Goodbye California (33 page)

The President was Vincent Hillary, widely regarded as the best character actor Hollywood had ever produced. Even without make-up he had borne a remarkable resemblance to the President. By the time the make-up artist had finished with him in Las Vegas the President himself would have stood in front of a plate of transparent glass and gone on oath that he was looking into a mirror. He had a remarkable capacity for modulating his voice so as to imitate a remarkably wide range of people. Hillary was expendable and was cheerfully prepared to acknowledge the fact.

The Chief of Staff was a certain Colonel Greenshaw, lately retired from the Green Berets. Nobody knew the number of deaths that lay at his door, and he had never cared to enumerate. It was widely said that the only thing he really cared
about was killing people: and he was unquestionably very good at this.

The Defense Secretary was one Harlinson, a man tipped to be one of the choices to succeed Barrow as head of the FBI. He looked almost more like the Defense Secretary than the Defense Secretary did. He was said to be very good at looking after himself.

The Secretary of State was, of all things, a remarkably successful attorney-at-law who had once been an Ivy League professor. Johannsen had nothing in particular to recommend him – he wouldn’t even have known how to load a gun – except the intense patriotism of a first-generation American and his uncanny resemblance to the real Secretary. But his own private make-up men had improved even on that.

The Assistant Treasury Secretary, one Myron Bonn, had also some pretensions towards being a scholar, and uncannily bore out a statement earlier made by Ryder. He was at present in the throes about writing a thesis for his external Ph.D., and remarkably erudite it was, but then the thesis was about prison conditions and the suggested ameliorations thereof upon which he was an undoubted expert: the thesis was being written in a cell in Death Row, where he was awaiting execution. He had three things going for him. Being a criminal does not necessarily make a man less a patriot. His original resemblance, now perfected, to the Assistant Secretary, had been
astonishing. And he was widely regarded by the police as being the most lethal man in the United States, behind bars or outside them. He was a multiple murderer. Oddly, he was an honest man.

Muldoon, the Treasury Secretary, was unquestionably the
pièce de résistance.
Like Hillary – both of whom were to put up performances that night worth platinum Oscars – he was an actor. It had taken the unremitting efforts of no less than three of the best special-effects make-up men in Hollywood – it had taken them six hours – to transfer him into what he was. Ludwig Johnson had suffered in the process and was still suffering, for even a man weighing two hundred pounds to begin with does not care to carry another unnecessary sixty pounds around with him. On the other hand, the make-up men had made that sixty pounds look like one hundred and thirty, and for that he was reasonably grateful.

So, purely by chance and not from necessity, three of them were men of unquestionable action while three would not have said boo to the proverbial goose. Ryder would not have cared if all six were in the latter category. But so the cards had fallen.

The helicopter hedge-hopped its way due east, no doubt to fly under the radar which the pilot may have mistakenly imagined was following him. After a certain distance he turned sharply to the north-west and set his craft down near the town of Gorman. At this point they were transferred to a minibus which stopped just south of Greenfield. Here they were transferred to another helicopter. Throughout Muldoon’s sufferings were heart-wrenching to behold. At eleven o’clock precisely the helicopter set them down in the courtyard of the Adlerheim. Not that any of the visitors was to know that. Their blindfolds were not removed until they were inside the refectory-cum-prayer-hall of the castle.

Morro and Dubois greeted them. There were others in the unofficial welcoming committee, but they hardly counted as all they did was to stand around watchfully with Ingram machine-guns in their hands. They were in civilian clothes. To have
worn their customary robes would have been to wear too much.

Morro was unexpectedly deferential. ‘You are welcome, Mr President.’

‘Renegade!’

‘Come, come.’ Morro smiled. ‘We have met together to negotiate, not recriminate. And as a non-American how can I be a renegade?’

