The Golden Gate

by Alistair MacLean

  ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It means that your very able lieutenant, Van Effen, has the same nasty suspicious mind as you have. He has already taken my camera apart.’

  ‘No radios? No offensive weapons?’

  ‘Look for yourself.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary now.’

  ‘A question. I don’t want to inflate your already super-expanded ego –’

  ‘Don’t you think you might be taking chances, Revson?’

  ‘No. You have the reputation of being a nonviolent criminal.’ Revson waved his arm. ‘Why all this? You could have made a fortune in any business you cared to enter.’

  Branson sighed. ‘I tried it. Business is so dull, don’t you think? This at least gives me the opportunity to exercise most of my capacities.’ He paused. ‘You’re a bit odd, yourself. A cameraman. You don’t look, act or speak like one.’

  ‘How’s a cameraman supposed to look, act and speak? You look in the mirror when you shave. Do you see a criminal? I see a Wall Street Vice-President.’

  ‘Touché. What’s your paper or magazine?’

  ‘Freelance, but I’m accredited to the London Times.’

  ‘But you’re American?’

  ‘News has no boundaries. Not any longer. I prefer to work the foreign beat, where the action is.’ Revson smiled faintly. ‘At least, until today. That used to mean South-East Asia. Not any more. Europe and the Middle East.’

  ‘So what are you doing here?’

  ‘Pure happenstance. Just passing through, you might say, from New York to a special assignment in China.’

  ‘When are you due to leave for there?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow? You’ll want to get off the bridge tonight. As I’ve said, members of the media are free to leave whenever they choose.’

  ‘You, Branson, must be out of your mind.’

  ‘China can wait?’

  ‘China can wait. Unless, of course, you’re planning to kidnap Chairman Mao.’

  Branson smiled the smile that never touched his eyes and walked away.

  Revson, camera poised, stood outside the open front right door of the rear coach. He said: ‘Do you mind?’

  Chrysler turned round. He looked at Revson in some surprise, then smiled. ‘Why me for this honour?’

  ‘Because my camera is tired of taking photographs of Branson and the assorted big-wigs. Mind? I’m now compiling a rogues’ gallery of Branson’s henchmen.’ Revson smiled to remove offence. ‘You’re Chrysler, aren’t you? The telecommunications expert?’

  ‘If that’s what they call me, yes.’

  Revson took two or three shots, thanked Chrysler, and moved away. For good measure and local colour, he took some more pictures of Branson’s men. They all seemed to have been infected by Branson’s massive self-confidence and cheerfully, in some cases almost eagerly, acceded to Revson’s requests. After the last of those shots he crossed to the west side of the bridge, sat on the crash barrier and lit a ruminative cigarette.

  After a few minutes O’Hare, hands thrust deep in his white coat, came strolling by. Hundreds of pictures and thousands of words of reports had already been dispatched by the south tower and there were at least twenty of the media men – and women – who now had nothing better to do who were strolling aimlessly up and down the centre of the bridge. Revson took a couple of routine shots of O’Hare, who came and sat beside him.

  He said: ‘I saw you talking to Miss Wednesday. Suffering from a degree of pique, is she?’

  Our April could be happier. You have it all?’

  ‘Both weapons and instructions.’

  ‘Everything I asked for is camouflaged?’

  ‘I would say so. The two pens are clipped to my medical clipboard, there for anyone to see. We doctors are models of efficiency. The gun with the tipped bullets is in the cardiac arrest unit. This is wax-sealed and the seal has to be broken before the unit can be opened. The unit is sealed. Not that it would matter very much if it were opened. The gun lies in a false bottom and you have to know how to open it. I mean, it can’t be done by accident. You have to know. I know.’

  ‘You seem to be positively enjoying yourself, Doctor.’

  ‘Well, yes. It makes a change from treating ingrowing toenails.’

  ‘I hope you’ll enjoy coming under the heading of “Classified” for the rest of your life. How come you carry those peculiar units in your hospital?’

  ‘We don’t. But your director appears to be on very close terms with his counterpart in the CIA. I tell you, we were completely taken over by experts.’

