Branson and Jensen remained where they were: the bound man on the floor, whose identity Jensen had taken over, regarded them all severally with a baleful expression but, beyond that, the options open to him were rather limited.
The two men who had run back towards the crashed police car were called Kowalski and Peters. They didn't look like criminals, unless a couple of prosperous young commuters from the stockbroker belt could be called criminals. Yonnie apart, none of Branson's associates bore any resemblance whatever to the popular concept of those who habitually stepped outside the law. Both men, in fact, had killed a number of times, but then only legally — as far as the term 'legal' could be interpreted- as members of a highly specialized Marine commando unit in Vietnam. Disillusioned with civilian life they'd found their next best panacea with Branson, who had a splendid eye for the recruitment of such men. They had not killed since. Branson approved of violence if and when necessary: killing was not permitted except as a last resort. In his thirteen years of upsetting law officers in the United States, Canada and Mexico, Branson had not yet had to have recourse to the last resort. Whether this was due to moral scruples or not was unclear: what was clear was that Branson regarded it as bad business. The degree of intensity of police efforts to catch robbers as opposed to murderers differed quite appreciably.
The windows of both front doors of the car were wound down — obviously they had been so at the moment of the crash. The four uniformed men seated inside had not been seriously injured but clearly had been badly shaken and had suffered minor damage, the worst of which appeared to be a broken nose sustained by the man in the front seat next to the driver. For the most part they were just dazed, too dazed, in any effect to offer any resistance to the removal of their weapons. Working in smooth unison Kowalski and Peters wound up the front windows. Peters closed his door while Kowalski threw in a gas bomb and closed his in turn.
None of any of this action had been witnessed by the returning police car's crew or the motor-cycle outriders. The policemen left their cars and machines and were cautiously approaching the lead coach when Yonnie and Van Effen with the five others came running up. All had guns of one kind or another in their hands.
'Quickly!' Van Effen shouted. 'Take cover! There are a couple of crazy bastards back in that coach there, one with a bazooka, the other with a Schmeisser. Get behind the bus!'
Given time to consider the matter the policemen might have queried Van Effen's statements but they weren't given the time and the instinct for immediate if irrational self-preservation remains always paramount. Van Effen checked quickly to see if they were hidden from the view of the Presidential coach. They were. Not that he feared anything from that source, he just wanted to be spared the chore of blasting open the lock of the door that would be surely locked against them if their actions were observed.
He nodded to Yonnie and walked away with another man towards the rear of the bus. Whatever might be said, and had unkindly been said, about Yoanie's cerebral limitations, this was the situation he had been born for, a basically elemental one in which action took precedence over thoughts. Long training had even given the vocabulary appropriate to the occasion. He said: 'Let's kinda put our hands up, huh?'
The six men turned round. Their expressions ran through the gamut of astonishment, anger and then resignation. Resignation was all that was left them. They had, with reason enough, not yet thought it time to produce their own weapons, and when the wise man is confronted at point-blank range with a pair of submachine- pistols he does what he is told and just kinda puts his hands up. Yonnie kept them covered while another man relieved them of their pistols. The remaining two men began to run back towards the rear coach as soon as they saw Van Effen and another climb aboard the Presidential coach.
The reaction of those aboard this coach had, so far, amounted to no more than an amalgam of perplexity and annoyance, and even that was slight enough. One or two were making the customary laborious effort to rise when Van Effen mounted the steps.
'Please relax, gentlemen,' he said. 'Just a slight delay.' Such is the authority of even a white coat in a street accident a crowd will make way for a man in a butcher's apron- that everybody subsided. Van Effen produced an unpleasant-looking weapon, a double-barrelled 12-bore shotgun with most of the barrel and stock removed to make for easier transport, if not accuracy. 'I am afraid this is what you might call a hold-up or hi-jack or kidnap. I don't suppose it matters very much what you call it. Just please remain where you are.'
'Good God in heaven!' The President stared at Van Effen's moonface as if he were a creature from outer space. His eyes, as if drawn magnetically, went to the King and the Prince, then he returned his incredulous, outraged gaze to Van Effen. 'Are you insane? Don't you know whom I am? Don't you know you're pointing a gun at the President of the United States?'
'I know. You can't help being what you are any more than I can help being what I am. As for pointing guns at Presidents, it's a long if not very honourable tradition in our country. Please do not give any trouble.' Van Effen looked directly at General Cartland — he'd had him under indirect observation from the moment he had entered the coach.
'General, it is known that you always carry a gun. Please let me have it. Please do not be clever. Your.22 can be nasty enough if it is accurate enough: this whippet will blast a hole the size of your hand through your chest. You are not the man, I know, to confuse courage with suicide.'
Cartland smiled faintly, nodded, produced a small, black, narrow automatic and handed it across.
Van Effen said, 'Thank you. I'm afraid you will have to remain seated for the moment at least. You have only my word for it, but if you offer no violence you will receive none.'
A profound silence descended. The King, eyes closed and hands folded across his chest, appeared to be communing either with himself or with the All-powerful. Suddenly he opened his eyes, looked at the President and said: 'Just how safe are the vaults in Fort Knox?'
'You'd better believe me, Hendrix,' Branson said. He was talking into a hand-held microphone. 'We have the President, the King and the Prince. If you will wait a minute or two I'll have the President himself confirm that to you. Meantime, please don't attempt anything so stupid or rash as to try to approach us. Let me give you a demonstration. I assume you have some patrol cars near the south entrance and that you are in radio contact with them?'
Hendrix didn't look like anyone's conception of a Chief of Police. He looked like a professorial refugee from the campus of the near-by university. He was tall, slender, dark, slightly stooped and invariably immaculately groomed and conservatively dressed. A great number of people temporarily or permanently deprived of their freedom would have freely if blasphemously attested to the fact that he was very very intelligent indeed. There was no more brilliant or brilliantly effective policeman in the country. At that moment, however, that fine intelligence was in temporary abeyance. He felt stunned and had about him the look of a man who has just seen all his nightmares come true.
He said: 'I am.'
'Very well. Wait.'
Branson turned and made a signal to the two men at the rear of the coach. There was a sudden explosive whoosh from the recoil-less missile weapon mounted at the rear. Three seconds later a cloud of dense grey smoke erupted between the pilous of the south tower. Branson spoke into the microphone. 'Well?'
'Some kind of explosion,' Hendrix said. His voice was remarkably steady. 'Lots of smoke, if it is smoke.'
'A nerve gas. Not permanently damaging, but incapacitating. Takes about ten minutes' time before it oxidizes. If we have to use it and a breeze comes up from the north-west, north or north-east-well, it will be your responsibility, you understand.'
'I understand.'
'Conventional gas-masks are useless against it Do you understand that also?'
'I understand.'
'We have a similar weapon covering the northern end of the bridge. You will inform police squads and units of the armed forces of the inadvisability of attempting to move out on to the bridge. You understand that too?'
'Yes.'
'You will have been informed of the presence of two naval helicopters hovering over the bridge?'
'Yes.' The rather hunted look had left Hendrix's face and his mind was clearly back into top gear. 'I find it rather puzzling, I must say.'
'It needn't be. They are in our hands. Have an immediate alarm put through to all local army and naval air commanders. Tell them if any attempt is made to dispatch fighters to shoot down those helicopters they will have very unpleasant effects on the President and his friends. Tell them that we shall know immediately whenever any