‘Worse! A man who is capable of doing today what you did to Los Angeles is capable of anything. Capable, perhaps, of kidnapping the President of the United States and holding him to ransom?’ Hillary laughed contemptuously and it was more than possible that he was even enjoying himself. ‘I have put my life at risk, sir.’

‘If you care to, you may leave now. Call me what you wish – renegade, rogue, criminal, murderer, a man, as you say, totally without any humanitarian scruples. But my personal integrity, even though it may be that of what you would term an international bandit, my word of honour, is not for question. You could not be safer, sir, in the Oval Room.’

‘Ha!’ Hillary went slowly red in the face with anger, an achievement which the world would have regarded as a remarkable thespian feat and for which he was widely renowned: in fact, many people can do just that by holding their breath and expanding the stomach muscles to the maximum extent. Slowly, imperceptibly, Hillary relaxed his muscles and began, again unobtrusively, to breathe again. His colour returned to
normal. ‘Damned if I couldn’t even begin to believe you.’

Morro bowed. It wasn’t much of a bow, an inch at the most, but it was nevertheless a token of appreciation. ‘You do me an honour. The photographs, Abraham.’

Dubois handed across several blown-up pictures of the presidential party. Morro went from man to man, carefully scrutinizing both man and picture in turn. When he was finished he returned to Hillary. ‘A word apart, if you please?’

Whatever emotion Hillary felt his thirty-five years’ acting experience concealed it perfectly. He had not been briefed for this. Morro said: ‘Your Assistant Treasury Secretary. Why is he here? I recognize him, of course, but why?’

Hillary’s face slowly congealed until both it and his eyes were positively glacial. ‘Look at Muldoon.’

‘I take your point. You have come, perhaps, to discuss, shall we say, financial matters?’

‘Among other things.’

‘That man with the brown hair and moustache. He looks like a policeman.’

‘Damn it to hell, he
is
a policeman. A Secret Service guard. Don’t you know that the President always has a Secret Service guard?’

‘He didn’t accompany you on the plane today.’

‘Of course he didn’t. He’s the head of my west coast Secret Service. I thought you’d be better informed than that. Don’t you know that in flight I never –’ He broke off. ‘How did you know –’

Morro smiled. ‘Perhaps my intelligence is almost as good as yours. Come, let us rejoin the others.’ They walked back and Morro said to one of the guards: ‘Bring the doctor.’

It was a bad moment. Morro could have sent for the doctor, Ryder thought, to check on Muldoon. No one had thought of this possibility.

Morro said: ‘I am afraid, gentlemen, that it will be necessary to search you.’

‘Search
me?
Search the President?’ Hillary did his turkey-cock act again, then unbuttoned his overcoat and coat and flung them wide. ‘I have never been subjected to such damnable humiliation in my life. Do it yourself.’

‘My apologies. On second thoughts it will not be necessary. Not for the other gentlemen. Except one. Ah, Doctor.’ Peggy’s physician had appeared on the scene. He pointed to Jeff. ‘This young man is alleged to be a physician. Would you examine his case?’

Ryder breathed freely again and was quite unmoved when Morro pointed a finger at him. ‘This, Abraham, is the President’s Secret Service agent. He might, perhaps, be a walking armoury.’

The giant approached. Unbidden Ryder removed both overcoat and coat and dropped them to the floor. Dubois searched him with an embarrassing thoroughness, smiling at the sight of Ryder’s tightly clenched fists, even going to the lengths of poking inside his socks and examining his shoes for false heels. He looked at Morro and said: ‘So far, so good.’

He then picked up Ryder’s overcoat and coat and examined them with excruciating thoroughness, paying particular attention to the linings and the hemmed stitching. Finally he returned them both to Ryder, keeping only the two ballpoints he had taken from the coat’s breast pocket.

During the time of this examination Morro’s physician was examining Jeff’s case with a thoroughness that matched Dubois’s examination of Ryder.

