The Golden Gate

by Alistair MacLean

  O’Hare straightened. ‘A couple of volunteers to help me get him across to the ambulance.’ There was no lack of volunteers. They were about to lift him when Branson came running up.

  ‘Your man’s had a pretty nasty fall. I want him in the ambulance for a proper examination.’

  ‘Did he fall or was he pushed?’

  ‘How the hell should I know? You’re wasting what could be valuable time, Branson.’

  Bartlett said: ‘He fell all right, Mr Branson. He slipped on the top step and hadn’t a chance to save himself.’

  ‘Certain?’

  ‘Of course I’m bloody certain.’ Bartlett was justifiably indignant. He spoke again, but a crashing peal of thunder drowned out his next words. He repeated himself. ‘I was within two feet of him at the time – and I hadn’t a chance to save him.’

  O’Hare paid no more attention to him. With the help of two others he carried Kowalski across to the ambulance. Branson looked at the group of journalists still there, caught sight of Revson.

  ‘Where was Revson at the time?’

  ‘Revson was nowhere near him. He was in his seat, five back there. Everyone was in their seats. Christ, Mr Branson, I’m telling you. It was a pure bloody accident.’

  ‘Must have been.’ Clad only in already totally sodden shirt-sleeves and trousers, Branson shivered. ‘Jesus, what a night!’ He hurried across to the ambulance and as he arrived the two men who had helped O’Hare to carry Kowalski came down the ambulance steps. Branson went inside. O’Hare had already had Kowalski’s leather jacket removed and his right sleeve rolled beyond the elbow, and was preparing a hypodermic injection.

  Branson said: ‘What’s that for?’

  O’Hare turned in irritation. ‘What the hell are you doing here? This is doctor’s work. Get out!’

  The invitation passed unheeded. Branson picked up the tube from which O’Hare had filled his hypodermic. ‘Anti-tetanus? The man’s got a head wound.’

  O’Hare withdrew the needle, covered the pinprick with antiseptic gauze. ‘I thought even the most ignorant layman knew that when a man has been injured in the open the first thing he gets is an anti-tetanus injection. You’ve obviously never seen tetanus.’ He sounded Kowalski with his stethoscope, took his pulse and then his temperature.

  ‘Get an ambulance from the hospital.’ O’Hare pushed Kowalski’s sleeve further up and started to wind the blood-pressure band round it.

  Branson said: ‘No.’

  O’Hare didn’t answer until after he’d taken the pressure. He then repeated: ‘Get the ambulance.’

  ‘I don’t trust you and your damned ambulances.’

  O’Hare didn’t answer. He jumped down the steps and strode off through rain that was now rebounding six inches high off the roadway. He was back shortly with the two men who had helped him carry Kowalski across. O’Hare said: ‘Mr Grafton. Mr Ferrers. Two highly respected, even eminent journalists. Their words carry a great deal of weight. So will their word.’

  ‘What’s that meant to mean?’ For the first time since his arrival on the bridge Branson wore just the slightest trace of apprehension.

  O’Hare ignored him, addressed himself to the two journalists. ‘Kowalski here has severe concussion, possibly even a skull fracture. The latter is impossible to tell without an X-ray. He also has shallow, rapid breathing, a weak and feathery pulse, a temperature and abnormally low blood pressure. This could indicate a few things. One of them cerebral haemorrhaging. I want you gentlemen to bear witness to the fact that Branson refuses to allow an ambulance to come for him. I want you to bear witness to the fact that if Kowalski dies Branson and Branson alone will be wholly responsible for his death. I want you to bear witness to the fact that Branson is fully aware that if Kowalski dies he will be guilty of the same charge as he recently levelled against persons unknown – murder. Only, in this case, I think it would have to be an indictment of the first degree.’

  Grafton said: ‘I shall so solemnly bear witness.’

  Ferrers said: ‘And I.’

  O’Hare looked at Branson with contempt. ‘And you were the person who said to me that you’d never in your life been responsible for the death of a single person.’

  Branson said: ‘How am I to know that once they get him ashore they won’t keep him there?’

