The Golden Gate

'Who?'

'Don't you recognize your own deputy director when you see him?'

'Jesus!' The FBI man's miraculous return to the top step could have been attributed to nothing other than sheer levitation.

'Are you not,' the policeman asked innocently, 'going to move him on?'

The plain-clothes man scowled then smiled. 'From now on, I think I'll leave those menial tasks to the uniformed branch.'

A bell-boy of great age appeared on the top step, hesitated, then went down to the street as Jensen gave him an encouraging wave. As he approached his wizened face was further creased in worry. He said: 'Aren't you taking a helluva chance, sir? FBI man up there.'

'No chance.' Jensen was unperturbed. He's California FBI I'm Washington. Chalk and cheese. I doubt if he'd know the Director-General if he came and sat on his lap. What's the word, Willie?'

'They're all having breakfast in their rooms. No sleepers-in, all on schedule.'

'Let me know every ten minutes.'

'Yes, sir. Gee, Mr Jensen, arent you taking one godawful chance? The place is swarming with fuzz and not only just inside. Those windows across there — there's a rifle behind a dozen of them and a man behind each rifle.'

'I know, Willie. I'm the man in the eye of the storm. Dead safe.'

'If you're caught — '

'I won't be. Even if I were, you're clear.'

'Clear! Everybody sees me talking to you — '

'Why? Because I'm FBI. I told you that. You've no reason to doubt it. There are six men on the top of the steps who believe the same thing. Anyway, Willie, you can always plead the Fifth Amendment.'

Willie departed. In full view of the six watchers Jensen pulled out his walkie-talkie. 'PI?'

'Yes?' Branson was as calm as ever.

'On schedule.'

'Fine. PI's moving now. Every ten minutes. Right?'

'Of course. How's my twin?'

Branson looked towards the rear of the coach. The bound and gagged man between the aisles bore an uncanny resemblance to Jensen.

'He'll live.'

TWO

Van Effen eased the big coach on to the 280 and headed her north-east up the Southern Freeway. Van Effen was a short, stocky man, with close-cropped blond hair and a head that was almost a perfect cube. His ears were so close to his head that they appeared to have been pasted there, his nose had clearly been at odds with some heavy object in the past, he tended to wear a vacuous smile as if he'd decided it was the safest expression to cope with the numerous uncertain things that were going on in the uncertain world around him and the dreamy light blue eyes, which would never be accused of being possessed of any powers of penetration, served only to reinforce the overall impression of one overwhelmed by the insoluble complexities of life. Van Effen was a very very intelligent person whose knife-like intelligence could cope with an extremely wide variety of the world's problems and, although they had known each other for only two years, he had indisputably become Peter Branson's indispensable lieutenant.

Both men sat together in the front of the coach, both, for the nonce, dressed in long white coats which lent them, as drivers, a very professional appearance indeed: the State Department frowned on Presidential motorcade drivers who opted for lumber jackets or rolled up sleeves. Branson himself generally drove and was good at it but, apart from the fact that he was not a San Franciscan and Van Effen had been born there he wished that morning to concentrate his exclusive attention on his side of the coach's fascia which looked like a cross between the miniaturized flight instrumentation of a Boeing and those of a Hammond organ. As a communications system it could not compare to those aboard the Presidential coach, but everything was there that Branson wanted. Moreover, it had one or two refinements that the Presidential coach lacked. The President would not have considered them refinements.

Branson turned to the man in the seat behind him. Yonnie, a dark, swarthy and incredibly hirsute person who, on the rare occasions he could be persuaded to remove his shirt and approach a shower, looked more like a bear than a human being, had about him the general appearance — it was impossible to particularize — of an ex-pugilist who had taken not one but several hundred punches too many. Unlike many of Branson's associates Yonnie, who had been with Branson since he'd embarked upon his particular mode of life all of thirteen years ago, could not be classed among the intellectually gifted, but his patience, invariable good humour and total loyalty to Branson were beyond dispute.

Branson said: 'Got the plates, Yonnie?'

'The plates?' Yonnie wrinkled the negligible clearance between hairline and eyebrows, his customary indication of immense concentration, then smiled happily. 'Yeah, yeah, I got them.' He reached under his seat and brought up a pair of spring-clipped number plates. Branson's coach was, externally, exactly the same as the three in the Presidential motorcade except for the fact that those were Washington DC plates while his were Californian. The plates that Yonnie held in his hand were Washington DC and, even better, exactly duplicated the numbers of one of the three waiting coaches in the garage.

Branson said: 'Don't forget. When I jump out the front door you jump out the back. And fix the back one first.'

'Leave it to me. Chief.' Yonnie exuded confidence.

A buzzer on the fascia rang briefly. Branson made a switch. It was Jensen, the Nob Hill stake-out.

'PI?'

'Yes?'

'On schedule. Forty minutes.'

'Thanks.'

Branson closed the switch and flipped another.

'P4?'

'P4.'

'Move in.'

Giscard started up the stolen police car and moved up the Panoramic Highway followed by the second car. They didn't drive sufficiently quickly to attract attention but they didn't linger either and had reached the Mount Tamalpais radar stations in a matter of minutes. Those stations dominated the mountainous countryside for miles around and looked like nothing in the world as much as a couple of gigantic white golf balls. Giscard and his men had the entire lay-out committed to heart and memory and no trouble was envisaged.

Giscard said:' There'll be no need to lean. We're cops, aren't we? The guardians of the people. You don't attack your guardians. No shooting, the boss says.'

One of them said: 'What if I have to shoot?'

'You'll lose half your cut'

'No shooting.'

Branson flipped another switch.

'P3?' P3 was the code of the two men who had recently booby-trapped one of the motorcade buses.

'P3.'

'Anything?'

'Two drivers, is all'

'Guards?'

'Okay. No suspicions.'

'Wait.'