The Golden Gate. Alistair MacLean

attention to the girl at his side. She was worth anyone’s attention. She was possessed of a slight figure, hardly strong enough, one would have thought, to lug around the heavy ciné-camera which, shoulder-slung, accompanied her everywhere. The blonde hair was so bleached – naturally, Revson thought-that it almost qualified for the description of platinum, and she was quite beautiful with a very pale skin that the sun never appeared to touch. She was, she had given him to understand, a fashion photographer for one of the major TV companies and as the official party of this Presidential trip was exclusively male it was rather difficult to understand just why she was there. It didn’t make sense, but then, again, neither did most Presidential trips. Her name was equally preposterous. April Wednesday, she called herself, and her press card bore this out. Revson could only assume that she had been born of singularly unimaginative parents who, as christening day approached, had seized upon the birth date as the easy way out.

      He put his hands on her shoulders and gently pulled her upright. The blonde head lolled against his shoulder. He had no idea how to revive people who had suffered from some form of gas poisoning. Should he shake her, slap her cheek gently or just let her sleep it off? He was spared the resolution of this problem when she stirred, shivered for some reason or other – although she was clad in only a thin and markedly abbreviated green silk dress, the temperature in the bus must have been in the eighties – then opened her eyes and gazed unblinkingly at Revson’s.

      In a face not noticeably lacking other commendable features, those eyes were by far the most remarkable feature. They were huge, clear, of a startling deep sea-green and were possessed of an odd quality of purity and innocence. Revson wondered idly just how devious she was: any young woman who toted a camera for a TV company must have lost her innocence quite some time ago, assuming she was possessed of any in the first place.

      She said, not taking her eyes from his: ‘What happened?’

      ‘At a guess, some joker must have let off a gas bomb. The instant effect variety. How do you feel?’

      ‘Punch-drunk. Hung over. You know what I mean?’ He nodded. ‘Why would anyone want to do a thing like that?’

      ‘Why a lot of things.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Why, after an hour and ten minutes, are we still stranded in the middle of the Golden Gate Bridge?’

      ‘What!’

      ‘Look around you.’

      She looked around her, slowly acknowledging the reality of the surroundings. Suddenly she stiffened and caught hold of the hand that was still around her shoulders.

      ‘Those two men across the aisle.’ Her voice had dropped to a whisper. ‘They’re wearing handcuffs.’

      Revson bent forward and looked. The two large and still sleeping men were undoubtedly wearing handcuffs.

      ‘Why?’ Again the whisper.

      ‘How should I know why? I’ve just come to myself.’

      ‘Well, then, why aren’t we wearing them?’

      ‘How should – we are among the blessed.’ He looked over his shoulder and saw the Presidential coach parked just behind them. ‘Excuse me. As a good journalist I think the odd probing question is in order.’

      ‘I’m coming with you.’

      ‘Sure.’ She stepped into the aisle and he followed. Instead of moving directly after her he lifted the coat lapel of the nearest of the sleeping men. An empty shoulder holster was much in evidence. He followed the girl. At the front door he noticed that the driver, still sound asleep, was propped against the right-hand front door, quite some distance from his seat: obviously, he hadn’t made it there under his own steam.

      He joined the girl on the bridge. A very large and extremely ugly policeman – Yonnie had the kind of face that would have given any force a bad name – was pointing a machine-pistol at them. That a policeman should be pointing a gun at them was peculiar enough. That a policeman should be armed with a machine-gun was even more peculiar. Most peculiar of all, however, was the spectacle of six scowling and clearly unhappy policemen standing in a line, each attached to the other by a pair of handcuffs.