  ‘You’re losing your grip, Branson.’ The contempt was still in O’Hare’s voice: he and Revson had deliberated long enough on how best to wear down Branson psychologically. ‘As long as you have a President, a king and a prince, who the hell is going to hold a common criminal like this as a counter-ransom?’

  Branson made up his mind. It was difficult to tell whether he was motivated by threats or a genuine concern for Kowalski’s life. ‘One of those two will have to go tell Chrysler to call the ambulance. I’m not keeping my eyes off you until I see Kowalski safely transferred to the other ambulance.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ O’Hare said indifferently. ‘Gentlemen?’

  ‘It will be a pleasure.’ The two journalists left. O’Hare began to cover Kowalski in blankets.

  Branson said with suspicion: ‘What are you doing that for?’

  ‘Heaven preserve me from ignorant laymen. Your friend here is in a state of shock. Rule number one for shock victims – keep them warm.’

  Just as he finished speaking there was a massive thunderclap directly above, so close, so loud, that it was positively hurtful to the eardrums. The reverberations took many long seconds to die away. O’Hare looked speculatively at Branson then said: ‘Know something, Branson? That sounded to me just like the crack of doom.’ He poured some whisky into a glass and added a little distilled water.

  Branson said: ‘I’ll have some of that.’

  ‘Help yourself,’ O’Hare said agreeably.

  From the comparative comfort of the lead coach – comparative, for his clothes were as soaked as if he had fallen into the Golden Gate – Revson watched another ambulance bear away Kowalski’s stretchered form. For the moment Revson felt as reasonably content as was possible for a man in his slowly chilling condition. The main object of the exercise had been to get his hands on the cord, canister, torch and aerosol. All of those he had achieved. The first three were still under the bus by the kerbside: the fourth nestled snugly in his pocket. That all this should have been done at the expense of Kowalski, the most relentlessly vigilant of all Branson’s guards and by a long way the most suspicious, was just an added bonus. He bethought himself of the aerosol. He gave April Wednesday a gentle nudge and, because people were still talking in varying degrees of animation about the latest incident, he did not find it necessary to keep his voice especially low.

  ‘Listen carefully, and don’t repeat my words, no matter how stupid my question may appear. Tell me, would a young lady of – ah – delicate sensibilities – carry a miniature aerosol air-freshener around with her?’

  Beyond a blink of the green eyes she showed no reaction. ‘In certain circumstances I suppose so, yes.’

  He placed the can between them. ‘Then please put this in your carry-all. Sandalwood, but I wouldn’t try sniffing it.’

  ‘I know very well what’s in it.’ The can disappeared. ‘I suppose it doesn’t matter very much if I’m caught with it? If they bring out those old thumb-screws –’

  ‘They won’t. They already searched your carryall, and the person who made the search almost certainly wouldn’t remember the contents of one of a dozen bags he’s searched. No one’s keeping an eye on you: I’m way out on my own as Suspect Number One.’

  By ten o’clock silence and sleep had returned to the coach. The rain had eased, until it could be called no more than heavy, but still the lightning crackled and the thunder boomed with unabated enthusiasm. Revson glanced over his shoulder to the south-west. There were no signs of any unusual activities in the direction of Lincoln Park. He wondered if those ashore had misinterpreted his message or deliberately ignored it. Both possibilities he thought unlikely: more likely, because
of the heavy rain, they were having difficulty in igniting a fire.

  At seven minutes past ten a red glow appeared to the south-west. Revson was almost certainly the first person on the bridge to notice it but he thought it impolitic to draw attention to the fact. Within half a minute the dark oily flames were at least fifty feet high.

  It was Bartlett who first called attention to this phenomenon and he did so in a very emphatic fashion. He stood in the open doorway behind the driver’s seat and shouted: ‘Jesus, would you look at that!’

  Almost everyone immediately started awake and looked. They couldn’t see much. Rain still lashed the outside of the windows and the insides were pretty well steamed up. Like a bunch of lemmings hell-bent on a watery suicide they poured out through the door. The view was certainly very much better from there and well worth the seeing. The flames, already a hundred feet high and topped by billowing clouds of oily smoke, were increasing by the second. Still of the same lemming-like mind and totally oblivious of the rain, they began to run across the bridge to obtain a better view. The occupants of the Presidential and rear coaches were doing exactly the same. Nothing attracts people more than the prospect of a good-going disaster.

