of reporters I wouldn’t mind but I don’t much fancy a coach-load of FBI men armed to the teeth and disguised as reporters. No, I think we’ll pass that one up. Besides, reporters we have, our own coach-load.’

  ‘What’s to prevent me from loading those helicopters up with troops, maybe paratroopers?’

  Branson sighed. ‘Only your own common sense. We’ve got hostages, or had you forgotten? A bullet can reach the President far more quickly than a paratrooper ever could.’ Branson glanced at the President, whose expression indicated that he clearly didn’t care to be used as a bargaining counter.

  ‘You wouldn’t dare. You’d defeat your own ends. You’d have nothing left to blackmail us with.’

  ‘I’d still have a king and a prince. Try me and see. You’re whistling in the dark and you know it. Or do you want to go down in history as the man responsible for the deaths of a president, a king and a prince?’ Hendrix made no reply. It was clearly not a role he envisaged for himself. ‘However, it hasn’t escaped me that there might be some death-or-glory hotheads who would stop at nothing in taking blind gambles, so I’ve got my second request to make now. This area is crammed with military stations – the Presidio itself, Fort Baker, Treasure Island, Forts Funston, Miley and Mason, Fort Barry, Cronkite – you name them, they’re around and all within easy reach of here by road. I’d be very surprised if between them they can’t rustle up the two mobile self-propelled rapid-fire anti-aircraft guns which I want on the bridge within the hour. Plenty of ammunition, of course – and the army will test them out first. You know how some of that hardware gets afflicted with all kinds of jinxes.’

  ‘You’re quite mad.’

  ‘A divine sort of madness. Instructions now.’

  ‘I refuse.’

  ‘You refuse? General Cartland?’

  Cartland heaved himself upright and walked heavily down the coach. He took the phone and said quietly: ‘Do what the madman asks. Don’t you recognize megalomania when you hear it?’

  ‘That was very unkind, General.’ Branson smiled and retrieved the phone. ‘You have the message, Hendrix?’

  ‘I have the message.’ Hendrix sounded as if he were being strangled.

  ‘My third request. Call up a couple of squads of army engineers. I want two sets of steel barriers built on the bridge, one under either tower. They are to be strong enough to stop a tank and high enough – barbed at the top, of course – to prevent anyone from climbing over. The north barrier is to be unbroken, the south with a hinged central section, wide enough to permit the passage of a jeep, and capable of being opened from the inside – our side – only. The barriers will be anchored to the sides of the bridge by bolting or welding and secured to the roadway by pneumatically driven spikes. But the army will know a great deal more about such things than I do. I shall supervise the operations personally.’

  Hendrix seemed to be having some difficulty with his breathing. Finally he said: ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s those nasty fogs that come rolling in from the Pacific all the time. More often than not they cover the bridge – in fact I can see one coming in right now.’ Branson sounded almost apologetic. ‘It would be too easy to rush us under fog cover.’

  ‘And why the hinged section in the south barrier?’

  ‘I thought I told you. To permit the passage of a jeep. For such things as negotiating committees, a doctor if need be and the transport of the best food and drink in town.’

  ‘Jesus! You have your nerve, Branson.’

  ‘Nerve?’ Branson was hurt. ‘This humanitarian consideration of the well-being of my fellow man? You call that nerve? Kings and presidents are not accustomed to going hungry. Among other things you don’t want to go down in history as, Hendrix, includes I’m sure being the man responsible for starving kings and presidents to death. Think of the verdict of history.’

  Hendrix was silent. He may or may not have been thinking about the verdict of history.

  Branson went on: ‘And we must not forget the delicate sensibilities of royalty. Before the barriers are in place we’d like to have a couple of mobile latrine vans in position. Equipped, of course, to the very highest standards – and that does not include being loaded to the gunwales with FBI agents. You have all that, Hendrix?’

  ‘It’s been recorded.’

  ‘Then set the wheels in motion. Or must I call in General Cartland again?’

  ‘It will be done.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Now.’

  Branson cradled the phone on his knee and looked at it wonderingly. ‘And he didn’t even tell me I couldn’t get off with it.’ He lifted the phone again. ‘Last request, Hendrix, but the most important one. The President is temporarily incapacitated. How can one talk to the leader of a leaderless nation?’

  ‘The Vice-President is already in Chicago. He’s on his way to O’Hare airfield now.’

  ‘Splendid. Splendid. Co-operation without even asking for it. But I’m afraid I’ll also have to ask for the co-operation of one or two other senior members of the government. I know it’s asking for a lot but I feel -’

  ‘Spare me your schoolboy humour, Branson.’ There was an edge to Hendrix’s voice now but it was a tired edge. ‘I suppose you have some people in mind?’

