The Golden Gate. Alistair MacLean

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 hands 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 stakeout.

      ‘P1?’

      ‘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 layout 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.’

      Branson flipped a switch as another buzzer rang.

      ‘P5,’ the speaker said. ‘On schedule. Thirty minutes.’

      ‘Thank you.’

      Branson made another switch.

      ‘P2?’ The code for Johnson and Bradley.

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘You can go now.’

      ‘We go now.’ The voice was Johnson’s. He and Bradley, immaculate in their naval air uniforms, were sauntering casually along in the direction of the US Naval Air Station Alameda. Both men were carrying smooth shiny flight bags into which they had transferred the contents of the valise. As they approached the entrance they increased their pace. By the time they reached the two guards at the entrance they were giving the impression of two men who were in a considerable hurry. They showed their cards to one of the guards.

      ‘Lieutenant Ashbridge, Lieutenant Martinez. Of course. You’re very late, sir.’

      ‘I know. We’ll go straight to the choppers.’

      ‘I’m afraid you can’t do that, sir. Commander Eysenck wants you to report to his office at once.’ The sailor lowered his voice confidentially. ‘The Commander doesn’t sound very happy to me, sir.’

      ‘Damn!’ Johnson said, and meant it. ‘Where’s his office?’

      ‘Second door on the left, sir.’

      Johnson and Bradley hurried there, knocked and entered. A young petty officer seated behind his desk pursed his lips and nodded silently towards the door to his right. His demeanour indicated that he had no desire whatsoever to participate in the painful scene that was about to follow. Johnson knocked and entered, head down and apparently searching for something in his flight bag. The precaution was needless. In the well-known demoralization ploy of senior officers deepening their intimidation of apprehensive junior officers, Eysenck kept on making notes on a pad before him. Bradley closed the door. Johnson placed the flight bag on the edge of the desk. His right hand was concealed behind it. So was the aerosol gas can.

      ‘So kind of you to turn up.’ Eysenck spoke in a flat drawling accent: Annapolis had clearly failed to have any effect on his Boston upbringing. ‘You had your strict orders.’ He raised his head in what would normally have been a slow and effective gesture. ‘Your explanations -’ He broke off, eyes widening, but still not suspecting anything untoward. ‘You’re not Ashbridge and Martinez.’

      ‘No, we’re not, are we?’

      It was clear that Eysenck had become suddenly aware that there was something very very far untoward. His hand stretched out for a desk button but Johnson already had his thumb on his. Eysenck slumped forward against his desk. Johnson nodded to Bradley who opened the door to the outer office and as he closed it behind him it could be seen that his hand was fumbling in the depths of his bag. Johnson moved behind the desk, studied the buttons below the phone, pressed one as he lifted the phone.

      ‘Tower?’

      ‘Sir?’

      ‘Immediate clearance Lieutenants Ashbridge and Martinez.’ It was a very creditable imitation of Eysenck’s Boston accent. Branson again called P3, the two watchers by the garage.

      ‘And now?’

      ‘Filling up.’

      The three buses inside the garage were indeed filling up. Two of them, indeed, had their complements of passengers and were ready to go. The coach that had been booby-trapped was given over mainly to newspapermen, wire service men and cameramen, among them four women, three of indeterminate age, the other young. On a platform