The Osterman weekend

by Ludlum, Robert

  "What's the matter with you, Dick? You look all upset."

  "S'help me God, this is the first time I've been in here in years." Tremayne slurred his words and he knew it. "Have to make a phone call. Excuse me.

  Townsend put his hand on Tremayne's arm. He spoke quietly.

  "Are you going to call Cardone?"

  "What?"

  "I asked if you were going to call Cardone."

  "Who are you? . .. Who the hell are you?"

  "A friend of Blackstone. Don't call Cardone. Don't do that under any circumstances. You put a nail in your own casket if you do. Can you understand that?"

  "I don't understand anything! Who are you? Who's Blackstone?" Tremayne tried to whisper, but his voice carried throughout the room.

  "Let's put it this way. Cardone may be dangerous. We don't trust him. We're not sure of him. Any more than we are of the Ostermans."

  "What are you saying?"

  "They may have gotten together. You may be flying solo now. Play it cool and see what you can find out. We'll be in touch . . . but Mr. Blackstone told you that already, didn't he?"

  Then Townsend did a strange thing. He removed a bill from his wallet and placed it in front of Richard Tremayne. He said only two words as he turned and walked through the glass doors.

  "Take it."

  It was a one-hundred-dollar bill.

  What had it bought?

  It didn't buy anything, thought Tremayne. It was merely a symbol.

  A price. Any price.

  When Fassett walked into the hotel room, two men were already bent over a card table, studying various papers and maps. One was Grover. The other man was named Cole. Fassett removed his Panama hat and sunglasses, putting them on the bureau top.

  "Everything okay?" asked Grover.

  "On schedule. If Tremayne doesn't get too drunk at the Biltmore."

  "If he does," said Cole, his attention on a New Jersey road map, "a friendly, bribable cop will correct the situation. He'll get home."

  "Have you got men on both sides of the bridge?"

  "And the tunnels. He sometimes takes the Lincoln Tunnel and drives up the Parkway. All in radio contact." Cole was making marks on a piece of tracing paper placed over the map.

  The telephone rang. Grover crossed to the bedside table to pick it up.

  "Grover here. . . . Oh? Yes, we'll double check but I'm sure we would've heard if he had. . . . Don't worry about it. All right. Keep in touch." Grover replaced the receiver and stood by the telephone.

  "What's the matter?" Fassett removed his white Palm Beach jacket and began rolling up his sleeves.

  "That was Los Angeles logistics. Between the time Osterman left the studio and was picked up on Mulholand, they lost him for about twenty minutes. They're concerned that he may have reached Cardone or Tremayne."

  Cole looked up from the table. "Around one o'clock our time—ten in California?"

  "Yes."

  "Negative. Cardone was in his car and Tremayne on the streets. Neither could be reached "

  "I see what they mean, though," interrupted Fassett. "Tremayne didn't waste any tune this noon trying to get to Cardone."

  "We calculated that, Larry," said Cole. "We would have intercepted both of them if a meeting had been scheduled."

  "Yes, I know. Risky, though."

  Cole laughed as he picked up the tracing papers. "You plan—we'll control. Here's every back road link to 'Leather.'"

  "We've got them."

  "George forgot to bring up a copy, and the others are with the men. A command post should always have a map of the field."

  "Mea culpa. I was in briefing until two this morning and had to get the shuttle at six-thirty. I also forgot my razor and toothbrush and God knows what else."

  The telephone rang once again and Grover reached down for it.

  ". . . I see . . . wait a minute." He held the phone away from his ear and looked over at Laurence Fassett. "Our second chauffeur had a run-in with Cardone..."

  "Oh, Christ! Nothing rough, I hope."

  "No, no. The hot-tempered Ail-American tried to get out of the car and start a fight. Nothing happened."

  "Tell him to head back to Washington. Get out of the area."

  "Go back to D.C., Jim. . . . Sure, you might as well. Okay. See you at camp." Grover replaced the receiver and walked back to the card table.

  "What's Jim going to do 'just as well'?" asked Fassett.

