The Golden Gate

by Alistair MacLean

  Giscard said bitterly, ‘Attrition, attrition, attrition. Pin-pricks and more pin-pricks. A steady undermining of confidence in those of us who are left. And not a thing in the world you can do about it, nothing to justify any violent retaliatory action against the hostages. They’re just using the TV to play you at your own game, Mr Branson.’

  ‘Yes, they are.’ Branson didn’t seem unduly disturbed: what he’d seen had come neither as shock nor surprise to him. ‘One has to admit that they’re quite good at it.’ He looked at Giscard and Chrysler. ‘Well, gentlemen, I’ve made up my mind. Your thoughts?’

  Giscard and Chrysler looked briefly at each other. It was not in character with Branson that he should ask anyone’s opinion.

  ‘We’ve got our hostages trapped here,’ Chrysler said. ‘Now I’m the one who’s beginning to feel trapped on this damned bridge. We’ve no freedom of movement.’

  Giscard said: ‘But we would have in the Presidential Boeing. And it has the finest communications system in the world.’

  ‘So we make orderly preparations for, if need be, an emergency take-off. I am in agreement. They shall pay for this. Just to show them I mean what I say, I’m still going to bring down their damned bridge. Now, I hardly think it would be wise to wrap the remaining two explosive devices round the west cable at the top of the north tower.’

  ‘Not,’ Giscard said, ‘unless you want to have another couple of involuntary defectors.’

  ‘So we wrap them round the cable just where we are here. At the lowest point, between the two helicopters. That should do satisfactorily enough, I think.’

  Some half hour later, shortly after the last two of the explosive straps had been secured to the west cable, Chrysler came up to Branson. ‘Hagenbach. He says there’ll be an interesting programme coming on in just two minutes. Five minutes after the programme he’s going to call you. He says two very important messages are coming through from the east.’

  ‘I wonder what that conniving old devil is up to now?’ Branson went and took his accustomed viewing place. Automatically, the seats beside and behind him filled up. The screen came to life.

  It portrayed something that looked like an enormous white golf ball – one of the Mount Tamalpais radar scanners. Then the camera zoomed in on a group of about ten men, policemen in their shirtsleeves, all armed with submachine-guns. Slightly in front of them stood Hendrix, a microphone in his hand. The camera followed as Hendrix moved forwards towards an opening door. Five men emerged, all with their hands high. The leading man of the five stopped when he was within three feet of Hendrix.

  Hendrix said: ‘You’re Parker?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m Hendrix. Chief of Police, San Francisco. Do you men surrender voluntarily?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Better than being hunted and gunned down by you – or stabbed in the back by that bastard Branson.’

  ‘You’re under arrest. Get into the van.’ Hendrix watched them go then spoke again into the microphone. ‘When it comes to making speeches, I’m afraid I’m not in the same league as the Vice-President or Mr Hagenbach, so I won’t even try. All I can say, with due modesty on the part of all of us, is that ten defectors is not a bad morning’s bag. And the morning is not yet over. Incidentally, there will be no more broadcasts from us for at least an hour.’

  Revson stood up and glanced round casually. In the space of only two seconds he caught the eye of both General Cartland and Grafton. Slowly, casually, the newsmen and the hostages began to drift off to their separate coaches, the former presumably to write up their dispatches or refill cameras, the latter, almost certainly, in the pursuit of refreshments – the President looked particularly thirsty. Besides, the comfort of an air-conditioned coach was vastly to be preferred to the already uncomfortable heat out on the bridge.

  Giscard said in anger: ‘The fool, the fool, the bloody fool! Why did he have to let himself be duped so easily?’

  There was just a trace of weary acceptance in Branson’s voice. ‘Because he had no Giscard there beside him, that’s why.’

  ‘He could have phoned you. He could have phoned me.’

  ‘What might have been. No older phrase in any language. I don’t really blame him.’

  Chrysler said: ‘Has it occurred to you, Mr Branson, that when you’ve received your ransom money and returned the hostages, they might want most if not all of it back if you want their prisoners freed? They’re no fools and they know damned well that you wouldn’t let your men down.’

