The Golden Gate

They found three such guns and pocketed them. The three owners of the guns were handcuffed and left where they were. Yonnie and Bartlett descended and joined the man who was guarding the six still largely uncomprehending policemen who were handcuffed together in single file. Another man was seated behind one of the bazooka-like missile firers that was guarding the north tower. Here, as at the southern end, everything was completely under control, everything had gone precisely as Branson had meticulously and with much labour planned over the preceding months. Branson had every reason to be feeling agreeably pleased with himself.

Branson, as he stepped down from the rear coach, looked neither pleased nor displeased. Things had gone as he had expected them to and that was that. His followers had often remarked, although never in his hearing, on Branson’s almost staggering self-confidence: on the other hand they had to admit that he had never, as yet, failed to justify his utter trust in himself. Of Branson’s permanent nucleus of eighteen men, nine of them had spent various times in various penitentiaries up and down the country reflecting upon the vagaries of fortune. But that was before they had been recruited by Branson. Since then not one of the eighteen had even got as far as a courtroom far less the prison walls: when it was taken into account that those included such semi-permanent guests of the United States Government as Parker this record could be regarded as an achievement of no little note.

Branson walked forward to the Presidential coach. Van Effen was standing in the doorway. Branson said: ‘I’m moving the lead coach ahead a bit. Tell your driver to follow me.’

He moved into the lead coach and with Yonnie’s help dragged clear the slumped driver behind the wheel. He slid into the vacant seat, started the engine, engaged gear, straightened out the coach and eased it forward for a distance of about fifty yards, bringing it to a halt with the use of the handbrake. The Presidential coach followed, pulling up only feet behind them.

Branson descended and walked back in the direction of the south tower. When he came to the precise middle of the bridge – the point at which the enormous suspension cables were at their lowest – he looked behind him and again in front of him. The fifty yards of the most central section of the bridge, the section where the helicopter rotors would be most unlikely to be fouled by the cables, even if subjected to the unseen and unforeseen vagaries of wind, was clear. Branson walked clear of the area and waved to the two machines chattering overhead. Johnson and Bradley brought their naval helicopters down easily and with the minimum of fuss. For the first time in its long and august history the Golden Gate Bridge was in use as a helipad.

Branson boarded the Presidential coach. Everyone there was instinctively aware that he was the leader of the kidnappers, the man behind their present troubles, and their reception of him did not even begin to border on the cordial. The four oil men and Cartland looked at him impassively: Hansen, understandably, was more jittery and nervous than ever, his hands and eyes forever on the rapid and almost furtive move: Muir was his usual somnolent self, his eyes half-closed as if he were on the verge of dropping off to sleep: Mayor Morrison, who had won so many medals in the Second World War that he could scarcely have found room for them even on his massive chest, was just plain furious: and so, indisputably, was the President: that expression of kindly tolerance and compassionate wisdom which had endeared him to the hearts of millions had for the moment been tucked away in the deep freeze.

Branson said without preamble but pleasantly enough: ‘My name is Branson. Morning, Mr President. Your Highnesses, I would like -’

‘You would like!’ The President was icily angry but he had the expression on his face and the tone in his voice under control: you don’t have two hundred million people call you President and behave like an unhinged rock star. ‘I suggest we dispense with the charade, with the hypocrisy of empty politeness. Who are you, sir?’

‘I told you. Branson. And I see no reason why the normal courtesies of life should not be observed. It would be pleasant if we were to begin our relationship – an enforced introduction on your side, I agree – on a calmer and more reasonable basis. It would make things so much more pleasant if we behaved in a more civilized fashion.’

‘Civilized?’ The President stared at him in a genuine astonishment that swiftly regressed to his former fury. ‘You! A person like you. A thug! A crook! A hoodlum! A common criminal. And you dare suggest we behave in a more civilized fashion.’

‘A thug? No. A crook? Yes. A hoodlum? No. A common criminal? No. I’m a most uncommon criminal. However, I’m not sorry you adopt this attitude. Having you express yourself with such hostility to me doesn’t mean that it eases my conscience in what I may have to do to you. I don’t have any conscience. But it makes life that much simpler for me. Not having to hold your hand – I don’t speak literally, you understand-makes it all that much easier for me to achieve my ends.’

‘I don’t think you’ll be called upon to hold any hands, Branson.’ Cartland’s voice was very dry. ‘How are we to regard ourselves? As kidnapees? As ransom for some lost cause you hold dear?’

‘The only lost cause I hold dear is standing before you.’

‘Then hostages to fortune?’

‘That’s nearer it. Hostages to a very large fortune, I trust.’ He looked again at the President. ‘I genuinely do apologize for any affront or inconvenience caused by me to your foreign guests.’

‘Inconvenience!’ The President’s shoulders sagged as he invoked his tragic Muse. ‘You don’t know what irreparable damage you have done this day, Branson.’

