The Golden Gate

by Alistair MacLean

  Branson said pleasantly: ‘You have arrived at a decision, gentlemen?’ There was no reply. ‘Am I to take it, then, that you have arrived at an impasse?’

  The President lowered the very large gin and Martini with which he had been sustaining himself.

  ‘We require more time for our deliberations.’

  ‘You’ve had all the time you’re going to have. You could sit here all day and get no further. If all your minds weren’t so devious and at the same time so closed to the facts of life, you’d recognize this for the painfully simple issue it is. Pay up or else. And don’t forget the escalation penalty clause.’

  The President said: ‘I have a proposal to make.’

  ‘Let’s hear it.’

  ‘Permit the King, Prince and Sheikh Kharan to go. I shall remain as hostage. The situation would remain the same. You would still have the President of the United States. For that matter I can’t see why you don’t let all the hostages in this coach go.’

  Branson was admiring. ‘My heavens, what a perfectly splendid gesture. Noble, I should say. Why, do that, and the electorate would demand that they re-alter the constitution and let their hero run for another three terms instead of one.’ He smiled and went on without a change in tone. ‘No way, Mr President. Apart from the fact that I shudder at the very thought of you being in the White House for the next thirteen years I’ve always dreamt of holding a hand of cards with four aces in it. Here I’ve got four. One is not enough. And has it ever occurred to you that if you were to be the only hostage left on the Golden Gate Bridge the Government, in the person of your Vice-President who would just love to sit behind that table in the Oval Office, might be sorely tempted to achieve some sort of immortality by wiping out this monstrous band of criminals who have kidnapped you and your Arabian friends? Nothing drastic of course – nobody who destroyed this bridge could ever hope to be President. A single supersonic fighter-bomber from Alameda would do the job nicely. And if one of his rockets went off course slightly – well, that’s just bad luck, an Act of God and pilot’s error.’

  The President spilt a considerable amount of his gin and Martini on the carpet.

  Branson looked at Quarry, Milton and Hendrix in turn, said: ‘Gentlemen,’ and left the coach. The three men followed. The President carefully didn’t watch them go. He appeared to have found something of profound interest in the depths of what remained of his drink.

  Outside, Branson spoke to Van Effen. ‘Get that TV van and crew back here again. Make sure the TV companies are notified.’

  Van Effen nodded. ‘It would be wrong of you to let the nation suffer this agonizing suspense. Where are you going?’

  ‘To the south end with those three gentlemen.’

  ‘As guaranteed escort for their safety? Can’t they take the word of a gentleman?’

  ‘Not that. I just want to inspect the progress being made on the barrier. Saves the walk, that’s all.’

  The four men climbed into the police car and drove off.

  Still alone in the press coach, Revson watched them go then returned his attention to the three small sheets of notepaper on his knees. Each was smaller than the average postcard and all three were covered with small, neat and incomprehensible writing. He focused his camera and photographed each three times – Revson always covered his bets. He then took each paper in turn, set fire to it and crushed the blackened remains in his ash-tray. It was a very curious paper for it gave off no smoke. He then wound off the camera spool, sealed it and wrapped it in a very thin lead foil; as he had promised O’Hare, the completed result was no larger than half a cigarette.

  He reloaded his camera and went outside. The atmosphere of suspense and excitement had markedly heightened. He spoke to a nearby newspaperman – understandably, he knew none of them by name.

  ‘Something new afoot?’

  ‘Branson’s just sent for the television van again.’

  ‘Do you know why?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Nothing very important, probably. Maybe he’s always had a yen to appear on TV. Maybe he’s just wanting to keep the pressure on the nation and the Government – and the Arabian Governments too, for this time the big three companies will be geared for action, the satellites will be ready and waiting and so will be all the Persian Gulf. The executives of the big companies will be hard put to it to shed crocodile tears for the plight of their beloved President and at the same time refrain from jumping for joy. The biggest show on earth and all for free. What’s the odds Branson won’t be putting on a late show about two in the morning?’

