She interrupted him. "Leila went out looking for you. You've made an awful mistake. . . . We've talked. You and I were wrong, darling. Very wrong. Bernie got so worried he thought..."
He cut her off. He didn't have the seconds to waste; not on the Ostermans, not now. "I've got to get off the phone. Stay with the guards. Do as I say. Don't let them out of your sight!"
He hung up before she could speak. He had to reach the police. Every moment counted now.
"Headquarters. Jenkins speaking."
So the one man on the Saddle Valley police force cleared for Omega was back. MacAuliff had recalled him.
"Headquarters," repeated the patrolman testily.
"This is John Tanner..."
"Jesus Christ, where have you been? We've been looking all over for you!"
"You won't find me. Not until I want you to. . . . Now, listen to me! The two policemen in the house—I want them to stay with my wife. She's never to be left alone! The children either! Never! None of them can be alone with Osterman!"
"Of course! We know that! Now, where are you? Don't be a damned fool!"
"I'll phone you later. Don't bother to trace this call. I'll be gone."
He slammed down the receiver and opened the door, looking for a better vantage point than the storefront. He couldn't run unobserved from the doorway. He started back across the street. The taxi driver was asleep again.
Suddenly, without warning, Tanner heard the roar of an engine. The blurred outline of a car without headlights sped toward him. It came out of nowhere at enormous speed; he was its target. He raced toward the opposite sidewalk only feet ahead of the rushing car. He threw himself toward the curb, twisting his body away from the automobile.
At the same instant he felt a great blow on his left leg. There was a piercing sound of tires braking on asphalt. Tanner fell, rolling with his plunge, and saw the black car narrowly miss the Mercedes, then speed away down Valley Road.
The pain in his leg was excruciating; his shoulder was throbbing. He hoped to Christ he could walk! He had to be able to walk!
The cab driver was running toward him.
"Jesus! What happened?"
"Help me up, will you, please?"
"Sure! Sure! You okay? . . . That guy must've had a load on! Jesus! You could've been killed. You want me to get a doctor?"
"No. No, I don't think so."
"I got a telephone right over there! I'll call the cops! They'll have a doctor here m no time!"
"No! No, don't! I'm all right. . . . Just help me walk around a bit." It was painful for him, but Tanner found he could move. That was the important fact. The pain didn't matter now. Nothing mattered but Omega. And Omega was out in the open!
"I better call the police anyway," said the driver, holding on to Tanner's arm. "That clown should get yanked off the road."
"No. ... I mean, I didn't get the license. I didn't even see what kind of car. It wouldn't do any good."
"I guess not. Serve the bastard right, though, if he plows himself into a tree."
"Yeah. That's right." Tanner was walking by himself now. He'd be all right.
The telephone at the taxi stand rang across the street.
"There goes my phone You okay?"
"Sure. Thanks."
"Saturday night. Probably the only call I'll get on the whole shift. Only keep one cab on duty Saturday night. That's one too many." The driver moved away. "Good luck, buddy. You sure you don't want a doctor?"
"No, really. Thanks."
He watched the driver take down an address, then heard his voice as he repeated it.
"Tremayne. Sixteen Peachtree. Be there in five minutes, ma'am." He hung up and saw Tanner watching him. "How d'you like that? She wants to go to a motel at Kennedy. Who do you suppose she's shacking up with out there?"
Tanner was bewildered. The Tremaynes had two cars of their own. . . . Had Tremayne intended to ignore the command to meet at the Lassiter depot? Or, by making sure the single Saturday night taxi i was away, was Tremayne hoping to isolate him in the Village?
Either was possible.
Tanner hobbled toward an alley running along side of the Pub, used primarily for deliveries. From there, since it led to a municipal parking lot, he could escape undetected if it were necessary. He stood in the alley and massaged his leg. He'd have a huge welt in an hour or so. He looked at his watch. It was twelve-forty-nine. Another hour before he would drive to the depot. Perhaps the black car would return. Perhaps others would come.
He wanted a cigarette, but did not want to strike a match near the street. He could cup the glow of a cigarette, not the flame of a match. He walked ten yards into the alley and lit up. He heard something. Footsteps?