Dubois crossed to Morro, took a photograph, pulled a particularly unpleasant gun from his waist, reversed the photograph, handed one of the pens to Ryder and said: ‘The point is retracted. I do not care to press the button. People can do all sorts of things with ballpoints these days. I mean no offence, of course. Perhaps you would care to write something. My gun is on your heart.’

‘Jesus!’ Ryder took photograph and pen, pressed the button, wrote, retracted the point and handed both back to Dubois. Dubois glanced at it and said to Morro: ‘This is not a very friendly message. It says: “The Hell with you all”.’ He handed the other pen to Ryder. ‘My gun is still on your heart.’

Ryder wrote and handed the photograph back to Dubois, who turned to Morro and smiled. ‘“In triplicate”, he says.’ He handed both pens back.

Morro’s physician returned and handed the case back to Jeff. He looked at Morro and smiled gently. ‘Some day, sir, you will supply me with a medical case as superb as this one.’

‘We can’t all be the President of the United States.’ The doctor smiled, bowed and left.

Hillary said: ‘Now that all this needless tomfoolery is over may I ask you if you know something about the late evening habits of the President? I know we haven’t all night, but surely there is time –’

‘I am aware that I have been most remiss in my hospitality. But I had to observe certain precautions. You must know that. Gentlemen.’

Settled in Morro’s private office suite the company might have been sampling the sybaritic comforts of some exclusive country club. Two of Morro’s staff, incongruously – for them – in black-tied evening suits, moved around with drinks. Morro kept his usually impassive but occasionally smiling calm. It could have been the greatest moment of his life, but he wasn’t letting it show. He was sitting beside Hillary.

Hillary said: ‘I
am
the President of the United States.’

‘I am aware of that.’

‘I am also a politician and, above all, I hope, a statesman. I have learned to accept the inevitable. You will appreciate that I am in a dreadfully embarrassing position.’

‘I am aware of that also.’

‘I have come to bargain.’ There was a long pause. ‘A famous British Foreign Secretary once demanded: “Would you send me naked to the conference table?”’

Morro said nothing.

‘One request. Before I commit myself publicly, even to my cabinet, may I talk to you privately?’

Morro hesitated.

‘I bear no arms. Bring that giant with you if you will. Or do I ask too much?’

‘No.’

‘You agree?’

‘In the circumstances, I can do no less.’

‘Thank you.’ An irritable note crept into Hillary’s voice. ‘Is it necessary that we have
three
armed guards to watch eight defenceless men?’

‘Habit, Mr President.’

Muldoon was slumped forward in his chair – his massive back was almost to them – and Jeff, a stethoscope hanging from his neck, was holding a glass of water and some tablets in his hand. Hillary raised his voice and said: ‘The usual, Doctor?’

Jeff nodded.

‘Digitalis,’ Hillary said.

‘Ah! A heart stimulant, is it not?’

‘Yes.’ Hillary sipped his drink, then said abruptly: ‘You have hostages here, of course.’

‘We have. They have come to no harm, I assure you.’

‘I can’t understand you, Morro. Highly civilized, highly intelligent, reasonable – yet you behave as you do. What drives you?’

‘There are some matters I prefer not to discuss.’

‘Bring me those hostages.’

‘Why?’

‘Bring them or, as sure as God’s in heaven, I will not deal with you. I may be making the mistake of taking you at your face value. You may – I only say
may –
be the inhuman monster you’re said to be. If they are dead, which God forbid, you may take the life of the President before he will deal with you.’

Some time passed, then Morro said: ‘Do you know Mrs Ryder?’

‘Who is she?’

‘One of our hostages. It sounds as if you were in telepathic communication with her.’

Hillary said: ‘I have China to worry about. I have Russia to worry about. I have the European Common Market. The economy. The recession. A man’s mind can accommodate only so many things. Who is this – her name?’

‘Mrs Ryder.’

‘If she is alive, bring her. If she’s all that telepathic I could replace my Vice-President. And the others.’

