The Golden Gate

by Alistair MacLean

  ‘Meantime, I would draw your attention to the fact that a second food wagon has arrived.’ A camera obligingly drew the viewers’ attention to this fact. ‘It seems incredible that the authorities would be so obtuse as to try the same gambit again but, on the other hand, they have already shown that they are incredibly obtuse. So we are going to select three trays at random and offer them to the President, King and Prince. If they survive, we may reasonably assume that the food is uncontaminated. If, on the other hand, they become seriously ill – or worse – the world will know that the guilt cannot be laid at our door. We are in permanent radio-telephone contact with the police and military authorities ashore. They have one minute to tell us whether this food is contaminated or not.’

  Mayor Morrison was on his feet. Van Effen lifted his Schmeisser fractionally but Morrison ignored him. He said to Branson: ‘Apart from the personal indignity and affront you are heaping on the President and his royal guests couldn’t you pick someone a bit lower down the scale for your experiment?’

  ‘Such as yourself?’

  ‘Such as myself.’

  ‘My dear Mayor, your personal courage is beyond dispute. That is well known. Your intelligence, however, isn’t. If anyone is to be put to the test it will be the three men who are probably the most important in the United States today. Their untimely disappearance from the scene would have the maximum inhibiting effect on would-be poisoners. In the olden days, the serfs tasted the food of their rulers: I find it rather amusing that the roles should be reversed. Please sit.’

  ‘Megalomaniac bastard,’ Revson said.

  O’Hare nodded. ‘He’s all of that but a lot more. He knows damn well there isn’t a chance in the world of the food being spiked but he’s going through the charade all the same. He’s not only enjoying his own showmanship, he’s getting a positively sadistic kick out of it all, particularly in humiliating the President.’

  ‘You think he’s sick? In the head? Certifiably, I mean?’

  ‘I’m no psychiatrist. He could get all he wants without those histrionics and TV spectaculars. What’s for sure, he’s got a grudge against society in general and the President in particular. Certainly, he’s in it for the money, but he’s in it for something else: as if he wanted to become a nationally – or internationally – recognized figure.’

  ‘In that case, he’s made a fair start. In fact, he’s gone as far as he can go. Now it seems as if he’s overcompensating for something. Lord knows what.’

  They watched three trays of food being brought towards the rows of chairs. O’Hare said: ‘Reckon they’ll sample that stuff?’

  ‘They’ll eat it. In the first place, they couldn’t bear the indignity of being force-fed in front of hundreds of millions of viewers. The President’s courage is known well enough – you will remember his record during World War Two in the Pacific. Again, as President, he has to give a lead to the nation – if he refused to eat while his oil friends did, he’d be a dead duck at the next election. Conversely, his oil friends would lose face if the President ate and they didn’t.’

  They ate. After Chrysler had given a negative signal from the Presidential coach, Branson nodded towards the trays. The President–inevitably, he was not a man to be upstaged by anyone – was the first to get busy with knife and fork. It could hardly be said that he ate with unrestrained gusto but he plodded along stolidly enough and had finished more than half his meal before he laid down his eating tools.

  Branson said: ‘Well?’

  ‘I wouldn’t offer it to my guests in the White House but it’s palatable enough.’ In spite of the deep humiliation he must have been experiencing, the President was maintaining a remarkable degree of sang-froid. ‘A little wine would have helped, though.’

  ‘You shall have as much as you want in a few moments. I imagine a great number of people are also going to feel like a restorative pretty soon, too. Incidentally, if you people are still interested, we shall be fixing our second strap of explosives at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Our time, of course. And now, could we have the cameras on that stretcher there.’

  Two men stood at the head of the canvas-shrouded stretcher. At a word from Branson they pulled back the top section of the canvas. The cameras zoomed in on the pallid, haggard face of the dead man, held it for all of ten interminable and hushed seconds, then returned to Branson.

  He said: ‘John Hansen, your energy czar. Death certified as due to botulinus poisoning. For what may be the first time in history a wanted criminal accuses the legal authorities of murder. Second degree murder it may be, but I nevertheless indict them on a charge of murder.’