He inched his way back toward the Valley Road entrance. The Village was deserted. The only sounds were muted, coming from the Pub. Then the Pub's door opened and three people came out. Jim and Nancy Loomis with a man he didn't recognize. He laughed sadly to himself.
Here he was, John Tanner, the respected Director of News for Standard Mutual, hiding in a darkened alley—filthy, soaked, a bullet crease in his shoulder and a swelling bruise on his leg from a driver intent on murder—silently watching Jim and Nancy come out of the Pub. Jim Loomis. He had been touched by Omega and he'd never know it.
From the west end of Valley Road—the direction of Route Five—came an automobile traveling quietly at no more than ten miles an hour. The driver seemed to be looking for someone or something on Valley Road.
It was Joe.
He hadn't gone to Philadelphia. There was no dying father in Philadelphia. The Cardones had lied.
It was no surprise to Tanner.
He pressed his back against the alley wall and made himself as inconspicuous as he could, but he was a large man. For no other reason than that it gave him security, Tanner withdrew the pistol from his belt. He'd kill Cardone if he had to.
When the car was within forty feet of him, two short blasts from a second automobile, coming from the other direction, made Cardone stop.
The second car approached rapidly.
It was Tremayne. As he passed the alley. Tanner could see the look of panic on his face.
The lawyer pulled up beside Cardone and the two men spoke quickly, softly. Tanner couldn't make out the words, but he could tell they were spoken rapidly and with great agitation. Tremayne made a U-turn, and the automobiles raced off in the same direction.
Tanner relaxed and stretched his pained body. All were accounted for now. All he knew about and one more he didn't. Omega plus one, he considered. Who was in the black automobile? Who had tried to run him down?
There was no point in putting it off any longer. He'd seen what he had to see. He'd drive to within a few hundred yards of the Lassiter depot and wait for Omega to declare themselves.
He walked out of the alley and started for the car. And then he stopped.
There was something wrong with the car. In the subdued light of the gas lamps he could see that the automobile's rear end had settled down to the surface of the street. The chrome bumper was inches above the pavement.
He ran to the car and undipped his pencil light. Both back tires were flat, the metal rims supporting; the weight of the automobile. He crouched down and saw two knives protruding from the deflated I rubber.
How? When? He was within twenty yards every second! The street was deserted! No one! No one; could have crept behind the Mercedes without being seen!
Except, perhaps, those few moments in the alley.
Those moments when he lit a cigarette and crouched by the wall watching Tremayne and Cardone. Those seconds when he'd thought he'd heard footsteps.
The tires had been slashed not five minutes ago!
Oh Christ! thought Tanner. The manipulation hadn't stopped at all! Omega was at his heels. Knowing. Knowing every move he made. Every second!
What had Ali started to say on the phone? Bernie had . . . what? He started toward the booth, taking the last dime out of his pocket. He pulled the pistol
out of his belt and looked around as he crossed the street. Whoever punctured the tires might be waiting, watching.
"Ali?"
"Darling, for God's sake come home!"
"In a little while, hon. Honest, no problems. No problems at all. ... I just want to ask you a question. It's important."
"It's just as important that you get home!"
"You said before that Bernie had decided something. What was it?"
"Oh . . . when you called the first time. Leila went out after you; Bernie didn't want to leave us alone. But he was worried that you might not listen to her and since the police were here, he decided to go find you himself."
"Did he take the Triumph?"
"No. He borrowed a car from one of the police."
"Oh, Christ!" Tanner didn't mean to explode into the phone but he couldn't help it. The black automobile out of nowhere! The plus-one was really part of the three! "Is he back?"
"No. Leila is, though. She thinks he may have j gotten lost."
"I'll call you." Tanner hung up. Of course Bernie was "lost." There hadn't been time for him to get back. Not since Tanner had been in the alley, J not since the tires were slashed.
And now he realized that somehow he had to reach the Lassiter depot. Reach it and position himself before any part of Omega could stop him, or know where he was.
Lassiter Road was diagonally northwest, about three miles from the center of the Village. The depot perhaps another mile or two beyond. He'd walk. It was all he could do.
He started as quickly as he could, his limp diminishing with movement, then ducked into a doorway. No one followed him.