  Revson shot about a dozen other pictures. The chances of its being discovered that he had taken no pictures at all were remote in the extreme, but then again Revson always covered his bets. He drifted casually across to where O’Hare was leaning against his ambulance and shook a cigarette from its pack.

  ‘Light, Doctor?’

  ‘Sure.’ O’Hare produced a lighter and lit it. Revson cupped the flame in his hands to shield it from the very slight breeze and as he did so he slid the spool into O’Hare’s palm.

  ‘Thanks, Doc’ He looked idly around. There was no one within earshot. ‘How long to hide?’

  ‘One minute. I have the place for it.’

  ‘Two minutes and you’ll have your patient.’

  O’Hare went into the ambulance while Revson sauntered halfway across the bridge where April Wednesday was prudently standing alone, a circumstance normally very difficult for her to achieve. She looked at him, wet her lips and tried to smile at him. It wasn’t a very successful effort.

  Revson said: ‘Who’s that solid dependable-looking character standing by the engine of the ambulance?’

  ‘Grafton. Associated Press. A nice man.’

  ‘Go and collapse gracefully against him. Discretion is of the essence. We don’t want any undue fuss. But first let me get to the other side of the bridge. I want to be at a safe distance when you’re taken ill.’

  When Revson reached the far side of the bridge he turned and looked back. April had already begun to head in the direction of the ambulance. Her gait seemed a little unsteady but not markedly so. She may be scared, he thought – and she unquestionably was – but she can act.

  She was about fifteen feet distant from Grafton when he first saw her or, more precisely, when she first attracted his attention. He regarded her slightly wavering approach with curiosity, a curiosity which quickly turned to concern. He took two quick steps forward and caught her by the shoulders. She leaned gratefully against him, lips and eyes compressed as in pain.

  ‘April Wednesday,’ he said. ‘What’s the matter, girl?’

  ‘I’ve a terrible pain. It just hit me now.’ Her voice was husky and she was holding herself with both hands. ‘It – it feels like a heart attack.’

  ‘How would you know?’ Grafton said reasonably, his tone reassuring. ‘And wherever your heart is, it’s not on the right-hand side of your tummy. Don’t misinterpret me, but some people have all the luck.’ He took her firmly by the arm. ‘There’s a doctor only five yards from here.’

  From the far side of the bridge Revson watched them vanish round to the rear of the ambulance. As far as he could reasonably tell, he had been the only person to observe the brief by-play.

  Branson walked unhurriedly away from the half-completed southern barrier, apparently well satisfied with the progress of the work in hand. He reached the rear coach and swung up to sit beside Chrysler.

  ‘Any more sensational revelations?’

  ‘No, Mr Branson. It’s all become a bit repetitive and boring. You can have a playback or transcript if you like but it’s not worth it.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s not. Tell me.’

  ‘Can I switch off, Mr Branson? They’re really not worth listening to.’

  ‘They never were. Well?’

  ‘Same old story. About the payment. Still arguing.’

  ‘But they’re going to pay.’

  ‘No question. It’s w
hether to pay now or stall. Latest opinion poll has four for, two undecided, two against. The King, the Prince and Kharan are all for the money being handed over now-Treasury money, of course. Mayor Morrison is of the same mind.’

  ‘That’s understandable. He’d pay a billion dollars within the hour to ensure the safety of his beloved bridge.’

  ‘Cartland and Muir have no preference either way, the only difference being that General Cartland is willing to fight us to the death. The President and Hansen are very much against immediate payment.’

  ‘Again understandable. Hansen’s never made a decision in his life and the President would stall for ever, hoping for a miracle to happen, hoping to save the nation the loss of a half billion for which, rightly or wrongly, he would probably be blamed, hoping to save face and his Presidential image. Let them stew in their own juice.’ He turned as Peters appeared in the doorway. ‘Something wrong?’

  ‘Nothing that affects us, sir. Seems Dr O’Hare has some medical problem on his hands. He’d like to see you as soon as possible.’

  When Branson entered the ambulance he found April lying on the hinged side bed, a discreet six inches of her midriff showing, her face chalk-white. Branson did not much care for finding himself in the presence of sick people and this was obviously a sick person. He looked enquiringly at O’Hare.