  "Drop off the Rolls in Maryland. He thinks Cardone got the license number."

  "Good. And the Caesar family?"

  "Primed beautifully," interrupted Cole. "They can't wait to hear from Guiseppe Ambruzzio Car-dione. Like father, unlike son."

  "What's that mean?" Grover held his lighter under his cigarette.

  "Old man Caesar made a dozen fortunes out of the rackets. His oldest son is with the Attorney General's office and an absolute fanatic about the Mafia."

  "Washing away family sins?"

  "Something like that."

  Fassett walked over to the window and looked down at the long expanse of Central Park South. When he spoke he did so quietly, but the satisfaction in his voice made his companions smile.

  "It's all there now. Each one is jolted. They're all confused and frightened. None of them know what to do or whom to talk to. Now we sit and watch. We'll give them a rest for twenty-four hours. A blackout. . . . And Omega has no choice. Omega has to make its move."

  10

  Wednesday — 10:15 a.m.

  It was ten-fifteen before Tanner reached his office. He had found it nearly impossible to leave home, but he knew Fassett was right. He sat down and glanced perfunctorily at his mail and messages. Everyone wanted a conference. No one wanted to make a single decision without his say-so.

  Corporate musical chairs. The network sub-brass band.

  He picked up the phone and dialed New Jersey.

  "Hello, AH?"

  "Hi, hon. Did you forget something?"

  "No. . . . No. Just felt lonely. What are you doing?"

  Inside 22 Orchard Place, Saddle Valley, New Jersey, Alice Tanner smiled and felt warm. "What am I doing? . . . Well, as per the great Khan's orders, I'm overseeing your son's cleaning out the basement. And as the great Khan also instructed, his daughter is spending a hot July morning on her remedial reading. How else could she get into Berkeley by the time she's twelve?"

  Tanner caught the complaint. When she was a young girl, his wife's summers were lonely and terrifying. Ali wanted them to be perfect for Janet. "Well, don't overdo it. Have some kids over."

  "I might at that. But Nancy Loomis phoned and asked if Janet could go there for lunch ..."

  "Ali . . ." Tanner switched the phone to his left hand. "I'd rather cool it with the Loomises for a few days..."

  "What do you mean?"

  John remembered Jim Loomis from the daily eight-twenty express. "Jim's trying to boilerplate some market stuff. He's got a lot of fellows on the train to go along with him. If I can avoid him till next week I'm off the hook."

  "What does Joe say?"

  "He doesn't know about it. Loomis doesn't want Joe to know. Rival houses, I guess."

  "I don't see that Janet's going to lunch has anything. ..."

  "Just saves embarrassment. We don't have the kind of money he's looking for."

  "Amen to that!"

  "And ... do me a favor. Stay near the phone today."

  Alice Tanner's eyes shifted to the telephone in her hand. "Why?"

  "I can't go into it, but I may have an important call What we're always talking about "

  Alice Tanner immediately, unconsciously lowered her voice as she smiled. "Someone's offered you something!"

  "Could be. They're going to call at home to set up a lunch."

  "Oh, John. That's exciting!"

  "It . . . could be interesting." He suddenly found it painful to talk to her. "Speak to you later."

  "Sounds marvelous, darling. I'll turn up the bell. It'll be heard in New York."<
br />
  "I'll call you later."

  "Tell me the details then."

  Tanner placed the receiver slowly in its cradle. The lies had begun . . . but his family would stay home.

  He knew he had to turn his mind to Standard Mutual problems. Fassett had warned him. There could be no break in his normal pattern, and normalcy for any network news director was a condition close to hypertension. Tanner's mark at Standard was his control of potential difficulties. If there was ever a time in his professional life to avoid chaos, it was now.

  He picked up his telephone. "Norma. I'll read out the list of those I'll see this morning, and you call them. Tell everyone I want the meetings quick and don't let anyone run over fifteen minutes unless I say otherwise. It would help if all problems and proposals were reduced to written half-pages. Pass the word. I've got a lot to catch up on."

  He wasn't free again until 12:30. Then he, closed his office door and called his wife.