  ‘That means you’re double classified for life. My cord and containers?’ O’Hare seemed a mile away.

  ‘My cord and containers?’ O’Hare returned to the world.

  ‘Modesty compels me to admit that I came up with this one. Four containers. Empty. Lab. samples printed on the outside. Who’s going to question that? The cord is wrapped round a square wooden framework with two hooks and two lures attached to one end.’

  ‘You’re going fishing over the side of the bridge?’

  ‘I’m going fishing. It can get quite boring out here, you know.’

  ‘Something tells me it’s not going to be that way long. I suppose it’s unnecessary to ask you about the nerve gas?’

  O’Hare smiled broadly. ‘I’d rather you did, actually.’

  ‘Must you speak English English?’

  ‘I told you. London educated. It’s an aerosol can, clamped just above my note-desk. Anyone can see it. Product, ostensibly, of a nationally known aerosol company. People called Prestige Fragrance of New York. Rather charming, really. The colour, I mean. Forest brown, I believe. A scaled-down version of their seven-ounce can. Freon pressure three times normal. Effective range ten feet.’

  ‘Do the Prestige people know about this?’

  ‘Heavens, no. The CIA are not overly concerned with patent rights.’ O’Hare smiled, almost dreamily. On the back of the can it says “fragrant and piquant” and “keep away from children". On the front it says “Sandalwood". Can’t you just see Branson or any of his minions who don’t know what sandalwood smells like giving themselves an exploratory whiff?’

  ‘No, I can’t. I’ll pick up the pens later tonight. Now, what were Hagenbach’s instructions?’

  ‘Hagenbach and company. A committee meeting and an agreed decision. The Vice-President was there, along with Admiral Newson, General Carter, Hendrix, Quarry and Milton.’

  ‘And yourself and April Wednesday.’

  ‘We plebs know our place. Total silence on our part. First off, there’s no possibility of electrifying the bridge. Nothing to do with the possibility of a President or king sitting where we are now and having their pants roasted. The voltage could be produced, but not the wattage. Not for umpteen thousand tons of steel. Besides, the potential victims would have to be earthed. A bird can perch in perfect safety on a high-tension wire.

  ‘Second piece of expert advice was about laser beams. You wondered if they would slice through the canvas wrapping of the explosive belts. Certainly, say the boys in Berkeley. But the tremendous heat generated when a laser beam strikes a solid object would turn the bridge wire – I think that’s what they called it – in the detonator white-hot immediately.’

  ‘Poof?’

  ‘As you so rightly observe, “poof". Four things they did agree on, however.’

  ‘A submarine they can provide. Apparently, it will call for some critical underwater navigation to get there and a fair bit of fancy juggling to keep the boat in position once it gets there. Apart from the tides there are lots of very nasty currents in the Golden Gate. But the Admiral reckons he has just the man for the job. And in the absence of any instructions to the contrary they propose to park this boat under the front coach, your press coach, that is.’

  ‘My omission. They’re right, of course.’ Revson glanced idly round but no one was paying any undue attention to them except General
Cartland, a physical fitness fanatic who was countermarching briskly to and fro along the central section of the bridge. He gave them a keen glance in passing but that signified nothing. General Cartland invariably gave everyone a keen glance in passing. Hansen, the energy czar, with the excess nervous energy to burn, was also engaged in the same exercise, but his attention was devoted exclusively to the toes of his shoes. He did not walk with Cartland. There was no antipathy between the two men: they simply had nothing in common.

  O’Hare continued. ‘They agreed with your suggestion that the south tower be occupied. As you didn’t specify whether it was the east or west section which should be occupied, they’re a bit in the dark. The meteorological forecast is rather good. Heavy fog is expected before dawn and to remain until about ten in the morning. They’d better be right. The wind tomorrow will be westerly so that any cover from the smoke of burning oil will be out of the question. But they still don’t know which section of the tower to occupy.’

  ‘One item I forgot to ask you about. It was about this hooded flashlight with the variable shutter that –’

  ‘I have it.’