  O’Hare said: ‘I’ve a very sick young lady on my hands, here, Mr Branson. I want her removed to hospital immediately’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Look at her face.’

  It was indeed ashen, an effect easily achieved by the application of an odourless talcum.

  ‘And at her eyes.’

  They were opaque with enormously dilated pupils, the effect of the first of the two jabs that O’Hare had given her. Not that the eyes hadn’t been big enough to begin with.

  ‘Feel her pulse.’

  Reluctantly, Branson lifted the slender wrist and dropped it almost immediately.

  ‘It’s racing,’ he said. And indeed it was. O’Hare had probably been a little too thorough there. The rate of the pulse when she had entered the ambulance had already been so high as to render the second injection unnecessary.

  ‘Would you care to feel the distension on the right-hand side of the abdomen?’

  ‘No, I would not.’ Branson was emphatic.

  ‘It could be a grumbling appendix. It could be a threatened peritonitis. The signs are there. But I have no proper diagnostic equipment, no X-ray facilities, no way of carrying out abdominal surgery and, of course, no anaesthetist. Hospital, and pretty damn quick.’

  ‘No!’ April had sat up in bed, fear in her face. ‘No! Not hospital! They’ll cut me up! Surgery! I’ve never even been in a hospital in my life.’

  O’Hare put his hands on her shoulders, firmly; and not bothering to be gentle, and pressed her back down again.

  ‘And if I’m not that sick? If it’s only a tummy-ache or something? Mr Branson wouldn’t let me back. The only scoop of my life. And I’m scared!’

  O’Hare said: ‘It’s more than a tummy-ache, lassie.’

  ‘You can come back,’ Branson said. ‘But only if you do what the doctor and I say.’ He nodded towards the door and stepped down. ‘What do you think really is the matter with her?’

  ‘A doctor doesn’t have to discuss a patient with a layman.’ O’Hare was showing every symptom of losing his patience. ‘And I can tell you this, Branson. Make off with half a billion dollars and you’ll probably end up as some kind of folk hero. It’s happened often before, although not, admittedly, on this scale. But let this girl die because you denied her access to medical care and you’ll become the most hated man in America. They’ll never stop till they get you. To start with, the CIA will find you wherever you are in the world-and they won’t bother to bring you to trial.’

  Branson showed no signs of losing his patience. He said mildly: ‘You don’t have to threaten me, Doctor. She’ll get her medical care. I’m just asking as a favour.’

  ‘In confidence?’ Branson nodded. ‘You don’t have to be a doctor to see that she’s a pretty sick kid. But there is more than one way of being sick. Is she threatened with appendicitis or peritonitis? I don’t think so. She’s an excitable, intense, highly strung kid who lives on her nerves. Under pressure, as of now, those could produce an emotional trauma or psychosomatic disorders which are capable of causing the symptoms we’ve just seen. It’s rare, but it exists. In medicine, there’s a condition called the Malthusian syndrome where a person can actually will himself into producing-faking, if you want to call it that – symptoms of a non-existent disease. Not in this case – if it is what I think it is, it’s involuntary. But you see my position -1 can’t take chances. She may require intensive medical diagnosis or psychiatric evaluation. The first I can do myself, but I need hospital equipment. The second I can’t – I’m not a psychiatrist. Either way I must get to hospital. We’re wasting time.’

  ‘I won’t keep you long. Do you mind if we search your ambulance?’

  O’Hare stared at him. ‘What the hell for? What do you think I’m carrying? Bodies? Narcotics-well, quite a lot really. What do you think I would be taking off this bridge that I didn’t bring on to it? I’m a doctor, not an FBI agent.’

  ‘We’ll forget it. Another question. Do you mind if we send a guard along – for observation purposes?’

  ‘Send half a dozen. They’ll get damned little observation done.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It means that Harben – he’s chief of surgery-cherishes his unit like a newborn baby. He wouldn’t give a damn about you and your bridge. If any of your men tried to force their way into emergency reception of the emergency theatre he’d have a dozen sharpshooters there in ten minutes. I’m not joking – I’ve seen him do it.’

