After they were taped Johnson said: 'And, of course, we don't want to have you jumping and wriggling around and making banging noises on the floor or walls. I'm afraid we can't 'have any bangs in the next couple of hours or so. Sorry.' He stooped, retrieved what looked like an aerosol can from the valise, and squirted it briefly in the faces of both bound men. They left, hanging up the no disturb notice outside. Johnson double-locked the door, produced his pliers, leaned on the key and snapped it leaving the head jammed in the lock.
Downstairs, they approached the clerk at reception, a cheerful youngster who gave a cheerful good morning.
Johnson said: 'You weren't on last night?'
'No, sir. The management wouldn't believe it but even a desk clerk requires a little sleep now and again.' He looked at them with interest. 'No offence, but aren't you the two gentlemen who're going to ride herd on the President this morning?'
Johnson smiled. 'I'm not sure if the President would care to have you put it quite that way, but yes. It's no secret. We phoned for an alarm call last night. Ashbridge and Martinez. Was it recorded?'
'Yes, sir.' The clerk put his pen through the names.
'Now, we've left one or two - ah - naval things in our room that we really shouldn't have done. Will you make certain that no one goes near our room until we return? Three hours, about.'
'You can depend on me, sir.' The clerk made a note. The no disturb sign - '
'We've already done that'
They left and stopped at the first pay telephone on the street. Johnson went inside with the valise, fished inside and brought out a walkie-talkie. He was immediately through to Branson, waiting patiently in the dilapidated garage north of Daly City. He said: 'PI?'
'Yes?'
'Okay.'
'Good. Get down there.'
The sun was coming up as the six men filed out of their cabin in the hills above Sausalito in Marin County, north across the bay from San Francisco. They made up a nondescript and not particularly attractive group, four of them in overalls and two in faded raincoats that might have been lifted from some unsuspecting scarecrow. They all piled into a rather battered Chevrolet station wagon and headed down to the town. Before them stretched a stunning vista. To the south the Golden Gate and the staggering - if rather Manhattanized - skyline of San Francisco. To the south-east, lent a slightly spurious glamour by the early rays of the sun, Alcatraz Island, of unhappy 'history, lay to the north of the Fisherman's Wharf, in line of sight of Treasure Island, the Bay Bridge and Oakland on the far side of the bay. To the east lay Angel Island, the largest in the bay, while to the northeast lay Belvedere Island, Tiburon and, beyond that again, the wide reaches of San Pablo Bay vanishing into nothingness. There can be few more beautiful and spectacular vistas in the world - if such there so be - than that from Sausalito. On the basis that not to be moved by it would require a heart of stone, the six men hi the station wagon had between them, it was clear, the makings of a fair-sized quarry.
They reached the main street, travelled along past the immaculate rows of sailing craft and the far from immaculate hodge-podge of boathouses, until eventually the driver pulled off into a side-street, parked and stopped the engine. He and the man beside him got out and divested themselves of their coats, revealing themselves as clad in the uniforms of California State Patrolmen. The driver, a sergeant by the name of Giscard, was at least six feet three in height, burly, red faced, tight mouthed and, even to the cold, insolent eyes, was the conceptualized epitome of the dyed-in-the-wool tough cop. Policemen, admittedly, were part and parcel of Giscard's life but his frequent acquaintanceships with them he had kept to as limited a nature as possible on the numerous occasions when, 'hitherto without success, they had attempted to put him behind bars. The other, Parker, was tall, lean and of a nasty appearance and the best that could be said for him was that he might 'have passed for a cop if one were myopic or he were viewed at a considerable distance: his habitually wary bitter expression was probably attributable to the fact that he had experienced considerably less success than the sergeant in evading the long arm of the law.
They turned a corner and entered a local police precinct station. Two policemen were behind the counter, one very young, the other old enough to be his father. They looked rather tired and unenthusiastic as was natural for two men who were looking forward to some sleep, but they were polite, courteous.
'Good morning, good morning.' Giscard could be very brisk indeed as only befitted a man who had shown a clean pair of heels to half the police forces on the Coast 'Sergeant Giscard. Patrolman Parker.' He pulled from his pocket a paper with a long list of names. 'You must be Mahoney and Nimitz?'
'Indeed we are.' Mahoney, a guileless youth, would have found some difficulty in concealing his Hibernian ancestry. 'And how do you know?'