  ‘There’ll be no deal. I admit it’s going to make things a bit more tricky, but there’ll be no deal. Well, I suppose I’d better go and see what friend Hagenbach wants.’ Branson rose and walked towards the rear coach, his head bent in thought.

  Mack, the guard, waited until the last of his illustrious hostages had entered the Presidential coach, locked the door and pocketed the key. His machine-pistol was dangling from one hand. He turned round to see Cartland’s little pistol not three feet from him.

  Cartland said: ‘Don’t try anything, I beg you. Try to lift and fire that gun and it is the last thing you ever do.’ Cartland’s calm impersonal voice carried immense conviction. ‘Gentlemen, I ask you to bear witness to -’

  ‘That funny little pop-gun?’ Mack was openly contemptuous. ‘You couldn’t even hurt me with that thing, but I’d still cut you to pieces.’

  ‘Bear witness to the fact that I warned this man that this “pop-gun” is loaded with cyanide-tipped bullets. Just has to break the skin and you won’t even feel it. You’ll be a dead man before you hit the floor.’

  ‘In my country,’ the King observed, ‘he’d already be dead.’

  With the possible exception of Yonnie, none of Branson’s men was a fool. Mack was no fool. He handed over his gun. Cartland marched him to the rear of the coach, pushed him into the washroom, extracted the inside key and locked the door from the outside.

  The President said: ‘Well?’

  Cartland said: ‘There’s going to be some rather violent unpleasantness outside in a minute or two. I don’t want to risk any of you at this late date. I want this door kept sealed and locked because our friends ashore are going to use a special and very lethal bomb which sucks oxygen from the atmosphere and leaves you very dead. Thirdly, Branson is going to come around very quickly with the intention of shooting up one or two of you if the nastiness doesn’t stop. But if the door’s locked and he can’t get in he can fire all day at this bullet-proof glass and make no impression. Fourthly, although we now have two guns, we’re not going to use them when we do leave here as we must eventually. I don’t want a gunfight at the OK corral. We’ll be loaded into a helicopter but the helicopter isn’t going any place.’

  The President said: ‘Where did you get all this information from?’

  ‘A well-informed source. Fellow who gave me this gun. Revson.’

  ‘Revson. How does he tie in? Don’t know the chap.’

  ‘You will. He’s stated as Hagenbach’s successor in the FBI.’

  The President was plaintive. ‘It’s like I always say: no one ever tells me anything.’

  Revson was much less verbose and not at all forthcoming with explanations. Ensuring that he was the last man in, he turned and chopped the unsuspecting Peters below the right ear just as Peters turned the key in the lock. Revson relieved him of both key and machine-pistol, dragged him in and propped him in the driver’s seat, then brought out his radio.

  ‘Revson here.’

  ‘Hendrix.’

  ‘Ready yet?’

  ‘Hagenbach’s still on the phone to Branson.’

  ‘Let me know immediately he’s through.’

  ‘So the money’s in Europe,’ Branson said into the phone. ‘Excellent. But there had to be a codeword.’

  There was. Very appropriate this time.’ Hagenbach’s voice was dry. ‘“Offshore”.’

  Branson permitted himself a slight smile.

  Hen
drix’s voice came through on Revson’s receiver. He said: ‘They’re through.’

  ‘Clear with Hagenbach.’

  ‘Clear.’

  ‘Now.’

  Revson didn’t replace the transistor in his camera case. He put it in his pocket, unslung his camera and laid it on the floor. He unlocked the door, leaving the key in the lock, opened the door a judicious crack and peered back. The first smoke bomb burst about two hundred yards away just as Branson descended from the rear coach. A second, twenty yards nearer, burst about two seconds later. Branson still remained as he was, as if momentarily paralysed. Not so O’Hare, Revson observed, who moved very swiftly into the back of his ambulance, closing the door hard behind him: the driver, Revson assumed, was already inside.

  Branson broke from his thrall. He leapt inside the rear coach, lifted a phone and shouted: ‘Hagenbach! Hendrix!’ He had apparently overlooked the fact that if Hendrix had been at Mount Tamalpais some five minutes previously, he could hardly have returned by that time.

  ‘Hagenbach speaking.’

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re up to?’