  Revson, though among the first out of the lead coach, made no attempt to join them. He walked unhurriedly round the front of the coach, walked back a few feet, stooped and recovered the oilskin package. No one paid any attention to him, even had he been visible beyond the bulk of the coach, because they were all running in and looking towards the opposite direction. He removed the torch from the package, angled it forty-five degrees to his right and made his SOS signal, just once: he then pocketed the torch and made his more leisurely way across to the other side of the bridge, glancing occasionally over his left shoulder. Halfway across he saw a rocket, a not very spectacular one, curving up to the south-east.

  He reached the far crash barrier and joined O’Hare who was standing some little way apart from the others. O’Hare said: ‘You’d make quite an arsonist.’

  ‘That’s just by the way of introduction. Wait till you see the next one. Not to mention the fireworks. Sheer pyromania, that’s what it is. Let’s look at the front end of the rear coach.’

  They looked. A full minute passed and nothing happened. O’Hare said: ‘Hm. Worrisome?’

  ‘No. Just running a little bit behind schedule, I should think. Don’t even blink.’

  O’Hare didn’t and so he saw it – a tiny intense spark of bluish-white that could have lasted only milliseconds. O’Hare said: ‘You saw it too?’

  ‘Yes. Far less than I thought it would be.’

  ‘End of radio-wave scanner?’

  ‘No question.’

  ‘Would anyone inside the coach have heard it?’

  ‘That’s academic. There’s no one inside the rear coach. They’re all across here. But there is some sign of activity at the rear of the Presidential coach. A dollar gets a cent that Branson’s asking some questions.’

  Branson was indeed asking some questions. Chrysler by his side, he was talking forcefully into a telephone.

  ‘Then find out and find out now.’

  ‘I’m trying to.’ It was Hendrix and he sounded weary. ‘I can be held responsible for a lot of things but I can’t be held responsible for the forces of nature. Don’t you realize this is the worst lightning storm the city has had in years? There are dozens of outbreaks of small fires and the Firemaster tells me his force is fully extended.’

  ‘I’m waiting, Hendrix.’

  ‘So am I. And God only knows how you imagine this fire in Lincoln Park can affect you. Sure, it’s giving off clouds of oil smoke, but the wind’s from the west and the smoke won’t come anywhere near you. You’re jumping at shadows, Branson. Wait. A report.’ There was a brief silence then Hendrix went on: ‘Three parked road oil tankers. One had its loading hose partly on the ground so it was earthed. Witnesses saw this tanker being struck by lightning. Two fire engines are there and the fire is under control. Satisfied?’

  Branson hung up without replying.

  The fire was indeed under control. Firemen, taking their convincing time, were now smothering the barrels of blazing oil with foam extinguishers. Fifteen minutes after the fire had first begun – or been noticed – it was extinguished. Reluctantly, almost – they were now so wet that they couldn’t possibly get any wetter – the watchers by the west barrier turned and made their way back to the coaches. But their evening’s entertainment had only just begun.

  Another fire bloomed to the north. It spread and grew with even greater rapidity than the previous one, becoming so bright and intense that even the lights in the concrete towers of downtown San Francisco seemed pale by comparison. Branson, who had made his way back to his own coach, now ran back to the Presidential coach. A bell was ringing in the communications section in the rear. Branson snatched the phone. It was Hendrix.

  Hendrix said: ‘Nice to forestall you for once. No, we are not responsible for this one either. Why in the hell should we set off a fire where all the smoke is being carried away from you east over the bay? The meteorological officer says that there’s a lightning strike once every three or four seconds. And it’s not cloud to cloud stuff, it’s mainly cloud to earth. On the law of averages, he says, something combustible has to go in one in twenty. I’ll keep you posted.’

  For the first time, Hendrix hung the phone up on him. Branson slowly replaced his own. For the first time, lines of strain were beginning to etch themselves round the corners of his mouth.