  ‘If Branson and company come across it?’

  ‘Medical requisite, my dear fellow. Eye examination, dilation of pupils and so forth. You know Morse?’

  Revson was patient. ‘I just want to read books at night in the coach.’

  ‘Sorry. One of my off-moments. From the east side of the bridge aim approximately forty-five degrees right. They’ll have two men on watch in relays, all night. They can’t signal you back, of course, so for “message acknowledged and understood” they’ll send up a firework rocket from Chinatown. Followed by lots of others so as not to arouse any suspicions. The setting off of fireworks, bangers, crackers or whatever you call them is illegal in this city, but in Chinatown the police bend a tolerant and indulgent eye towards it. Chinese national pastime, you know. You should see the Chinese New Year. Shortly after I arrived – just a few months ago –’

  Revson was even more patient. ‘I am a San Franciscan.’

  ‘Ah, well. But you still don’t know which section of the south tower –’

  ‘I’ll find out.’

  ‘You seem very sure of yourself?’

  ‘Not at all. But I’m sure of our April Wednesday. Branson has given her more than a passing glance. I shall have her employ her feminine wiles to discover which cable is next for the explosive treatment. And when.’

  ‘You’re still very sure of yourself. Now. Your suggestion about drugged food. Unanimous approval. This evening meal. Dr Isaacs – he’s our narcotics wizard in the hospital – has been busy stirring up his witch’s cauldron. Seventeen unpleasant surprises.’

  “Very quick work.’ Revson was uneasy. ‘How are the surprises to be identified?’

  ‘No problem. The usual airline plastic food in the usual airline plastic trays. Those trays have carrying lugs. The bad trays, if I may put it that way, will have indentations on the underside of the lugs. Tiny, but enough to be detected by normally sensitive fingertips.’

  ‘Well, Doctor, you haven’t been wasting your time, that I have to say. Obviously we’ll have to be very careful. If anything can go wrong it will go wrong – one of Parkinson’s laws or something like that. I shall appoint myself head waiter – with Branson’s prior approval. Second, you will have April Wednesday in for a routine check as the meal wagon arrives and will remain there until the meals have been distributed. In the ambulance, I mean.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Parkinson’s Law. If something goes wrong, you two would be the first under suspicion – you’ve left the bridge and returned. Third, I can get word to the Presidential coach.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I’ll figure a way.’

  ‘And the press coach?’

  ‘No guarantee. I’m no mastermind. If one or two of them get the wrong trays – well, I can take care of the one or two villains who get the right trays.’

  O’Hare looked at Revson with a certain lack of admiration. ‘You don’t care how you use people, do you?’

  ‘I have things to do and I do what I can. I weigh the odds but I don’t know what the odds are.’ Revson paused. ‘I’m fighting in the dark. I’m a blind man, if you like, and my hands are tied behind me. Perhaps you’d care to think again about your last remark.’

  O’Hare thought. ‘I apologize. Your pens and the flashlight will be waiting whenever you care to step by. And one last thing. They approve your intention to neutralize the triggering device.’

  ‘I appreciate that. You don’t have any magic potion that will make me invisible?’

  ‘Alas, no.’ O’Hare stood and walked away.

  Revson lit and smoked another cigarette, tossed the butt over the side, rose and sauntered across to the rows of chairs. April was still sitting where he had left her. He took the seat beside her.

  He said: ‘When the evening meal wagon comes I want you to go to the ambulance. For a check-up.’

  She didn’t look at him. ‘Yes, sir. Whatever you say, sir.’

  Revson breathed deeply. ‘I shall try to conceal my slow burn, what the Victorians would call my mounting exasperation. I thought we had parted friends.’

  ‘I don’t much care for being a mindless puppet.’

  ‘We’re all puppets. I, too, do what I’m told. I don’t always like it, but I have a job to do. Please don’t make my job more difficult than it already is. The doctor will tell you why you’re there. He’ll also tell you when to leave.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Revson. As a forcibly co-opted member of your secret service, I do what I’m told.’