  ‘I’m not up to anything.’ Hagenbach’s voice was infuriatingly unconcerned.

  The dense clouds of smoke were now no more than a hundred yards away.

  ‘I’m going inside the Presidential coach.’ He was still shouting. ‘You know what that means.’ He thrust the phone back and pulled out his pistol. ‘Giscard, tell the men to prepare for an attack on the south. They must be mad.’ Johnson and Bradley had advanced from the rear of the coach but he thrust them back. ‘You two I can’t afford to lose. Not now. Stay here. That goes for you, too, Giscard. Tell the men, get back here, and tell Hagenbach what I’m doing.’ Giscard eyed him with understandable concern. An erratic, repetitive and slightly incoherent Branson he had not encountered before: but then Giscard had not spent the previous twenty-four hours on the Golden Gate Bridge.

  Two more smoke bombs had fallen by the time Branson jumped down to the roadway. The pall of smoke, thick and dense now totally obscuring the south tower was no more than fifty yards away. He rushed to the door of the Presidential coach, grabbed the handle and tried to wrench the door open: but the door remained immovable.

  Another smoke bomb exploded. This one was just short of the rear coach. Branson battered at the window of the door with the butt of his pistol and peered inside. The driver’s seat, the seat which Mack, the guard, should have been occupying, was empty. General Cartland appeared at the doorway as the next smoke bomb burst not ten yards away.

  Branson shouted at him, quite forgetting that he was only mouthing words – for the coach was totally soundproof – and pointed at the driver’s seat. Cartland shrugged his shoulders. Branson loosed off four quick shots at the lock and wrenched the handle again but the Presidential coach had been specifically designed to withstand assaults of this nature, which was as well for Branson: Cartland’s right hand, held behind his back, had the forefinger on the trigger of the cyanide gun.

  The next bomb burst directly opposite Branson and the dense, acrid evil-smelling fumes were on him in seconds. Branson fired two more shots at the lock and tried again.

  Revson withdrew the key from the door of the lead coach, dropped down to the roadway, shut the door, locked it and left the key in position. A smoke bomb burst immediately opposite him.

  Vile though the fumes were to both nostrils and throat, they were not incapacitating. Running his fingers along the side of the Presidential coach, Branson made his way back to the rear coach, opened the now closed door and went inside, closing the door behind him. The air in the coach was clear, the lights were on, the air-conditioning unit was functioning and Giscard was on the phone.

  Branson managed to control his coughing. ‘I couldn’t get in. Door’s locked and no sign of Mack. Get anything?’

  ‘I got Hagenbach. He says he knows nothing about this. I don’t know whether to believe him or not. He’s sent for the Vice-President.’

  Branson snatched the phone from him and as he did Richards’s voice came through. ‘You this fellow Giscard?’

  ‘Branson.’

  ‘There is no attack. There will be no attack. Do you think we’re mad – you there with guns at the heads of seven hostages? It’s the Army in the shape of Carter, who’s gone mad. Heaven alone knows what he intended to achieve. He refuses to answer the phone. I’ve sent Admiral Newson to stop him. It’s that or his career.’

  In the communications wagon, Richards turned to look at Hagenbach. ‘How did I sound?’

  For the first time in his years of contact with Richards, Hagenbach permitted an expression of approval to appear on his face. ‘You’re keeping the wrong kind of company, Mr Vice-President. You’re as devious as I am.’

  Giscard said: ‘Do you believe him?’

  ‘God only knows. It’s sense. It’s logical. Stay here. And keep that door closed.’

  Branson dropped down to the roadway. The smoke was thinning now but there was still enough of it to make his eyes water and start him coughing again. On his third step he bumped into a vaguely seen shape in the opacity. ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Chrysler.’ Chrysler was almost convulsed in his paroxysms of coughing. ‘What the hell’s going on, Mr Branson?’

  ‘God knows. Nothing, according to Richards. Any signs of an attack?’

  ‘Any signs of an – I can’t see a bloody yard. No sounds, anyway.’

  Just as he spoke, there came half a dozen cracks in rapid succession. Chrysler said: ‘Those weren’t smoke bombs.’