  There was no answer.

  He let the phone ring for nearly two minutes, until the spaces between the rings seemed to grow longer and longer.

  No answer. No answer at the telephone—the telephone whose bell was turned up so loud it would be heard in New York.

  It was twelve-thirty-five. Ali would figure no one would call between noon and one-thirty. And she probably needed something from the supermarket. Or she might have decided to take the children over to the Club for hamburgers. Or she couldn't refuse Nancy Loomis and had taken Janet over for lunch. Or she had gone to the library—Ali was an inveterate poolside reader during the summer.

  Tanner tried to picture Ali doing all these things. That she was doing one, or some, or all, had to be the case.

  He dialed again, and again there was no answer. He called the Club.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Tanner. We've paged outside. Mrs. Tanner isn't here."

  The Loomises. Of course, she went to the Loomises.

  "Golly, John, Alice said Janet had a bad tummy. Maybe she took her to the doctor."

  By eight minutes after one, John Tanner had dialed his home twice more. The last time he had let the phone ring for nearly five minutes. Picturing Ali coming through the door breathlessly, always allowing that one last ring, expecting her to answer.

  But it did not happen.

  He told himself over and over again that he was acting foolishly. He himself had seen the patrol car following them when Ali drove him to the station. Fassett had convinced him yesterday that his watchdogs were thorough.

  Fassett.

  He picked up the phone and dialed the emergency number Fassett had given him. It was a Manhattan exchange.

  "Grover. . ."

  Who? thought Tanner.

  "Hello? Hello? .. . George Grover speaking."

  "My name is John Tanner. I'm trying to find Laurence Fassett."

  "Oh, hello, Mr. Tanner. Is something the matter? Fassett's out. Can I help you?"

  "Are you an associate of Fassett's?"

  "I am, sir."

  "I can't reach my wife. I've tried calling a number of times. She doesn't answer."

  "She may have stepped out. I wouldn't worry. She's under surveillance."

  "Are you positive?"

  "Of course."

  "I asked her to stay by the phone. She thought I was expecting an important call...."

  "I'll contact our men and call you right back. It'll set your mind at ease."

  Tanner hung up feeling slightly embarrassed. Yet five minutes went by and the expected ring did not come. He dialed Fassett's number but it was busy. He quickly replaced the phone wondering if his impetuous dialing caused Grover to find his line busy. Was Grover trying to reach him? He had to be. He'd try again right away.

  Yet the phone did not ring.

  Tanner picked it up and slowly, carefully dialed, making sure every digit was correct.

  "Grover."

  "This is Tanner. I thought you were going to call right back!"

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Tanner. We've been having a little difficulty. Nothing to be concerned about."

  "What do you mean, difficulty?"

  "Making contact with our men in the field. It's not unusual. We can't expect them to be next to a radio-phone every second. We'll reach them shortly and call you back."

  "That's not good enough!" John Tanner slammed the telephone down and got out of his ; chair. Yesterday afternoon Fassett had detailed every move made by all of them—even to the precise actions at the moment of his phone call. And now this Grover couldn't reach any of the men supposedly watching his family. What had Fassett said?

  "We have thirteen agents in Saddle Valley..."

  And Grover couldn't reach any of them.

  Thirteen men and none could be contacted!

  He crossed to the office door. "Something's come up, Norma. Listen for my phone, please. If it's a man named Grover, tell him I've left for home."

  SADDLE VALLEY

  VILLAGE INCORPORATED 1862

  Welcome

  "Where to now, Mister?"

  "Go straight. I'll show you."

  The cab reached Orchard Drive, two blocks from his home; Tanner's pulse was hammering. He kept picturing the station wagon in the driveway. As soon as they made one more turn he'd be able to see it—if it was there. And if it was, everything would be all right. Oh, Christ! Let everything be all right!

  The station wagon was not in the driveway.

  Tanner looked at his watch.

  Two-forty-five. A quarter to three! And Ali wasn't there!

  "On the left. The wood-shingled house."

  "Nice place, mister. A real nice place."