  Revson decided against any more deep breathing. ‘Before that, I’d like you to have a word with our Mr Branson. I fancy he has one, if not two, of his cold codfish eyes upon you.’

  She turned her head slowly and gave him the full treatment of her luminous green eyes. ‘And you, of course, don’t?’

  Revson held her gaze for some seconds, then considered the tarmac of the Golden Gate Bridge. ‘I try to look the other way. Besides, my eyes are not those of a cod. Find out from him on which cable he intends to affix his next explosive charge – and when. Wait a few moments after I’ve left and then make a casual encounter.’

  He looked at her again. The eyes were bigger and greener than ever and held an almost mischievous glint. She was smiling. It wasn’t much of a smile, but it was there. She said: ‘You’ll end up making me as devious and cunning as yourself.’

  ‘Heaven forfend.’ Revson rose and made his way back to his previous seat on the crash barrier, which was less than twenty yards from the demarcation painted line where a man in the middle of the bridge, with a Schmeisser machine-pistol, kept constant vigil. General Cartland, military stride in excelsis, was approaching. Revson stood, lifted his camera and snapped off three quick shots.

  He said: ‘May I have a word with you, sir?’

  Cartland stopped. ‘You may not. No interview, exclusive or otherwise. I may be a spectator in this damned circus, but I’m no performer.’ He walked on.

  Revson was deliberately brusque. ‘You’d better speak to me, General.’

  Cartland stopped again. His glacial stare drilled through Revson’s eyes into the wide blue yonder.

  ‘What did you say?’ Each word was spaced out slowly and carefully. Revson was on the parade ground, a court-martialled officer about to be stripped of insignia and buttons and have his sword broken over a knee.

  ‘Don’t ignore me, sir.’ Deference now replaced brusqueness. ‘Hagenbach wouldn’t like it.’

  ‘Hagenbach?’ Cartland and Hagenbach, men possessed of almost identical casts of mind, were as intimate as two loners could ever be. ‘What’s Hagenbach to you?’

  ‘I suggest you come and sit beside me, General. Please relax and act casual.’

  It was entirely alien to Cartland’s nature to relax and ‘act casual', but he did his best. He sat and said: ‘I repeat, what’s Hagenbach to you?’

&nb
sp; ‘Mr Hagenbach is very important to me. He pays my salary when he remembers.’

  Cartland looked at him for a long moment then, as if to demonstrate that he was not totally like Hagenbach, he smiled. His smile was nowhere near as frosty as his face. ‘Well, well. A friend in need is a friend indeed. Your name?’

  ‘Paul Revson.’

  ‘Revson? Revson! James has talked to me about you. And not only once.’

  ‘Sir, you must be the only person in the United States who knows his first name.’

  Cartland nodded his agreement. There aren’t many around. You know he has you slated for the hot seat in five years’ time?’

  ‘I should live that long.’

  ‘Well, well.’ Cartland seemed to be very fond of ‘well, well'. ‘A very neat job of infiltration, if I may say so.’

  ‘The Chief’s idea, not mine.’ Revson stood up and snapped off some more photographs. He said, apologetically: ‘Local colour. You will please not tell any of your colleagues on the Presidential coach –’

  ‘Colleagues? Clowns!’

  ‘You will please not tell any of the clowns that you have met me.’

  ‘I retract my remark. The President is a personal friend.’

  ‘That is known, sir. The President and the clowns. I would not include the Mayor among the latter. If you want to talk to them privately, take a walk. Your coach is bugged.’

  ‘If you say so, Revson.’

  ‘I know so, sir. There’s a tape recorder whirling away busily in the rear coach. You heard it. I didn’t.’

  ‘I heard it. I’ve never heard of you.’

  ‘General Cartland, you should join our organization.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘I retract in turn. A Chief of Staff can go nowhere except down.’

  Cartland smiled again. ‘To mint a new phrase, tell me all.’

  Revson stood, walked away some paces, took more pictures, returned, sat down and told all. When he had finished, General Cartland said: ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘I don’t want. One does not give instructions to the Chief of Staff.’