  The blue-veined flames were towering now to a height of six or seven hundred feet, as high as the highest building in the city. The smoke given off was dense and bitingly acrid, which is generally the case when several hundred used tyres are added to an oil-based fire. But half a dozen giant fire engines and as many again mobile foam wagons were in very close attendance indeed. On the bridge the more nervous of the newspapermen and cameramen were speculating as to whether the fire would spread to the city itself, a rather profitless speculation as the wind was entirely in the wrong direction. Mayor Morrison stood by the eastern crash barrier, fists clenched, tears streaming down his face, cursing with a non-stop fluid monotony.

  O’Hare said to Revson: ‘I wonder if the King and the Prince see the irony in all this. After all, it’s probably their own oil that they’re seeing going up.’ Revson made no reply and O’Hare touched his arm. ‘Sure you haven’t overdone things a bit this time, old boy?’ In moments of stress, his English education background tended to show through.

  ‘I wasn’t the one with the matches.’ Revson smiled. ‘No worry, they know what they’re about. What I am looking forward to seeing now is the firework display.’

  In the Presidential communications centre the phone rang again. Branson had it in a second.

  ‘Hendrix. It’s an oil storage tank in Fort Mason.’ There was no oil storage tank in Fort Mason, but Branson was not a Californian far less a San Franciscan and it was highly unlikely that he was aware of that. ‘I’ve just been on the radio to the Fire Commissioner. He says its bark is worse than its bite and that there’s no danger.’

  ‘And what the hell is that, then?’ Branson’s voice was a shout, his normal monolithic calm in at least temporary abeyance.

  ‘What’s what?’

  Hendrix’s calm served only to deepen Branson’s apprehension. ‘Fireworks! Dozens of them! Fireworks! Can’t you see them?’

  ‘Not from where I sit I can’t. Wait.’ Hendrix went to the rear door of the communications wagon. Branson hadn’t been exaggerating. The sky was indeed full of fireworks, of every conceivable colour and design, at least half of them exploding in glittering falling stars. If Branson had been his usual calm and observant self, Hendrix reflected, he might have noticed that the fireworks, nearly all of a medium trajectory, were firing to the north-east which was the shortest distance between where they were coming from and the nearest stretch of water. All of them, without exception, would fizzle out in the wate
rs of San Francisco Bay. Hendrix returned to the phone.

  ‘They appear to be coming from the Chinatown area and sure as hell they aren’t celebrating the Chinese New Year. I’ll call back.’

  Revson said to O’Hare: ‘Take your white coat off. It’s too conspicuous or will be when it gets dark.’ He gave O’Hare his white felt pen. ‘You know how to use this?’

  ‘Depress the clip and press the button on top.’

  ‘Yes. If anyone comes too near – well, aim for the face. You’ll have to extract the needle.’

  ‘Me and my medical ethics.’

  Branson picked up the phone. ‘Yes?’

  ‘It was Chinatown. A fireworks factory there was struck. That damned thunder and lightning doesn’t just seem to want to go away. God knows how many more outbreaks of fire we’ll have tonight.’

  Branson left the coach and joined Van Effen by the east barrier. Van Effen turned.

  ‘Not often you see a sight like this, Mr Branson.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not in the mood to enjoy it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ve a feeling that this is being staged for our benefit.’

  ‘How could this possibly affect us? Nothing’s changed as far as we’re concerned. Don’t let’s forget our Presidential and royal hostages.’

  ‘Even so –’

  ‘Even so your antennae are tingling?’

  ‘Tingling! They’re jumping. I don’t know what’s going to happen next but I’ve the feeling that I’m not going to enjoy it.’

  It was at that moment that the bridge and the whole of northern San Francisco blacked out.

  For some few seconds the silence on the bridge was total. The darkness wasn’t total but it came fairly close to being that way. The only illumination came from the faint lighting from the coaches – to conserve the batteries most of the individual reading lights were out, the others dimmed – and the orange-red glow from the distant oil fire. Van Effen said softly: ‘Your antennae, Mr Branson. You know you could make a fortune hiring them out.’