  Hagenbach was in full vitriolic flow. Some phrases like ‘evil, twisted, macabre, vicious bastard’ were just identifiable, but the rest was wholly unprintable. Newson, Carter, Milton and Quarry were momentarily silent but their faces showed clearly enough that they totally identified themselves with Hagenbach’s expressed convictions. Hagenbach, being only human, finally ran out of breath.

  ‘He’s made us look very very bad indeed.’ In the circumstances, Milton’s restraint was remarkable.

  ‘Bad?’ Quarry looked around for another word then gave up. ‘If he pulls another one like this-if we pull another one like this – Branson will have half the nation on his side. What’s to do next?’

  Hagenbach said: ‘Wait till we hear from Revson.’

  ‘Revson?’ Admiral Newson seemed unenthusiastic. ‘He’s hardly distinguished himself so far.’

  ‘A hundred to one it wasn’t Revson’s fault,’ Hagenbach said. ‘And don’t forget the final decision was ours. We bear a collective responsibility, gentlemen.’

  They sat around the table bearing this intolerable responsibility, each one an Atlas bearing his own private world on his shoulders.

  NINE

  On the Golden Gate Bridge that evening events happened in fairly quick but ordered fashion. A special ambulance appeared and took away the stretcher bearing the remains of Hansen. An autopsy was to be performed, which seemed to be a singular waste of time but was apparently mandatory under State law when a person had died under unusual circumstances. Dr Kylenski and his colleague, with a marked absence of reluctance, accompanied the ambulance. Newsmen, captives and captors had their evening meal, the first two with a notable but understandable lack of appetite but with a thirst, equally notable and understandable, so marked that further liquid supplies had to be commandeered. The two TV trucks left and, shortly afterwards, the two food wagons. Last to go were Vice-President Richards and Hendrix. The Vice-President had spent a long time in a long and earnest private discussion with the President, just as had General Cartland with Hendrix. Both Branson had watched with a certain amused tolerance but had paid little attention. From their grim and depressed expressions it was clear that their discussions had been totally fruitless. No other result could have been expected. It may well have been that Branson was suffering from a certain degree of euphoria after the dramatic effect of his last broadcast: from his expression it was impossible to tell.

  Branson approached Kowalski, just as Richards and Hendrix turned towards their waiting police car. ‘Well?’

  ‘My life on it, Mr Branson. I had my eye on Hendrix and the Vice-President every second. At no time did Revson approach within twenty yards of either man.’

  Branson was aware that Kowalski, a very bright youngster indeed, was looking at him with an expression of barely restrained curiosity. Branson gave his usual faint and empty smile.

  ‘You wondering what’s bugging me about Revson?’

  ‘Not wondering, sir. Interested. I’ve known you for three years now, sir. I shouldn’t imagine you see many fairies at the bottom of your garden.’

  ‘Don’t you, now?’ Branson turned and called to Richards. ‘Wait.’ To Kowalski: ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Well. Revson. He’s been searched to pieces. He’s passed every test. Maybe if the boys and I knew what you are –’

  ‘Every t
est. With flying colours. Perhaps his flag flies too high. Would you have sampled those charming botulinus dinners?’

  ‘My oath and I wouldn’t.’ He hesitated. ‘Well, if it was a direct order from you –’

  ‘And with a gun in your back?’

  Kowalski said nothing.

  Branson said: ‘Revson doesn’t take orders from me. And he had no gun in his back.’

  ‘Maybe he takes orders from someone else.’

  ‘Maybe he does at that. Just a very close eye, Kowalski.’

  ‘If I have to stay awake all night.’

  ‘You know, I think I’d rather appreciate that.’ Branson walked away towards the police car. Kowalski looked after him very thoughtfully indeed.

  The Vice-President and Hendrix were standing impatiently by the opened doors of the police car. Branson came up and said: ‘You will not have forgotten the deadline, gentlemen?’

  ‘Deadline?’

  Branson smiled. ‘Do not be so deliberately obtuse, Mr Vice-President. The transfer of certain monies to Europe. Half a billion dollars – plus, of course, my quarter million expenses. Noon. Tomorrow.’