‘I wasn’t aware that I had done any yet. Or are you referring to their Highnesses here? I don’t see what damage I can have caused there. Or are you referring to your little trip to San Rafael today-I’m afraid we’ll have to postpone that for a bit-to inspect the site of what will be the biggest oil refinery in the world?’ He smiled and nodded towards the oil princes. ‘They really have you and Hansen over a barrel there, don’t they, Mr President – an oil barrel? First they rob you blind over oil sales, accumulate so much loot that they can’t find homes for all of it, conceive the bright idea of investing it in the land of the robbed, come up with the concept of building this refinery and petro-chemical complex on the West Coast and running it themselves – with your technical help, of course – on their own oil which would cost them nothing. The foreseeable profits are staggering, a large portion of which would be passed on to you in the form of vastly reduced oil prices. Bonanzas all round. I’m afraid international finance is beyond my scope – I prefer to make my money in a more direct fashion. If you think your deal is going to slip through because of the offence now being given to those Arabian gentlemen you must be an awful lot more naïve than a President of the United States has any right to be. Those are not gentlemen to be swayed by personal considerations. They have tungsten steel where their hearts should be and IBM computers for brains.’ He paused. ‘I’m not being very polite to your guests, am I?’

Neither the King nor Prince Achmed were quite so impassive now: their eyes, as they looked at Branson, were expressive of a distinct yearning.

Cartland said: ‘You seem to be in no great hurry to get on with whatever you intend to get on with.’

‘How right you are. The need for speed has now gone. Time is no longer of the essence except that the longer I spend here the more profitable it is going to be for me. That I shall explain later. In the meantime, the longer you remain here the more time it will give both you and your peoples both here and in the Gulf States to appreciate just what a pretty pickle you find yourselves in. And, believe me, you are in a pickle. Think about it.’

Branson walked to the rear of the coach and spoke to the blond young soldier who was manning the massive communication complex.

‘What’s your name?’

The soldier, who had heard all that had gone on and obviously didn’t like any of it, hesitated, then said grudgingly: ‘Boyann.’

Branson handed him a piece of paper. ‘Get this number, please. It’s just local.’

‘Get it yourself.’

‘I did say “please".’

‘Go to hell.’

Branson shrugged and turned. ‘Van Effen?’

‘Yes?’

‘Bring Chrysler here.’ He turned to Boyann. ‘Chrysler has forgotten a great deal more about telecommunications than you’ve learnt so far. You think I hadn’t anticipated meeting up with young heroes?’ He spoke to Van Effen. ‘And when you bring him take Boyann here out and have him thrown over the side of the bridge into the Golden Gate.’

‘Right away’

‘Stop!’ The President was shocked and showed it. ‘You would never dare.’

‘Give me sufficient provocation and I’ll have you thrown over the side too. I know it seems hard but you’ve got to find out some way, some time, that I mean what I say’

Muir stirred and spoke for the first time. He sounded tired. ‘I think I detect a note of sincerity in this fellow’s voice. He may, mark you, be a convincing bluffer. I, for one, wouldn’t care to be the person responsible for taking the chance.’

The President bent an inimical eye on the Under-Secretary but Muir seemed to have gone to sleep. Cartland said in a quiet voice: ‘Boyann, do what you are told.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Boyann seemed more than happy to have had the decision taken out of his hands. He took the paper from Branson who said: ‘You can put it through to the phone by that chair opposite the President’s?’ Boyann nodded. ‘And patch it in to the President’s?’ Boyann nodded again. Branson left and took his seat in the vacant armchair.

Boyann got through immediately: clearly, the call had been awaited.

‘Hendrix,’ the voice said.

‘Branson here.’

‘Yes. Branson. Peter Branson. God, I might have guessed!’ There was a silence then Hendrix said quietly: ‘I’ve always wanted to meet you, Branson.’

‘And so you shall, my dear fellow, and much sooner than you think. I’d like to speak to you later. Meantime, I wouldn’t be surprised if the President didn’t want to have a word with you.’ Branson stood up, not without difficulty, and offered both the telephone and seat to Morrison who in turn struggled to his feet and accepted the offer with alacrity.

The President ran true to the form of any President who might have been so unfortunate as to find himself in his position. He ran through the whole gamut of incredulity, outrage, disbelief and horror that not only the Chief Executive but, even more important, foreign potentates should find themselves in a situation so preposterous as to be, in his opinion, without parallel in history. He laid the blame, predictably, entirely at Hendrix’s door – security cover, as the President knew all too well, was arranged by Washington and the local police forces did precisely what they were told to do, but the President’s memory, logic and sense of justice had gone into a state of shock-and ended up by demanding that Hendrix’s duty was to clear up the whole damnable mess and that he should do something about it immediately.

Hendrix, who had a great deal longer time to consider the situation, remained admirably calm. He said: ‘What do you suggest I do about it, sir?’

The incoherent splutterings that followed were indication enough that constructive suggestions were at that moment some light years away from the President’s mind. Morrison took advantage of the momentary hiatus.

‘Bernard? John here.’ Morrison smiled without meaning to. ‘The voters aren’t going to like this, Bernard.’

‘All one hundred and fifty million of them?’

Again the same smile. ‘If we think nationally, yes.’

‘I’m afraid this is going to turn into a national problem, John. In fact, you know damn well it already is. And on the political side it’s too big for either of us.’

‘You cheer me up greatly, Bernard.’

‘I wish someone would cheer me. Do you think our friend would let me speak to the General?’