FOUR
Paul Revson surfaced slowly, almost reluctandy, to a state of consciousness. His eyelids felt leaden, his head fuzzy and he thought that he had gone slightly deaf. Otherwise he felt no after-effects from having been gassed — he knew he must have been gassed but everything had happened so quickly after the explosion under the driver's feet that he had no clear recollection of what had happened. As his eyesight cleared he looked around him. By his side a girl with a mop of blonde hair was huddled forward against the back of the seat before her, her neck twisted at an uncomfortable angle. Some people, he saw, were lying in the aisle, apparently asleep. A score of others were still in their seats, all resting at the moat uncomfortable angles: some of them, like himself, were just beginning to stir. He peered through the coach window, blinked unbelievingly, then stared again. As a born and bred San Franciscan it took him nothing flat to realize that their coach was halted almost squarely in the middle of the Golden Gate Bridge. It was a circumstance, he felt, which called for some explanation.
He turned his immediate attention to the girl at his side. She was worth anyone's attention. She was possessed of a slight figure, hardly strong enough, one would have thought, to lug around the heavy cine camera which, shoulder-slung, accompanied her everywhere. Her blonde hair was so bleached — naturally, Revson thought-that it almost qualified for the description of platinum, and she was quite beautiful with a very pale skin that the sun never appeared to touch. She was, she had given him to understand, a fashion photographer for one of the major TV companies and as the official party of this Presidential trip was exclusively male it was rather difficult to understand just why she was there. It didn't make sense, but then, again, neither did most Presidential trips. Her name was equally preposterous. April Wednesday, she called herself, and her press card bore this out Revson could only assume that she had been born of singularly unimaginative parents who, as christening day approached, had seized upon the birth date as the easy way out.
He put his hands on her shoulders and gently pulled her upright. The blonde head lolled against his shoulder. He had no idea how to revive people who had suffered from some form of gas poisoning. Should he shake her, slap her cheek gently or just let her sleep it off? He was spared the resolution of this problem when she stirred, shivered for some reason or other — although she was clad in only a thin and markedly abbreviated green silk dress, the temperature in the bus must have been in the eighties — then opened her eyes and gazed unblinkingly at Revson's.
In a face not noticeably lacking other commendable features, those eyes were by far the most remarkable feature. They were huge, clear, of a startling deep sea-green and were possessed of an odd quality of purity and innocence. Revson wondered idly just how devious she was: any young woman who toted a camera for a TV company must have lost her innocence quite some time ago, assuming she was possessed of any in the first place.
She said, not taking her eyes from his: 'What happened?'
'At a guess, some joker must have let off a gas bomb. The instant effect variety. How do you feel?'
'Punch-drunk. Hung-over. You know what I mean?' He nodded. 'Why would anyone want to do a thing like that?'
'Why a lot of things.' He looked at his watch. 'Why after an hour and ten minutes, are we still stranded in the middle of the Golden Gate Bridge?'
'What!'
'Look around you.'
She looked around her, slowly acknowledging the reality of the surroundings. Suddenly she stiffened and caught hold of the hand that was still around her shoulders.
'Those two men across the aisle.' Her voice had dropped to a whisper. 'They're wearing handcuffs.'
Revson bent forward and looked. The two large and still sleeping men were undoubtedly wearing handcuffs.
'Why?' Again the whisper.
'How should I know why? I've just come to myself.'
'Well, then, why aren't
'How should-we are among the blessed.' He looked over his shoulder and saw the Presidential coach parked just behind them. 'Excuse me. As a good journalist I think the odd probing question is in order.'
'I'm coming with you.'
'Sure.' She stepped into the aisle and he followed. Instead of moving directly after her he lifted the coat lapel of the nearest of the sleeping men. An empty shoulder holster was much in evidence. He followed the girl. At the front door he noticed that the driver, still sound asleep, was propped against the right-band front door, quite some distance from his seat: obviously, he hadn't made it there under his own steam.
He joined me girl on the bridge. A very large and extremely ugly policeman — Yonnie had the kind of face that would have given any force a bad name — was pointing a machine-pistol at them. That a policeman should be pointing a gun at them was peculiar enough. That a policeman should be armed with a machine-gun was even more peculiar. Most peculiar of all, however, was the spectacle of six scowling and clearly unhappy policemen standing in a line, each attached to the other by a pair of handcuffs.
April Wednesday stared at them in astonishment, then looked at Revson. He said: 'I agree. This would seem to call for some kind of explanation.'
'You'll have it.' Branson, walking easily, talking easily, had just appeared round the front of the Presidential bus. 'What's your name?'
'Revson.'
'Sorry about this. You too, young lady.'
'Helicopters!' she said.
'Yes, they are, arent they? Explanations will be forthcoming but not severally. When your friends have all come to then we'll have a little talk.' Branson walked away towards the rear coach. His step was almost jaunty and he did not seem too displeased with life. He looked at the bank of cloud moving in slowly, very slowly, from the west. If it troubled him he did not show it. He reached the crashed police car and spoke to the man standing guard. 'Have our four friends recovered, Chrysler?'
'Yes, sir. I wouldn't say they're in very high spirits, though.' Chrysler was a lean, dark, intelligent-looking young man and it only required the addition of a brief case to see him as an up-and-coming attorney. He was indeed, as Branson had told Boyann, a tele-communications expert. He was also very good with combination locks and frightening people with guns.
'I dare say. Let them stay in the car. Easier than getting them out and handcuffing them. When the four FBI men — at least from the fact that they were armed I assume they were FBI men — in the lead coach have come to take a couple of the boys and escort them, along with the six cops up front, the four here and the two inside our coach half-way towards the south tower. Sixteen in all and any one a potential menace if we keep them here. Half-way there take off whatever handcuffs there are — very useful things, handcuffs, you never know when we may need them again — then let them walk off the bridge under their own steam. Okay?'
'It's done.' He pointed to the west, to the slowly advancing bank of cloud. 'Do you like that, Mr Branson?'
'Could have done without it. We'll cope when it comes. Looks as if it may well pass under the bridge anyway.'
'Mr Branson.' It was Jensen, beckoning urgently from the front door of the rear coach. 'Mount Tamalpais. Urgent.'
Branson ran into the coach, seated himself in front of the console and lifted the microphone. 'Branson.'
'Giscard. We've picked up a blip. Coming from the south — well, a bit east of south. Light plane, looks like. Maybe eight miles out.'
'Thank you.' Branson made another switch. South and a little east. That could only be San Francisco International Airport. 'Chief of Police Hendrix. At once.'
Hendrix was on the phone in seconds. 'What now?'
'I told you to keep a clear air-space. Our radar's picked up a blip, airport direction — '
Hendrix interrupted. His voice was sour. 'You wanted to see Messrs Milton and Quarry, didn't you?' Milton was the Secretary for State, Quarry the Secretary of the Treasury. 'They came in from Los Angeles fifteen minutes