  Richards’s chilling glare should have petrified Branson on the spot. Branson remained unaffected.

  ‘And don’t forget the escalation clause. Two million dollars for every hour’s delay. And, of course, the free pardon. I expect that will take some time, I suppose your Congress will be a little stuffy about that. But we – your friends and I–can rest comfortably in the Caribbean till that comes through. I bid you good evening, gentlemen.’

  He walked away and stopped at the opened door of the rear coach. Revson was there, slinging over his shoulder the strap of the camera which Chrysler had just handed back to him. Chrysler smiled at Branson.

  ‘Clean as a whistle, Mr Branson. My word, I wish I had one of those.’

  ‘You can have a dozen very soon. You had another camera, Revson.’

  ‘Yes.’ Revson sighed. ‘Do you want me to fetch it for you?’

  ‘I’d rather not. Will you get it, Chrysler?’

  ‘Five back, inside seat,’ Revson said helpfully. ‘It’s on the seat.’

  Chrysler returned with the camera, showed it to Branson. ‘An Asahi-Pentax. I have one myself. Those things are so jammed with miniaturized electronic equipment that you couldn’t hide a pea inside it.’

  ‘Assuming, of course, that it is not just an empty shell.’

  ‘Ah.’ Chrysler looked at Revson. ‘Loaded?’ Revson shook his head. Chrysler opened the back just as Van Effen joined them and displayed the rear of the camera. ‘The genuine article.’ He snapped the back closed.

  Revson took his camera back. He spoke to Branson, his tone as cold as his face. ‘Maybe you’d like to look at my watch. Could be a transistorized two-way radio. All the best investigators in the comic strips wear one.’

  Branson said nothing. Chrysler took Revson’s wrist, pressed a knob on either side of the watch. Illuminated red figures appeared, one set giving the date, the other the time. Chrysler dropped the wrist.

  ‘Pulsar digital. You couldn’t hide a grain of sand inside one of those things.’

  Revson turned with deliberate contempt on his heel and walked away. Chrysler went inside the coach. Van Effen said: ‘Still bugged, Mr Branson? So he’s annoyed. Wouldn’t you be if you’d been put through the hoop the way you’ve put him through the hoop? Besides, if he’d anything to hide he wouldn’t let his animosity show so plain, he’d keep a very low profile indeed.’

  ‘Maybe that’s the way he expects us to react. Or maybe he’s clear.’ Branson looked thoughtful almost to the extent of being worried. ‘But I can’t shake off the feeling that there’s something wrong, and it’s a feeling that’s never let me down before. I’m convinced, don’t ask me how, that someone on the bridge has some means of communicating with someone on land. I want every inch of every person – and that includes our illustrious guests – searched, and to hell with the ladies’ feelings. Every inch of their personal belongings, every inch of every coach.’

  ‘Immediately, Mr Branson.’ There was acquiescence in the tone but no great enthusiasm. ‘And the rest-rooms?’

  ‘Those too.’

  ‘And the ambulance?’

  ‘Yes. I think I’ll attend to that myself.’

  O’Hare looked up in mild surprise as Branson entered the ambulance. ‘Don’t tell me that the botulinus has struck again?’

  ‘No. I’m here to search this ambulance.’

  O’Hare rose from his stool, his face tight. ‘I don’t allow civilians to touch my medical supplies.’

  ‘You’re going to allow this one. If necessary, I’ll call one of my men and have you held either at pistol-point or tied up while I conduct my search.’

  ‘And just what in the hell do you think you’re looking for?’

  ‘That’s my concern.’

  ‘So I can’t stop you. I just warn you that we carry quite a lot of dangerous drugs and surgical equipment here. If you poison yourself or slice an artery, here’s one doctor who’s not going to help you.’

  Branson nodded to April Wednesday who was sleeping peacefully on the side bunk. ‘Lift her off.’

  ‘Lift her – what do you think –’

  ‘Do it immediately or I call a guard.’

  O’Hare lifted the slight form in his arms. Branson pummelled every inch of the thin mattress, lifted it, looked under it and said: Tut her back.’