‘I knew beforehand – and the lady knew – that you would make such a request. Very well. Ten minutes.’ Morro snapped his fingers at a guard.

The ten minutes passed swiftly enough, much too swiftly for the hostages, but it was time and to spare for Ryder. Morro, with his customary hospitality, had offered each hostage a drink and warned them that their stay would be brief. The centre of attraction was inevitably Hillary who, wearily but charmingly, out-presidented any President who
had ever lived. Morro did not leave his side. Even an inhuman monster – and it was not proven that he was – had his human side: it is not given to every man to present a President to his people.

Ryder, glass in hand, wandered around, spending an inconsequential word with those whom he met. He approached a person, who was perhaps the fifth or sixth person he’d chatted to, and said: ‘You’re Dr Healey.’

‘Yes. How did you know?’

Ryder didn’t tell him how he knew. He’d studied too many photographs too long. ‘Can you maintain a deadpan face?’

Healey looked at him and maintained a deadpan face.

‘Yes.’

‘My name is Ryder.’

‘Oh yes?’ Healey smiled at the waiter who refilled his glass.

‘Where’s the button? The switch?’

‘To the right. Elevator. Four rooms, fourth along.’

Ryder wandered away, spoke to one or two others, then accidentally ran into Healey again.

‘Tell no one. Not even Susan.’ The reference, he knew, would establish his credibility beyond any doubt. ‘In the fourth room?’

‘Small booth. Steel door inside. He has the key. The button’s inside.’

‘Guards?’

‘Four. Six. Courtyard.’

Ryder wandered away and sat down. Healey happened by. ‘There are steps beyond the elevator.’ Ryder didn’t even look up.

Ryder observed, without observing, that his son was doing magnificently. The dedicated physician, he did not once leave Muldoon’s side, didn’t once glance at his mother or his sister. He was due, Ryder reflected, for promotion to sergeant, at least. It never occurred to Ryder to think about his own future.

Two minutes later Morro courteously called a halt to the proceedings. Obediently, the hostages filed out. Neither Susan nor Peggy had as much as given a second glance to either Ryder or his son.

Morro rose. ‘You will excuse me, gentlemen. I am going to have a brief and private talk with the President. A few minutes only, I assure you.’ He looked around the room. Three armed guards, each with an Ingram, two waiters, each with a concealed pistol. Carrying security to ridiculous lengths: but that was how he survived, had survived all those long and hazardous years. ‘Come, Abraham.’

The three men left and moved along the corridor to the second door on the right. It was a small room, bare to the point of bleakness, with only a table and few chairs. Morro said: ‘We have come to discuss high finance, Mr President.’

Hillary sighed. ‘You are refreshingly – if disconcertingly – blunt. Do you mean to tell me you have no more of that splendid Scotch left?’

‘Heaven send – or should I say Allah send – that we should show any discourtesy to the leader of – well, never mind. You mentioned the inevitable. It takes a great mind to accept the inevitable.’ He sat in silence while Dubois brought a glass and a bottle of what appeared to be the inevitable Glenfiddich to the small desk before Morro. He watched in silence while Dubois poured then raised his glass. It was not to be in a toast. He said: ‘The negotiating point?’

‘You will understand why I wished to talk in private. I, the President of the United States, feel that I am selling out the United States. Ten billion dollars.’

‘We shall drink to that.’

Ryder, glass in hand, wandered slowly, aimlessly, round the room. In his overcoat pocket he had, as instructed, pressed the button of his ball-point six times and, as promised, the writing tip had fallen off at the sixth time. Harlinson was standing close to one of the waiters. Greenshaw had just ordered another drink.

Muldoon – Ludwig Johnson – had his back to the company. He shuddered and made a peculiar moaning noise. Instantly Jeff bent over him, hand on his pulse and stethoscope to his heart. Jeff’s face could be seen to tighten. Jeff pulled back his coat, undid the massive waistcoat and proceeded to do something that none of the guards could see.