The Golden Gate

brought the equipment I asked for. Where is it?'

'I don't know. Dr O'Hare does. For some reason he didn't want me to know in case we were questioned and the ambulance searched.'

'For some reason! For an obvious and excellent reason. O'Hare is no fool.' A flush touched the pale cheeks but he ignored it. 'All of it?'

'So I believe.' She tried to speak stiffly.

'Never mind your wounded pride. And don't forget you're in this up to your lovely neck. Hagenbach have any instructions for me?'

'Yes. But he didn't tell me. He told Dr O'Hare.' Her voice was acid or bitter or both. 'I suppose that makes Mr Hagenbach no fool either.'

'Don't take those things so much to heart.' He patted her hand and smiled warmly. 'You've done an excellent job. Thank you.'

She tried a tentative smile. 'Maybe you are a little bit human after all, Mr Revson.'

'Paul. One never knows.' He smiled again, rose and left. At least, he thought, he was semi-human enough not to inflict further damage upon her amour propre by telling her that the last little bit of by-play had been purely for the benefit of Branson who had momentarily lost interest in the screen — he was not then on camera — and was casting a speculative look at them. Not that that necessarily meant anything suspicious or sinister. Branson was much given to casting speculative looks at everybody. April was beautiful and he may well have thought that she was wasting this beauty on the wrong company.

Revson sat on a seat not far from Branson and watched the last twenty minutes of the broadcast. The inter- cutting between the Presidential group and the top of the south tower had been most skilfully done and the overall impact was all that Branson could ever have wished. Branson watched it intently. His face betrayed no particular sign of satisfaction, but then Branson's face registered precisely what he wanted it to and was no mirror of his inner thoughts and feelings. When the broadcast finished Branson rose and stopped briefly by Revson's chair.

'Revson, isn't it?' Revson nodded. 'And how does all this strike you?'

'Just the same as it strikes a million other people, I guess.' This was it, Revson thought, this is one part of his Achilles' heel. Branson knew he was a genius but he had no objection to people saying so. 'A feeling of total unreality. This just can't be happening.'

'But it is, isn't it? A very satisfactory beginning, don't you think?'

'I can quote?'

'Certainly. Call it an exclusive if you want. How do you see the scenario developing?'

'Just as you have programmed it. I can't see anything to stop you. You have them, most unfortunately, at your total mercy.'

'Most unfortunately?'

'What else? I don't want to overdo the American citizen bit and although you may be a master criminal, a genius in your own immoral fashion, to me you're still a crook, a crook so bent as to make a spiral staircase look like a fireman's ladder.'

'I rather like that. I may quote you in turn?' Branson seemed genuinely gratified. One could hardly have called him thin-skinned.

'There's no verbal copyright.'

'Alas, universal disapproval, not to say disapprobation, would seem to be my lot.' Branson didn't sound too unhappy about it. 'That's a most unusual camera you have there.'

'Almost, but not quite unique.'

'May I have a look at it?'

'If you wish. But if you want to examine it for the reasons I imagine you want to examine it then you're about four hours too late.'

'What is that supposed to mean?'

'It means that your very able lieutenant, Van Effen, has the same nasty suspicious mind as you have. He has already taken my camera apart.'

'No radios? No offensive weapons?'

'Look for yourself.'

'That won't be necessary now.'

'A question. I don't want to inflate your already super-expanded ego-'

'Don't you think you might be taking chances, Revson?'

'No. You have the reputation of being a non-violent criminal.' Revson waved his arm. 'Why all this? You could have made a fortune in any business you cared to enter.'

Branson sighed. 'I tried it. Business is so dull, don't you think? This at least gives me the opportunity to exercise most of my capacities.' He paused. 'You're a bit odd, yourself. A cameraman. You don't look, act or speak like one.'

'How's a cameraman supposed to look, act and speak? You look in the mirror when you shave. Do you see a criminal? I see a Wall Street Vice-president.'

'Touche. What's your paper or magazine?'

'Free-lance, but I'm accredited to the London Times'

'But you're American?'

'News has no boundaries. Not any longer. I prefer to work the foreign beat, where the action is.' Revson smiled faintly. 'At least, until today. That used to mean South-East Asia. Not any more. Europe and the Middle East.'

'So what are you doing here?'

'Pure happenstance. Just passing through, you might say, from New York to a special assignment in China.'

'When are you due to leave for there?'

'Tomorrow.'

'Tomorrow? You'll want to get off the bridge tonight. As I've said, members of the media are free to leave whenever they choose.'

'You, Branson, must be out of your mind.'

'China can wait?'

'China can wait. Unless, of course, you're planning to kidnap Chairman Mao.'

Branson smiled the smile that never touched his eyes and walked away.

Revson, camera poised, stood outside the open front right door of the rear coach. He said: 'Do you mind?'

Chrysler turned round. He looked at Revson in some surprise, then smiled. 'Why me for this honour?'

'Because my camera is tired of taking photographs of Branson and the assorted big-wigs. Mind? I'm now compiling a rogues' gallery of Branson's henchmen.' Revson smiled to remove offense. 'You're Chrysler, aren't you? The telecommunications expert?'

'If that's what they call me, yes.'

Revson took two or three shots, thanked Chrysler, and moved away. For good measure and local colour, he took some more pictures of Branson's men. They all seemed to have been infected by Branson's massive self- confidence and, cheerfully, in some cases almost eagerly, acceded to Revson's requests. After the last of those shots he crossed to the west side of the bridge, sat on the crash barrier and lit a ruminative cigarette.

After a few minutes O'Hare, hands thrust deep in his white coat, came strolling by. Hundreds of pictures and thousands of words of reports had already been dispatched by the south tower and there were at least twenty of the media men — and women — who now had nothing better to do who were strolling aimlessly up and down the centre of the bridge. Revson took a couple of routine shots of O'Hare, who came and sat beside him.

He said: 'I saw you talking to Miss Wednesday. Suffering from a degree of pique, is she?'

'Our April could be happier. You have it all?'

'Both weapons and instructions.'

'Everything I asked for is camouflaged?'

'I would say so. The two pens are clipped to my medical clipboard, there for anyone to see. We doctors are