  Branson carried out a thorough search of all the medical equipment in the ambulance. He knew exactly what he was looking for and nothing he examined looked even remotely like what he hoped to find. He looked around, picked up a torch suspended from one side of the ambulance, switched it on and twisted the top, opening and then narrowing the hooded shutter. ‘A peculiar flashlight, O’Hare.’

  O’Hare said wearily: ‘It’s an ophthalmic torch. Every physician carries one. You can diagnose a dozen different diseases by the dilation of the pupils of the eyes.’

  ‘This can be useful. Come with me.’ He went down the rear steps of the ambulance, went round to the front and jerked open the driver’s door. The driver, peering at a lurid magazine in the now fading light, looked round in surprise.

  Branson said: Out!’ The man descended and Branson, offering no explanation, searched him comprehensively from head to foot. He then climbed inside the driving compartment, examined the upholstery, opened various lockers and shone the torch inside. He descended and said to the driver: ‘Open the engine hood.’

  This was done. Again with the aid of the torch he carried out a thorough inspection of the compartment and found nothing worthy of his attention. He went round to the rear of the ambulance and re-entered. O’Hare followed, politely removed the torch from Branson’s hand and replaced it. Branson indicated a metal canister held in place by a spring clip. He said: ‘What’s that?’

  O’Hare gave a creditable impression of a man whose patience was wearing very very thin. ‘An aerosol air-freshener.’ It was the fake Prestige can that contained the knock-out gas.

  Branson freed the can. ‘Sandalwood,’ he said. ‘You have an exotic taste in perfumes.’ He shook the can, listened to the gurgling inside, then replaced the canister in its clip. O’Hare hoped that the dampness on his brow didn’t show.

  Branson finally directed his attention to the big oiled-wood box on the floor. ‘And what’s this?’

  O’Hare didn’t answer. Branson looked at him. O’Hare was leaning with a negligent elbow on top of a locker, his expression a mixture of barely concealed impatience and bored indifference.

  Branson said sharply: ‘You heard me.’

  ‘I heard you. I’ve had just about enough of you, Branson. If you expect me to show any obedience or respect for you, then you’re way out of your mind. I’m beginning to think you are illiterate. Can’t you see those big red letters? They spell out “Cardiac Arrest Unit". Emergency equipment for patients who have, or may shortly be expected to have, a heart att
ack.’

  ‘Why the big red seal in front?’

  ‘There’s more to it than just that red seal. The whole unit is hermetically sealed. The entire interior of that box and all the equipment it contains is completely sterilized before the box is sealed. One does not inject an unsterilized needle in or near the heart of a cardiac patient.’

  ‘What would happen if I broke the seal?’

  ‘To you, nothing. You’d just be committing the most cardinal sin in any hospital. You’d render the contents useless. And the way you’re carrying on the President is a prime candidate for a heart attack at any moment.’ O’Hare was acutely conscious that the aerosol can was only inches from his hand. If Branson broke the seal and started delving deeper he intended to use the aerosol without a second thought: Branson could hardly be expected to be the person who would fail to recognize a cyanide air pistol when he saw it.

  Branson’s face was without expression. The President –’

  ‘I’d sooner turn in my licence than insure the President for anything. I am a doctor. Twice your needling and public humiliation have driven him into a state of near-apoplexy. You never know, third time you may be lucky. Go on and break the bloody seal. What’s another death on your conscience?’

  ‘I’ve never been responsible for anybody’s death in my life.’ Without as much as looking at O’Hare, Branson abruptly left the ambulance. O’Hare went to the rear door and looked after him thoughtfully. Revson was ambling across the roadway and Branson spared him neither a word nor a glance, behaviour uncharacteristic of Branson who was much given to directing penetrating glances at everyone, usually for no reason whatsoever. Revson looked after him in some puzzlement, then strolled off towards the ambulance.

  Revson said: ‘You just been put through the grinder, too?’

  ‘That you can say again.’ O’Hare spoke with some feeling. ‘You, too?’

  ‘Not me. I’ve been searched so often that nobody would bother. Everybody else was, though. It must have been pretty thorough. I heard more than one ladylike scream of protest.’ He looked after the departing Branson. ‘Our mastermind seems unusually preoccupied.’