  ‘Just a couple, that’s all.’ Branson had a gift for sounding eminently reasonable when making the most unreasonable demands.

  ‘And if you get them and the Vice-President together here I suppose you’ll make all three of them hostages too.’

  ‘No. You’ve only got my word for it, of course, but no. You’re losing whatever grip you had, Hendrix. You don’t kidnap negotiators. If you did you’d have
to negotiate with someone else and so on down the line until we came to someone like you.’ Branson waited for comment but Hendrix appeared to be beyond comment. ‘I want the Secretary of State.’

  ‘He’s on his way.’

  ‘A mind-reader, no less! From where?’

  ‘Los Angeles.’

  ‘How very convenient. How come he was there?’

  ‘An IMF meeting.’

  ‘IMF? Then that means -’

  Branson replaced the receiver. ‘Well, well, well. Little Peter Branson vis-à-vis, the Secretary of the Treasury. What a tête-à-tête this should be. I thought the day would never come.’

  ‘Yes,’ Hendrix said wearily. ‘The Secretary of the Treasury was there. He’s flying up with him.’

  FOUR

  Paul Revson surfaced slowly, almost reluctantly, to a state of consciousness. His eyelids felt leaden, his head fuzzy and he thought that he had gone slightly deaf. Otherwise he felt no after-effects from having been gassed – he knew he must have been gassed but everything had happened so quickly after the explosion under the driver’s feet that he had no clear recollection of what had happened. As his eyesight cleared he looked around him. By his side a girl with a mop of blonde hair was huddled forward against the back of the seat before her, her neck twisted at an uncomfortable angle. Some people, he saw, were lying in the aisle, apparently asleep. A score of others were still in their seats, all resting at the most uncomfortable angles: some of them, like himself, were just beginning to stir. He peered through the coach window, blinked unbelievingly, then stared again. As a born and bred San Franciscan it took him nothing flat to realize that their coach was halted almost squarely in the middle of the Golden Gate Bridge. It was a circumstance, he felt, which called for some explanation.

  He turned his immediate attention to the girl at his side. She was worth anyone’s attention. She was possessed of a slight figure, hardly strong enough, one would have thought, to lug around the heavy ciné-camera which, shoulder-slung, accompanied her everywhere. The blonde hair was so bleached – naturally, Revson thought-that it almost qualified for the description of platinum, and she was quite beautiful with a very pale skin that the sun never appeared to touch. She was, she had given him to understand, a fashion photographer for one of the major TV companies and as the official party of this Presidential trip was exclusively male it was rather difficult to understand just why she was there. It didn’t make sense, but then, again, neither did most Presidential trips. Her name was equally preposterous. April Wednesday, she called herself, and her press card bore this out. Revson could only assume that she had been born of singularly unimaginative parents who, as christening day approached, had seized upon the birth date as the easy way out.

  He put his hands on her shoulders and gently pulled her upright. The blonde head lolled against his shoulder. He had no idea how to revive people who had suffered from some form of gas poisoning. Should he shake her, slap her cheek gently or just let her sleep it off? He was spared the resolution of this problem when she stirred, shivered for some reason or other – although she was clad in only a thin and markedly abbreviated green silk dress, the temperature in the bus must have been in the eighties – then opened her eyes and gazed unblinkingly at Revson’s.

  In a face not noticeably lacking other commendable features, those eyes were by far the most remarkable feature. They were huge, clear, of a startling deep sea-green and were possessed of an odd quality of purity and innocence. Revson wondered idly just how devious she was: any young woman who toted a camera for a TV company must have lost her innocence quite some time ago, assuming she was possessed of any in the first place.

  She said, not taking her eyes from his: ‘What happened?’

  ‘At a guess, some joker must have let off a gas bomb. The instant effect variety. How do you feel?’

  ‘Punch-drunk. Hung over. You know what I mean?’ He nodded. ‘Why would anyone want to do a thing like that?’

  ‘Why a lot of things.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Why, after an hour and ten minutes, are we still stranded in the middle of the Golden Gate Bridge?’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Look around you.’

  She looked around her, slowly acknowledging the reality of the surroundings. Suddenly she stiffened and caught hold of the hand that was still around her shoulders.

  ‘Those two men across the aisle.’ Her voice had dropped to a whisper. ‘They’re wearing handcuffs.’

  Revson bent forward and looked. The two large and still sleeping men were undoubtedly wearing handcuffs.

  ‘Why?’ Again the whisper.

  ‘How should I know why? I’ve just come to myself.’

  ‘Well, then, why aren’t we wearing them?’

  ‘How should – we are among the blessed.’ He looked over his shoulder and saw the Presidential coach parked just behind them. ‘Excuse me. As a good journalist I think the odd probing question is in order.’

