The Golden Gate

The seven hostages were ushered in first. The President and the King sat in the two front seats on the left, the Prince and Cartland on the right. Behind them, the Mayor, Muir and the oil sheik took up position. Giscard and Chrysler took up separate positions in the third row. Each had a gun in his hand.

The ambulance was approaching the south tower when O'Hare tapped on the driver's window. The window slid back. O'Hare said: Turn back to the middle of the bridge.'

'Turn back! Jesus, Doc, he's about to blow up the damn bridge.'

'There's going to be some sort of an accident but not the kind you think. Turn back.'

Johnson was the last to enter the helicopter. When he was seated Branson said: 'Right. Lift off.'

There came the usual ear-numbing clattering roar, a roar which rapidly developed into a screaming sound, the sound of an engine running far above its rated revolutions, but even so not loud enough to drown a fearsomely clattering sound outside. Johnson leaned forward and all the noise suddenly ceased.

Branson said: 'What's wrong? What happened?'

Johnson stared ahead, then said quietly: 'I'm afraid you were right about the laser beam, Mr Branson. The rotor's just fallen into the Golden Gate.'

Branson reacted very quickly. He lifted a phone and pressed a button. 'Bradley?'

'Mr Branson?'

'We've had some trouble. Come back to the bridge and pick us up.'

'I'm afraid I can't do that. I've had some trouble myself — a couple of Phantom jets riding herd on me. I'm to land at the International Airport. I'm told there will be a welcoming committee.'

Revson was silently on his feet, white pen in hand. He pressed the button twice and, almost in unison, both men slumped forward then, quite unexpectedly and to Revson's shocked dismay, toppled far from silently into the aisle, their guns clattering on the metallic floor.

Branson twisted round and there was a pistol in his hand: Revson was too far away for his tipped needles to carry. Branson took careful aim, squeezed slowly and steadily, then cried out in pain as the President's cane slashed across his cheek. Revson threw himself to the floor of the aisle, his right hand clamping on the butt of Giscard's gun. By the time Branson had wrenched away the President's cane and swung round again, Revson was ready. All he could see of Branson was his head: but he was ready.

They stood in a group, isolated but not twenty yards from the ambulance, the President, the Vice-President, the seven decision-makers and Revson. Revson had a firm grip on April Wednesday's arm. They stood and watched in silence as the shrouded stretcher was lowered from the helicopter and carried through the dozens of armed police and soldiers to the waiting ambulance. Nobody had anything to say: there was nothing to say.

The President said: 'Our royal friends?'

Richards said: 'Can't wait to get to San Rafael tomorrow. They're more than philosophic about the entire episode. They're downright pleased. Not only has it all given America a great big black eye but it will make them national heroes at home.'

The President said: 'We'd better go talk to them.'

He and Richards made to turn away when Revson said: 'Thank you, sir.'

The President looked at him in incredulity. 'Me? You thank me? I've already thanked you a hundred times.'

'Yes, sir. As a rule I don't like owing favours but I rather care for having my life saved.'

The President smiled and, along with Richards, turned and walked away.

Hagenbach said to Revson: 'Well, let's go to the office and have your full report.'

'Ah, that. What's the penalty for disobeying an order by the head of the FBI?'

'You get fired.'

'Pity. I quite liked my job. My proposal is that I shower, shave, change, take Miss Wednesday for lunch and then file my report in the afternoon. I guess you owe me at least that'

Hagenbach pondered, then nodded,

'I guess I do.'

Two thousand miles away, among the higher echelons in the FBI headquarters, someone just came into a minor sweepstake fortune.

Hagenbach smiled.