The Golden Gate

Van Effen didn't hesitate. 'Revson.'

Branson beckoned Chrysler. 'Revson here claims to be an accredited correspondent of The Times of London. How long would it take you to check that out?'

'Using the Presidential tele- communications?'

'Yes.'

'Minutes.'

Revson said: 'I suppose I'm supposed to show a degree of high indignation, but I won't bother. Why me? Why assume it's any of the news media members? Why not one ef your own men?'

'Because I hand-picked them personally.'

'Just the same way that Napoleon did his marshals. And look how many of them turned against him in the end. How you can expect devoted loyalty from a bunch of cut-throats like this, however hand-picked, is beyond me.'

'You'll do for the moment,' Van Effen said comfortably. He touched Branson's arm and pointed to the west. 'We may not have all that much time.'

'You're right.' Dark, heavy, ominous clouds were rolling in from the Pacific, although still some miles distant. 'The audiences wouldn't like it at all if they were to see their President and Vice-President, not to mention their oil friends, sitting here getting soaked in a thunderstorm. Ask Johnson to organize the cameras and the seating.' He waited thoughtfully until Van Effen had done this then took him across to where Revson was standing alone. He said to Van Effen: 'Revson tells me that you have already searched his camera.

'Yes. But I didn't take it to pieces.'

'Maybe we should.'

'And maybe you shouldn't.' For once, Revson let anger show. 'Do you know that it takes a man five years' training to learn just how to assemble one of those cameras? I'd rather you kept the damned thing for the duration of our stay here than have it ruined.'

'Call his bluff and have it stripped,' Branson said.

'I agree.' Van Effen said to Revson, almost soothingly, 'We'll have Chrysler do it. He's as close to a mechanical genius as anyone I know. It will be intact' To Branson he said: 'I've also searched his carry-all, the upholstery of his seat, below the seat and the rack above. Clean.'

'Search him.'

'Search me?' More than a trace of truculence remained in Revson's face. 'I've already been searched.'

'For weapons only.'

If there had been a grain of rice on Revson's person, including inside the coat lining, Van Effen wouldn't have missed it. Apart from keys, coins and an inoffensive little knife, all he came up with were papers.

'The usual,' Van Effen said. 'Driving licence, social security, credit cards, press cards — '

'Press cards,' Branson said. 'Any of them identify him with the London Times?'

'There's this.' Van Effen handed the card across to Branson. 'Looks pretty kosher to me.'

'If he is who or what we think he might be, he wouldn't be likely to hire the worst forger in town.' He handed the card back, a slight frown on his face. 'Anything else?'

'Yes.' Van Effen opened a long envelope. 'Airline ticket. For Hong Kong.'

'It wouldn't be dated for tomorrow?'

'It is. How did you know?'

'He told me so himself. What do you think?'

'I don't know.' For a moment, as Van Effen idly fingered Revson's felt pens both he and Branson were only a heart's beat from death. But Van Effen, his mind on something else, reclipped them and opened Revson's passport. He flipped rapidly through the pages. 'Certainly gets around. Lots of South-East Asia passports, last about two years ago. Near East immigration stamps galore. Not many European or London stamps, but that signifies nothing. They are an idle bunch across there and British and most European-Western European — passport officers only stamp your passports if they feel in need of the exercise. How does it all sound to you?'

'Ties in with his own claims, what he told me himself. You?'

'If he's a bad one, I would call this an excessive cover-up. Why not Milwaukee? Or even San Francisco?'

Branson said: 'You a San Franciscan?'

'By adoption.'

Van Effen said: 'Who'd spend a dozen years traveling the world just to establish a background, an alibi like this?'

Chrysler came up. Branson looked at him in slight surprise. 'Through already?'

'The President has a hot line to London. I hope you don't mind. Revson's clean. He's a fully accredited correspondent of the London Times.'

Revson said to Chrysler: 'Branson wants you to take my camera to pieces. There's a time-bomb or a radio inside it Watch you don't blow yourself up. After that, you'd better make damn sure you put it all together again.'

Chrysler received Branson's nod, smiled, took the camera and left Revson said: 'Will that be all? Or do you want to unscrew my false heels?'

Branson wasn't amused. 'I'm still not satisfied. How am I to know that Kylenski here is not in cahoots with the poisoners? How am I to know that he was not instructed to find only a dozen poisoned plates so as to kill our suspicions? There should have been seventeen tampered trays. There should — there must be someone on the bridge capable of identifying them. I want you, Revson, to sample one of the trays that Kylenski has declared safe.'

'You want me — you want to kill me off with botulinus on the off-chance that Kylenski has made a mistake? I'm damned if I will. I'm no human guinea-pig.'

'Then we'll try some of them out on the President and his oil friends here. Royal guinea-pigs, if you will. This should make medical history. If they resist, we'll force-feed them.'

Revson was about to make the obvious point that they could force-feed him equally well but immediately changed his mind. Cartland had not yet had the opportunity to inform those in the Presidential coach as to how the infected trays could be identified: O'Hare apart, he was the only one who could. Revson turned his palms upwards. 'God knows what you're after but I trust the two doctors here. If they say there are so many uncontaminated trays, then I believe them. So you can have your plebeian guinea-pig.'

Branson looked at him closely. 'Why have you changed your mind?'

Revson said conversationally: 'You know, Branson, you're endlessly over-suspicious. From the expression of your lieutenant, Van Effen there, I would say that he agrees with me.' No harm could come, Revson thought, from sowing the odd seed of dissention. 'Some people might even interpret it as a sign of weakness, of uncertainty. I'm agreeing because I don't care so much for you. A chink in everybody's armour. I'm beginning to believe that your belief in your own infallibility may rest on rather shaky ground. Besides, plebs are expendable: Presidents and kings are not.'

Branson smiled his confident smile and turned to Tony. 'Lay out ten of the uncontaminated plates on the counter.' Tony did so. 'Now, Revson, which one would you care to sample?'

'You're slipping, Branson. You've still the lingering suspicion that I might be able to identify the poisoned trays. Suppose you choose for me?' Branson nodded and pointed at one of the trays. Revson moved forward, lifted the indicated tray and sniffed it slowly and cautiously. The surreptitious movements of his finger-tips found no traces of tiny indentations on the underside of the plastic lugs. This tray was clean. He took a spoon, dug into the centre of what looked like a browned-over cottage pie, and sampled the meat. He grimaced, chewed, swallowed, then repeated the process. He laid down the tray in disgust.

Branson said: 'Not to your liking?'

'If I were in a restaurant I'd send this back to the kitchen. Better, I'd take it there and empty it over the chef's head — not that the person who made this could ever be called a chef.'

'Contaminated, you'd think?'

'No. Just plain bloody lousy.'

'Perhaps you'd care to sample another one?'

'No, I would not. Besides, you said, just one sample.'

Branson said persuasively: 'Come on. Be co-operative.'