'Because I can read.' The niceties of salon conversation were not for Giscard. 'From this T take it that your station boss didn't advise you we were coming. Well, it's this damned motorcade this morning and from what I've found out this morning maybe I'm not wasting all that much of my time in making this final check-up. You'd be surprised at the number of policemen in this state who are either illiterate or stone deaf.'
Nimitz was polite. 'If we were to know what we have done wrong, Sergeant -'
'You haven't done anything wrong.' He consulted his sheet. 'Just four things. When do the day shift come on? How many? Where are the patrol cars? And the cells.'
That's all?'
'AIL Two minutes. And hurry. I've got to check every place from here across the bridge to Richmond.'
'Eight o'clock. Eight men-twice the usual. The cars-'
'Let me see them.'
Nimitz lifted a key from a board and led the two men round the corner of the block. He opened double doors. The two police cars, as was only proper on this auspicious occasion when a President, a King and a Prince were travelling through their precinct, had the impossible glitter of showroom models.
'Ignition keys?'
'In the ignition.'
Back 'in the station Giscard nodded to the entrance door. 'Keys?'
'I beg your pardon.'
Giscard was heavily patient. 'I know it's normally never locked. But you might all have to leave in a tearing hurry this morning. You want to leave the shop unattended?'
'I see.' Nimitz indicated the keys on the board.
'The cells.'
Nimitz led the way, taking keys with him. They were only a few feet away but round a corner out of sight of the more sensitive citizens who had reluctant occasion to enter the front office. Nimitz entered and Giscard unholstered his pistol and stuck it against his back. 'A dead policeman,' Giscard observed, 'is no good to anyone.' Parker joined them in ten seconds pushing a furious and flabbergasted Mahoney in front of him.
Both captives were gagged and left sitting on the floor, backs to the bars, arms thrust uncomfortably through them and wrists 'handcuffed. From the baleful expressions on their faces it was as well that they were so securely gagged. Giscard put the keys in his pocket, picked up two other sets from the board, ushered Parker out before him, locked the entrance door, pocketed that key too then went round and opened up the garage. He and Parker backed the cars out and while Giscard locked the doors-and, inevitably, pocketed the keys -Parker went to fetch die other four men from the station wagon. When they appeared they were not, surprisingly, any longer overalled working men but gleaming advertisements for the California State Patrol.
They drove north on the US 101, took the cut-off west to State I, passed by Muir Woods and its pre-Christian stands of two hundred and fifty feet high redwoods and finally stopped in the Mount Tamalpais State Park. Giscard brought out the walkie-talkie that went so well with his uniform and said: 'PI?'
Branson was still patiently waiting in
'Okay.'
'Good. Stay.'
The forecourt and street outside the luxurious caravanserai atop Nob Hill were, understandably at that hour of the morning, practically deserted. There were, in fact, only seven people in sight. Six of those stood on (tie steps of the hotel which was that night housing more dollars on the hoof than it ever had remotely had in its long and illustrious career. The seventh of those, a tall, handsome man, aquiline-faced, youthful-looking despite his grey hair and clad in immaculate hounds-tooth, was pacing slowly up and down on the roadway. From the looks exchanged among the six men - two doorkeepers, two policemen and two men in plain clothes whose coats fitted awkwardly under their left armpits-his presence appeared to be giving rise to an increasing degree of vexation. Finally, after a low-murmured conversation among them one of the uniformed men came down the steps and approached him.
He said: 'Morning, sir. No offence, sk, but do you mind moving on. We have a job to do.'
'How do you know I have not?'
'Sir. Please. You must understand we have some very important people in there.'
'Don't I know it. Don't I just know it." The man sighed, reached inside 'his coat, produced and opened a wallet. The policeman looked at it, stiffened, unmistakably swallowed and deepened his complexion by two shades.
I'm very sorry, sir. Mr Jensen, sir.'
Tin sorry, too. Sorry for all of us. They can keep their damned oil as far as I'm concerned. Dear lord, what a circus.' He talked until the officer relaxed, then carried on his to-and-fro strolling. The policeman returned to the steps.
One of the plain-clothes men looked at him without a great deal of enthusiasm. He said: 'A great crowd mover-on you are.'
'Like to try?'
'If I must give you a demonstration,' he said wearily. He walked down three steps, paused, looked back up. 'He flashed a card at you, didn't he?'
'Sort of.' The policeman was enjoying himself.
'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. Tie's California FBI. I'm Washington. Chalk and cheese. I doubt if he'd know the Director-General if ne 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 tea minutes.'
'Yes, sir. Gee, Mr Jensen, aren't 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 hi 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.