Bartlett's dimmed light and remained where he was. He had the aerosol can in his hand but at the last moment changed his mind and brought out the pen instead. A person recovering from the effects of the knock-out needles invariably awoke none the worse for his experience and usually assumed that he had just dropped off to sleep: but as Revson could tell from his own experience of that morning, a person awakening from a gas knock-out felt nauseated and thoroughly hungover and under no illusion at all that he had been anaesthetized in one way or another. It didn't seem a good idea to have Johnson report this to Branson.
Revson pressed the button and jumped down at the same instant to catch Johnson before he keeled over on to the roadway, less for humanitarian reasons than to prevent the metallic sound of the carbine striking the roadway. He removed the needle from Johnson's forehead, hauled him as silently as possible inside the coach and jammed him in a very uncomfortable position in front of the driver's seat. Johnson was in no position to feel any discomfort and Revson didn't want to risk the possibility of any passenger awakening — highly unlikely though it seemed — and finding an unconscious stranger lying in the aisle. April Wednesday had gone back to her lip- licking.
Revson emerged by the nearside front door. In the bright lights of the bridge he might almost as well have stepped out into daylight. He had no doubt that his activities were being carefully watched from both north and south shores through powerful night glasses, but that was of no concern. What mattered was that he was effectively shielded from the other two coaches, though he seriously doubted whether there was anyone keeping watch in either or, indeed, whether anybody at all was awake. In point of fact both Van Effen and Chrysler were talking quietly to each other in the rear coach, but it was impossible for them to see Revson.
Revson crossed the crash barrier, pulled himself to the rail and peered down. Below, all was total blackness. The submarine could or could not have been there: he just had to hope it was.
He descended and pulled the oil-skin container from under the coach. Inside was the fishing line and a weighted lab. sample canister — weighted, because the wind was still gusting and he had to be sure that the line descended reasonably vertically.
He cut off hooks and lures at the end of the fishing line and attached the canister to the line. He eased the canister over the side and started unwinding the line from its square wooden framework. After about thirty seconds of this he stopped, held the line delicately between forefinger and thumb and waited for some sort of acknowledging tug. There was none. He lowered it another ten feet Still no answering tug. Perhaps the submarine wasn't there, perhaps the captain was finding it impossible to maintain position because of the tides and strong currents. But then Admiral Newson had said that he knew just the very man who could do just that and it was unlikely that a man of Newson's reputation would make any mistake. Revson lowered the line another ten feet then sighed aloud with relief when he felt two sharp tugs on the line.
Twenty seconds later there came another two sharp tugs. Revson overhanded the line in with all possible speed. When he estimated there were only a few feet of line left he leaned far out and pulled in at a much slower speed. He had no wish to bang the radio, however gently, against the steelwork of the bridge. Finally, he had it in his hand, a waterproof bag with the line securely fixed round its neck. He descended to the side of the bus to examine his catch. He cut the securing line with his knife and peered inside. There it was — a tiny gleaming transistorized transceiver.
'Strange hour to go fishing, Revson,' Van Effen said behind him. For a second, no more, Revson remained immobilized. He was holding the bag at chest level and his hand slid stealthily into his left inner pocket. 'I'd like to see just what kind of fish one catches at night in the Golden Gate. Turn round, Revson, slow and easy. I'm a nervous character and you know what that can do to trigger fingers.'
Revson turned round, slow and easy, in the manner of a man who knows all about nervous trigger fingers. He already had the aerosol inside the bag. He said resignedly: 'Well, I suppose it was too good to last.'
'So Branson was right all along.' Van Effen, moon-shaped face as expressionless as ever, was between five and six feet away. He had his machine-pistol in both hands, held loosely, but with his forefinger indubitably on the trigger. Revson would have been a dead man before he'd covered half the distance between them. But Van Effen was clearly expecting no resistance. 'Let's see what you have there. Slow and easy, now. Slow and easy.'
Slowly, easily, Revson withdrew the aerosol. It was so small that it was almost hidden in his hand. He knew that the can was pressurized to three times the normal and that its effective range was ten feet. Or so O'Hare had told him and Revson had a great deal of faith in O'Hare.
Van Effen shifted the gun under his right arm and pointed the barrel straight at Revson. 'Let me see that'
'Slow and easy?'
'Slow and easy.'
Revson stretched his arm out unhurriedly. Van Efien's face was no more than three feet away when he pressed the button. He dropped the aerosol and snatched Van Effen's machine-pistol: again he wished to obviate any metallic sounds. He looked down at the crumpled figure at his feet. He had come to form a certain regard for Van Effen, both as a man and a professional: but regrets were not in Revson's line of business. He retrieved the aerosol, took the transceiver and pressed a switch.
'Revson here.'
'Hagenbach.' Revson lowered the volume.
'This is a closed VHP line? No possibility of interception?'
'None.'
'Thank you for the radio. I have a problem here. One of disposal. Van Effen caught me but I caught him. Gas. He recognized me, of course, and can't remain on the bridge. I could throw him into the Golden Gate but I don't want to. He's done nothing to deserve anything like that. He might even turn State evidence. May I speak to the submarine captain, please.'
A new voice came through. 'Captain here. Commander Pearson.'
'My congratulations, Captain, and thank you for the radio. You heard what I said to Mr Hagenbach.'
'Yes.'
'Would you be prepared to accept another passenger even although he is unconscious?'
'We aim to please.'
'Would you have a line or rope aboard easy enough for me to haul up but strong enough to take a man's weight? I'd need about five hundred feet.'
'Goodness, no. Wait till I check.' There was a brief silence, then Pearson's voice came through again. 'We have three thirty-fathom coils. Joined together that should be more than enough.'
'Splendid. I'll send my cord down again. Moment, please. I'll have to get a weight for it first.' He strap-hung the radio round his neck to leave his hands free and his eye lighted almost immediately on Van Effen's machine- pistol. He secured the cord to the trigger guard and immediately began to lower away. He spoke into the radio.
'The line's on the way down. It's weighted with Van Effen's machine-pistol and the cord is tied to the trigger-guard. I mean, I wouldn't like anyone to shoot themselves by accident.'
'The Navy is accustomed to the handling of offensive weapons, Mr Revson.'
'No offense, Captain. When I get the rope up I'll pass it over a rail and secure it to Van Effen. Double bowline round the thighs, a turn round his waist and his hands tied behind his back so that the rope can't slip over his shoulders.'
'We have openings in the Service for resourceful young men like you.'
'I'm afraid the age qualification cut-off lies far behind me. When I have him ready can you have two or three of your men lower him down over the rail? Damned if I'm going to try myself. As I said, it's my age.'
'You wouldn't believe how modernized today's Navy is. We'll use a winch.'
Revson said apologetically: 'I'm just a land-lubber.'
'We have your cord and gun and nobody's shot down anybody.' There was a brief pause. 'Haul away.'
Revson brought in the rope. It looked hardly thicker than a clothes-line, but Revson didn't doubt that Pearson knew what he was about. He trussed Van Effen in the manner he'd described then dragged him to the edge. He said into the radio: 'Ready to take the strain?'
'Ready.'
Revson eased him over the edge. For a moment Van Effen dangled there, then disappeared downwards into