  ‘I’m coming with you.’

  ‘Sure.’ She stepped into the aisle and he followed. Instead of moving directly after her he lifted the coat lapel of the nearest of the sleeping men. An empty shoulder holster was much in evidence. He followed the girl. At the front door he noticed that the driver, still sound asleep, was propped against the right-hand front door, quite some distance from his seat: obviously, he hadn’t made it there under his own steam.

  He joined the girl on the bridge. A very large and extremely ugly policeman – Yonnie had the kind of face that would have given any force a bad name – was pointing a machine-pistol at them. That a policeman should be pointing a gun at them was peculiar enough. That a policeman should be armed with a machine-gun was even more peculiar. Most peculiar of all, however, was the spectacle of six scowling and clearly unhappy policemen standing in a line, each attached to the other by a pair of handcuffs.

  April Wednesday stared at them in astonishment, then looked at Revson. He said: ‘I agree. This would seem to call for some kind of explanation.’

  ‘You’ll have it.’ Branson, walking easily, talking easily, had just appeared round the front of the Presidential bus. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Revson.’

  ‘Sorry about this. You too, young lady.’

  ‘Helicopters!’ she said.

  ‘Yes, they are, aren’t they? Explanations will be forthcoming but not severally. When your friends have all come to, then we’ll have a little talk.’ Branson walked away towards the rear coach. His step was almost jaunty and he did not seem too displeased with life. He looked at the bank of cloud moving in slowly, very slowly, from the west. If it troubled him he did not show it. He reached the crashed police car and spoke to the man standing guard. ‘Have our four friends recovered, Chrysler?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I wouldn’t say they’re in very high spirits, though.’ Chrysler was a lean, dark, intelligent-looking young man and it only required the addition of a brief-case to see him as an up-and-coming attorney. He was indeed, as Branson had told Boyann, a telecommunications expert. He was also very good with combination locks and frightening people with guns.

  ‘I dare say. Let them stay in the car. Easier than getting them out and handcuffing them. When the four FBI men – at least from the fact that they were armed I assume they were FBI men – in the lead coach have come to, take a couple of the boys and escort them, along with the six cops up front, the four here and the two inside our coach halfway towards the south tower. Sixteen in all and any one a potential menace if we keep them here. Halfway there take off whatever handcuffs there are – very useful things, handcuffs, you never know when we may need them again-then let them walk off the bridge under their own steam. Okay?’

  ‘It’s done.’ He pointed to the west, to the slowly advancing bank of cloud. ‘Do you like that, Mr Branson?’

  ‘Could have done without it. We’ll cope when it comes. Looks as if it may well pass under the bridge anyway.’

  ‘Mr Branson.’ It was Jensen, beckoning urgently from
the front door of the rear coach. ‘Mount Tamalpais. Urgent.’

  Branson ran into the coach, seated himself in front of the console and lifted the microphone. ‘Branson.’

  ‘Giscard. We’ve picked up a blip. Coming from the south – well, a bit east of south. Light plane, looks like. Maybe eight miles out.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Branson made another switch. South and a little east. That could only be San Francisco International Airport. ‘Chief of Police Hendrix. At once.’

  Hendrix was on the phone in seconds. ‘What now?’

  ‘I told you to keep a clear airspace. Our radar’s picked up a blip, airport direction -’

  Hendrix interrupted. His voice was sour. ‘You wanted to see Messrs Milton and Quarry, didn’t you?’ Milton was the Secretary of State, Quarry the Secretary of the Treasury. They came in from Los Angeles fifteen minutes ago and are flying up direct by helicopter?’

  ‘Where are they landing?’

  ‘In the Military Reservation in the Presidio. Two, three minutes by car.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Branson made the switch to Mount Tamalpais. Giscard acknowledged. Branson said: ‘No sweat. Friends. But watch that scanner – the next one may not be a friend.’

  ‘Will do, Mr Branson.’

  Branson rose, made to leave the coach then stopped and looked at the bound man in the rear of the aisle. He said to Jensen, who had taken the place of the bound man: ‘You can get back to calling yourself Harriman again. Untie Jensen here.’

  ‘Sending him off the bridge?’

  For once Branson hesitated and didn’t like the feeling at all. Hesitation was not in his nature. Whether he arrived at decisions intellectually or instinctively he almost invariably did so immediately: the few mistakes he’d made in his life had invariably been associated with hesitation. He made up his mind.

  ‘We’ll keep him. He might come in useful, I don’t know how yet, but he just might. And he is deputy director of the FBI. He’s no minnow to have in our net. Tell him the score but keep him here until I give the word.’