  In a few seconds it was clear that they were indeed not smoke bombs. Both men started to gasp, searching for oxygen and unable to find it. Branson was the first to guess at what might be happening. He held his breath, grabbed Chrysler by the arm and dragged him towards the rear coach. Seconds later they were inside, the door closed behind them. Chrysler lay unconscious on the floor, Branson barely conscious on his feet.

  Giscard said: ‘What in God’s name -’

  ‘Air-conditioning maximum.’ Branson’s voice came in short painful gasps. ‘They’re using CUBs.’

  Unlike O’Hare, Giscard knew what CUBs were. ‘Asphyxiation bombs?’

  ‘They’re not playing any more.’

  Neither was General Cartland. Mack’s machine-pistol in hand, he unlocked the washroom door. Mack gave him a baleful glare but with the machine-pistol’s muzzle six inches from his stomach was unable to give any more direct expression of his feelings.

  Cartland said: ‘I’m the Army Chief of Staff. In an emergency such as this I am responsible to no one, including the President, for my actions. Give me the door key or I’ll shoot you dead.’

  Two seconds later the door key was in Cartland’s hand. Cartland said: “Turn round.’

  Mack turned and almost immediately collapsed to the floor. The impact from the butt of Cartland’s machine-pistol may have been too heavy, but from the indifferent expression on Cartland’s face it was clear that he didn’t particularly care one way or another. He locked the washroom door behind him, pocketed the key, walked forward, thrust the machine-pistol out of sight beneath the chair of a rather dazed President, and made his way to the control panel in front of the driver’s seat. He touched a few buttons without effect, pulled and pushed some switches then turned sharply as the entrance window slid down. He took two paces, sniffed the air, wrinkled his nose and quickly moved back to push the last switch he’d touched in the other direction. The window closed. Again, very briefly, Cartland touched the switch. The window slid down an inch. Cartland moved across and dropped the door key outside, returned and closed the window.

  Two minutes later the gentle western breeze from the Pacific had blown the now dispersing fumes into the bay. The bridge was clear. Branson opened the door of the rear coach: the air was sweet and fresh and clean. He stepped down, looked at the figures lying on the ground and started running. Giscard, Johnson and Bradley followed him. A slowly recovering Chrysler sat up but remain
ed where he was, shaking his head from side to side.

  They checked the men lying on the bridge. Giscard said: ‘They’re all alive. Unconscious, totally knocked out, but they’re still breathing.’

  Branson said: ‘After CUBs? I don’t understand. Load them aboard your chopper, Bradley, and take off when you’re ready.’

  Branson ran towards the Presidential coach and immediately saw the key on the ground. He picked it up and opened the bullet-scarred door. Cartland was standing by the driver’s seat. Branson said: ‘What happened here?’

  ‘You tell me. All I know is that your guard locked the door from the outside and ran. He ran when the smoke reached here. I assume that the smoke wasn’t really smoke, just a smoke-screen, to allow another defector to escape.’

  Branson stared at him, first shook his head, then nodded. ‘Stay here.’

  He ran towards the lead coach. He at once saw the key in the lock, twisted it and opened the door. He looked at the slumped and clearly unconscious Peters, mounted the steps and looked down the coach. He said: ‘Where’s Revson?’

  ‘Gone.’ A well-rehearsed and apparently uncomprehending Grafton spoke in a weary voice. ‘I can tell you only three things. He chopped your guard. He spoke on what looked like a miniature radio. Then, when the smoke came, he left, locked the door from the outside and ran. Look, Branson, we’re only bystanders, civilians from your point of view. You promised us safety. What’s happening out there?’

  ‘Which way did he run?’

  ‘Towards the north tower. He’ll have reached there long ago.’

  Branson remained silent for quite some time. When he spoke, it was in his accustomed measured tones. ‘I am going to destroy this bridge. I do not kill innocent people. Can anybody here drive a coach?’

  A young journalist stood up. ‘I can.’

  ‘Get this coach off the bridge. Immediately. Through the south barrier.’

  He closed the door and ran towards the ambulance. The rear door opened as he approached. O’Hare appeared and said: ‘Well, you certainly know how to lay on entertainment for your guests.’