Free The Golden Gate by Alistair MacLean

appeared to be beyond comment 'I want the Secretary of State.'

'He's on his way.'

'A mind-reader, no less! From where?"

'Los Angeles.'

'How very convenient How come he was there?'

'An IMF meeting.'

'IMF? Then that means -'

Branson replaced the receiver. 'Well, well, well. Little Peter Branson vis-a-vis, the Secretary of the Treasury. What a tete-a-tete this should be. I thought the day would never come."

'Yes,' Hendrix said wearily. "The Secretary of fee Treasury was there. He's flying up with 'him.'

FOUR

Paid Revson surfaced slowly, almost reluctantly, to a state of consciousness. His eyelids felt leaden, his head fuzzy and he thought that he had gone slightly deaf. Otherwise he felt no after-effects from having been gassed-he knew 'he must have been gassed but everything had happened so quickly after the explosion under the driver's feet that he had no clear recollection of what 'had happened. As his eyesight cleared he looked around him. By his side a girl with a mop of blonde hair was huddled forward against the back of the seat before her, her neck twisted at an uncomfortable angle. Some people, he saw, were lying in the aisle, apparently asleep. A score of others were still in their seats, all resting at the moat uncomfortable angles: some of them, like himself, were just beginning to stir. He peered through the coach window, blinked unbelievingly, then stared again. As a born and bred San Franciscan it took him nothing flat to realize that their coach was baked almost squarely in the middle of the Golden Gate Bridge. It was a circumstance, he felt, which called for some explanation.

He turned his immediate 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 cine camera which, shoulder-slung, accompanied her everywhere. He 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 men, 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 & 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.