  ‘We’ll forget that, too. It’s unimportant.’

  One thing that is important. Will you phone, ask them to have the emergency operating theatre ready and Dr Huron standing by.’

  ‘Dr Huron?’

  ‘Senior psychiatrist.’

  ‘Right.’ Branson smiled faintly. ‘Do you know that a Presidential route is always laid out so that it’s never more than a few minutes from the nearest hospital? Just in case. Convenient, isn’t it?’

  ‘Very.’ O’Hare turned to the driver. ‘Start the siren.’

  As the ambulance moved towards the south tower they were passed by a TV van and generator truck coming the other way. Immediately, cameramen, photographers and reporters began moving into what they assumed would be the same TV arena as before. Some cameramen were so overcome by the occasion that they began wasting film on the forthcoming truck as if this were an unprecedented spectacle in itself.

  Revson was not one of those who joined in the surge forward. He moved in the opposite direction and regained his seat in the deserted press coach. He undipped the base of his camera, removed the miniaturized transceiver, slipped it into a side pocket, reached into his carrier bag and fed spare film into the base of his camera. He was just reclipping the base of the camera when he became aware of being watched. He looked up. Blue eyes under blond hair, a head the approximate shape of a sugar cube and a vacuous smile. Revson believed in that vacuous smile the way he believed in Santa Claus. Branson would have settled for nothing less than an exceptional man when picking his lieutenant.

  ‘Revson, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. Van Effen, I believe.’

  ‘Yes. Why aren’t you out there with the others, recording this historical moment for posterity?’

  ‘First, what is there to record yet? Second, the big eye of TV can do a damned sight better job of posterity-recording than I can do. Third, if you’ll excuse the hackneyed phrase, what I’m after is the human interest angle. Fourthly, I prefer to load in the shadow.’

  ‘That looks a most exceptional camera.’

  ‘It is.’ Revson permitted himself a small proprietary smile that almost bordered on a smirk. ‘Ha
ndmade and assembled. Swedish. A rare species. The only camera in the world that can take colour stills, black and white stills and is a ciné-camera at the same time.’

  ‘May I have a look? I’m a bit of a camera buff myself.’

  ‘Certainly’ The battery-powered air-conditioning in the coach, Revson thought, was falling down on the job.

  Van Effen examined the camera with the eye of a connoisseur. Inadvertently, as it seemed, his hand touched the spring clip at the base. A dozen cassettes and spools tumbled on to the seat beside Revson.

  ‘I am sorry. It would seem that I’m not all that much of a camera buff.’ He inverted the camera and looked with admiration at the recessed base. ‘Very very ingenious.’ While Revson sat, acutely conscious of the slight bulge caused by the transceiver in his side pocket, Van Effen meticulously replaced cassettes and spools in the base, closed the flap and handed the camera back to Revson. ‘Excuse my curiosity.’

  ‘Well, you went to the right finishing school, anyway.’

  ‘It always shows.’ Van Effen gave him his vacuous smile and left.

  Revson did not mop his brow for it was a gesture alien to his nature. Had he been a browmopper, he would have done so. He wondered if Van Effen had noticed the two tiny spring clips in the base. He probably had. Had he realized their significance? Equally probably not. They could have been retaining clips for any number of esoteric attachments.

  Revson turned in his seat. The hostages were descending from their coach, the President manfully substituting for his black scowl a calm, resolute and statesmanlike expression. Even Van Effen, Revson saw, had his eyes on them. Revson left the coach by the door opposite the driver’s so that he was on the blind side of all the spectators and participants. He leaned his elbows in brief contemplation on the outer rail, then opened his right hand, the one that held the transceiver. He had read somewhere that it took a solid object, accelerating at thirty-two feet per second, only three seconds to fall from the bridge to the Golden Gate and he gravely doubted whether the man responsible for those figures could count. Nobody had noticed anything amiss. Revson had covered his bets again.