'Same old story. About the payment. Still arguing.'
'But they're going to pay.'
'No question It's whether to pay now or stall. Latest opinion poll has four for, two undecided, two against. The King, the Prince and Kharan are all for the money being handed over now — Treasury money, of course. Mayor Morrison is of the same mind.'
'That's understandable. He'd pay a billion dollars within the hour to ensure the safety of his beloved bridge.'
'Cartland and Muir have no preference either way, the only difference being that General Cartland is willing to fight us to the death. The President and Hansen are very much against immediate payment.'
'Again understandable. Hansen's never made a decision in his life and the President would stall for ever, hoping for a miracle to happen, hoping to save the nation the loss of a half billion for which, rightly or wrongly, he would probably be blamed, hoping to save face and his Presidential image. Let them stew in their own juice.' He turned as Peters appeared in the doorway. 'Something wrong?'
'Nothing that affects us, sir. Seems Dr O'Hare has some medical problem on his hands. He'd like to see you as soon as possible.'
When Branson entered the ambulance he found April lying on the hinged side bed, a discreet six inches of her midriff showing, her face chalk-white. Branson did not much care for finding himself in the presence of sick people and this was obviously a sick person. He looked enquiringly at O'Hare.
O'Hare said: 'I've a very sick young lady on my hands here, Mr Branson. I want her removed to hospital immediately.'
'What's wrong?'
'Look at her face.'
It was indeed ashen, an effect easily achieved by the application of an odourless talcum.
'And at her eyes.'
They were opaque with enormously dilated pupils, the effect of the first of the two jabs that O'Hare had given her. Not that the eyes hadn't been big enough to begin with.
'Feel her pulse.'
Reluctantly. Branson lifted the slender wrist and dropped it almost immediately.
'It's racing,' he said. And indeed it was. O'Hare had probably been a little too thorough there. The rate of the pulse when she had entered the ambulance had already been so high as to render the second injection unnecessary.
'Would you care to feel the distension on the right-hand side of the abdomen?'
'No, I would not.' Branson was emphatic.
'It could be a grumbling appendix. It could be a threatened peritonitis. The signs are there. But I have no proper diagnostic equipment, no X-ray facilities, no way of carrying out abdominal surgery and, of course, no anaesthetist. Hospital, and pretty damn quick.'
'No!' April had sat up in bed, fear in her face. 'No! Not hospital! They'll cut me up! Surgery! I've never even
O'Hare put his hands on her shoulders, firmly and not bothering to be gentle, and pressed her back down again.
'And if I'm not that sick? If it's only a tummy-ache or something? Mr Branson wouldn't let me back. The only scoop of my life. And I'm scared!'
O'Hare said: 'It's more than a tummy-ache, lassie.'
'You can come back,' Branson said. 'But only if you do what the doctor and I say.' He nodded towards the door and stepped down. 'What do you think really is the matter with her?'
'A doctor doesn't have to discuss a patient with a layman.' O'Hare was showing every symptom of losing his patience. 'And I can tell you this, Branson. Make off with half a billion dollars and you'll probably end up as some kind of folk hero. It's happened often before, although not, admittedly, on this scale. But let this girl die because you denied her access to medical care and you'll become the most hated man in America. They'll never stop till they get you. To start with, the CIA will find you wherever you are in the world — and they won't bother to bring you to trial.'
Branson showed no signs of losing his patience. He said mildly: 'You don't have to threaten me, Doctor. She'll get her medical care. I'm just asking as a favour.'
'In confidence?' Branson nodded. 'You don't have to be a doctor to see that she's a pretty sick kid. But there are more than one way of being sick. Is she threatened with appendicitis or peritonitis? I don't think so. She's an excitable, intense, highly-strung kid who lives on her nerves. Under pressure, as of now, those could produce an emotional trauma or psychosomatic disorders which are capable of causing the symptoms we've just seen. It's rare, but it exists. In medicine, there's a condition called the Malthusian syndrome where a person can actually will himself into producing — faking, if you want to call it that — symptoms of a non-existent disease. Not in this case — if it is what I think it is, it's involuntary. But you see my position — I can't take chances. She may require intensive medical diagnosis or psychiatric evaluation. The first I can do myself, but I need hospital equipment. The second I can't — I'm not a psychiatrist. Either way I must get to hospital. We're wasting time.'
'I won't keep you long. Do you mind if we search your ambulance?'
O'Hare stared at him. 'What the hell for? What do you think I'm carrying? Bodies? Narcotics — well, quite a lot, really. What do you think I would be taking off this bridge that I didn't bring on to it? I'm a doctor, not an FBI agent.'
'We'll forget it. Another question. Do you mind if we send a guard along — for observation purposes?'
'Send half a dozen. They'll get damned little observation done.'
'What's that supposed to mean?'
'It means that Harben — he's chief of surgery — cherishes his unit like a new-born baby. He wouldn't give a damn about you and your bridge. If any of your men tried to force their way into emergency reception of the emergency theatre he'd have a dozen sharp-shooters there in ten minutes. I'm not joking — I've seen him do it.'
'We'll forget that too. It's unimportant.'
'One thing that is important. Will you phone, ask them to have the emergency operating theatre ready and Dr Huron standing by.'
'Dr Huron?'
'Senior psychiatrist.'
'Right.' Branson smiled faintly. 'Do you know that a Presidential route is alwavs laid out so that it's never more than a few minutes from the nearest hospital? Just in case. Convenient, isn't it'
'Very.' O'Hare turned to the driver. 'Start the siren.'
As the ambulance moved towards the south tower they were passed by a TV van and generator truck coming the other way. Immediately, cameramen, photographers and reporters began moving into what they assumed would be the same TV arena as before. Some cameramen were so overcome by the occasion that they began wasting film on the forthcoming truck as if this were an unprecedented spectacle in itself.
Revson was not one of those who joined in the surge forward. He moved in the opposite direction and regained his seat in the deserted press coach. He undipped the base of his camera, removed the miniaturized transceiver, slipped it into a side pocket, reached into his carrier bag and fed spare film into the base of his camera. He was just reclipping the base of his camera when he became aware of being watched. He looked up. Blue eyes under blond hair, a head the approximate shape of a sugar cube and a vacuous smile. Revson believed in that vacuous smile the way he believed in Santa Claus. Branson would have settled for nothing less than an exceptional man when picking his lieutenant.
'Revson, isn't it?'
'Yes. Van Effen, I believe.
'Yes. Why aren't you out there with the others, recording this historical moment for posterity?'
'First, what is there to record yet? Second, the big eye of TV can do a damned sight better job of posterity- recording than I can do. Third, if you'll excuse the hackneyed phrase, what I'm after is the human interest angle. Fourthly, I prefer to load in the shadow.'