  "Hurry!"

  The cab pulled up to the flagstone path. Tanner paid and pulled open the door. He didn't wait for the driver's thanks.

  "Ali! Ali!" Tanner raced through the laundry room to check the garage.

  Nothing. The small Triumph stood there.

  Quiet.

  Yet there was something. An odor. A faint, sickening odor that Tanner couldn't place.

  "Ali! Ali!" He ran back to the kitchen and saw his pool through the window. Oh, God! He stared at the surface of the water and hurried to the patio door. The lock was stuck and so he slammed against it, breaking the latch, and ran out.

  Thank God! There was nothing in the water!

  His small Welsh terrier dog stirred from its sleep. The animal was attached to a wire run and immediately started barking in its sharp, hysterical yap.

  He sped back into the house, to the cellar door.

  "Ray! Janet! Ali!"

  Quiet. Except for the incessant barking of the dog outside.

  He left the cellar door open and ran to the staircase.

  Upstairs!

  He leapt up the stairs; the doors to the children's rooms and the guest room were open. The door to his and Ali's room was shut.

  And then he heard it. The soft playing of a radio. Ali's clock radio with the automatic timer which shut the radio off at any given time up to an hour. He and Ali always used that timer when they played the radio. Never the on button. It was a habit. And Ali had been gone over two and a half hours. Someone else had turned on the radio.

  He opened the door.

  No one.

  He was about to turn and search the rest of the house when he saw it. A note written in red pencil next to the clock radio.

  He crossed to the bedside table.

  "Your wife and children went for an unexpected drive. You'll find them by an old railroad depot on Lassiter Road."

  In his panic. Tanner remembered the abandoned depot. It sat deep in the woods on a rarely used back road.

  What had he done? What in Christ's name had he done? He'd killed them! If that was so, he'd kill Fassett! Kill Grover! Kill all those who should have been watching!

  He raced out of the bedroom, down the staircase, into the garage. The door was open and he jumped into the seat of the Triumph and started the engine.

  Tanner swung the small sports car to the right out
of the driveway and sped around the long Orchard Drive curve, trying to remember the quickest way to Lassiter Road. He reached a pond he recognized as Lassiter Lake, used by the Saddle Valley residents for ice skating in winter. Lassiter Road was on the other side and seemed to disappear into a stretch of undisciplined woods.

  He kept the accelerator flat against the Triumph's floor. He started talking to himself, then screaming at himself.

  Ali! Ali! Janet! Ray!

  The road was winding. Blind spots, curves, sun rays coming through the crowded trees. There were no other automobiles, no other signs of life.

  The old abandoned depot suddenly appeared. And there was his station wagon—half off the overgrown parking area, into the tall grass. Tanner slammed on his brakes beside the wagon. There was no one in sight.

  He jumped out of the Triumph and raced to his car.

  In an instant his mind went out of control. The horror was real. The unbelievable had happened.

  On the floor of the front seat was his wife. Slumped, motionless. In the back were little Janet and his son. Heads down. Bodies sprawled off the red seats.

  Oh, Christ! Christ! It had happened! His eyes filled with tears. His body shook.

  He pulled the door open, screaming in terror, and suddenly a wave of odor washed over him. The sickish odor he had smelled in his garage. He grabbed Ali's head and pulled her up, frightened beyond feeling.

  "Ali! Ali! My God! Please! Ali!"

  His wife opened her eyes slowly. Blinking. Conscious but not conscious. She moved her arms.

  "Where . . . where? The children..." She drew out the word hysterically. The sound of her scream brought Tanner back to his senses. He leapt up and reached over the seat for his son and daughter.

  They moved. They were alive! They all were alive!

  Ali climbed out of the station wagon and stumbled to the ground. Her husband lifted his daughter out of the back seat and held her as she started to cry.

  "What happened? What happened?" Alice Tanner pulled herself up.

  "Don't talk, Ali. Breathe. As deeply as you can. Here!" He walked to her and handed her the sobbing Janet. "I'll get Ray."

  "What happened? Don't tell me not to . .."