He kept up a zigzag pattern northwest until he reached the outskirts of town—where there were no sidewalks, only large expanses of lawn. Lassiter wasn't far away now. Twice he lay on the ground while automobiles raced past him, drivers oblivious to anything but the road in front of them.
Finally, through a back stretch of woods behind a well-trimmed lawn, neither unlike his own, he reached Lassiter Road.
On the rough tarred surface he turned left and started the final part of his journey. It wasn't any farther than a mile or a mile and a haK by his calculations. He could reach the deserted depot in fifteen minutes if his leg held out. If it didn't, he'd simply slow down, but he'd get there. His watch read one-forty-one. There was time.
Omega wouldn't arrive early. It couldn't afford to. It—or they—didn't know what was waiting for them.
Tanner limped along the road and found he felt better—more secure—holding Scanlan's pistol in his hand: He saw a flicker of light behind him. Headlights, three or four hundred yards away. He crossed into the woods bordering on the road and lay flat on the muddy ground.
The car passed him traveling slowly. It was the same black car that had run him down on Valley Road. He couldn't see the driver; the absence of street lights made any identification impossible.
When it was out of sight. Tanner went back to the road. He had considered walking in the woods but it wasn't feasible. He could make better time on the cleared surface. He went on, hobbling now, wondering whether the black automobile belonged to a policeman currently stationed at 22 Orchard Drive. Whether the driver was a writer named Osterman.
He had gone nearly half a mile when the lights appeared again, only now in front of him. He dove into the brush, hoping to God he hadn't been seen, unlatching the safety of his pistol as he lay there.
The automobile approached at incredible speed. Whoever was driving was racing back to find someone.
Was it to find him?
Or Leila Osterman?
Or was it to reach Cardone, who had no dying father in Philadelphia. Or Tremayne, who wasn't on his way to the motel at Kennedy Airport.
Tanner got up and kept going, his leg about to collapse under him, the pistol gripped tightly in his hand.
He rounded a bend in the road and there it was. A single sagging street lamp lit the crumbHng station house. The old stucco depot was boarded up, giant weed drooping ominously from the cracks in the rotted wood. Small ugly leaves grew out of the foundation.
There was no wind, no rain, no sound but the rhythmic drip of water from thousands of branches and leaves—the last exhausted effects of the storm.
He stood on the outskirts of the decayed, overgrown parking area trying to decide where to position himself. It was nearly two o'clock and a secluded place had to be found. The station house itself! Perhaps he could get inside. He started across the gravel and weeds.
A blinding light flashed in his eyes; his reflexes lurched him forward. He rolled over on his wounded shoulder, yet felt no pain. A powerful searchlight had pierced the dimness of the depot grounds, and gunshots echoed throughout the deserted area. Bullets thumped into the earth around him and whistled over his head. He kept rolling, over and over, knowing that one of the bullets had hit his left arm.
He reached the edge of the sunken gravel and raised his pistol toward the blinding light. He fired rapidly in the direction of the enemy. The searchlight exploded; a scream followed. Tanner kept pulling the trigger until the clip was empty. He tried to reach into his pocket with his left hand for a second clip and found he couldn't move his arm.
There was silence again. He put down the pistol and awkwardly extracted another clip with his right hand. He twisted the pistol on its back and with his teeth holding the hot barrel, pushed the fresh clip into the chamber, burning his lips as he did so.
He waited for his enemy to move. To make any sound at all. Nothing stirred.
Slowly he rose, his left arm now completely immobile. He held the pistol in front of him, ready to pull the trigger at the slightest movement in the grass.
None came.
Tanner backed his way towards the door of the depot, holding his weapon up, probing the ground carefully with his feet so that no unexpected obstacle would cause him to fall. He reached the boarded-up door, knowing he couldn't possibly break it down if it was nailed shut. Most of his body was inoperative. He had little strength left.
Still, he pushed his back against the door and the heavy wood gave slightly, creaking loudly as it did so. Tanner turned his head just enough to see that the opening was no more than three or four inches. The ancient hinges were caked with rust. He slammed his right shoulder against the edge of the door and it gave way, plunging Tanner into the darkness, onto the rotted floor of the station.
He lay where he was for several seconds. The station house door was three-quarters open, the upper section snapped away from its hinges. The street lamp fifty yards away provided a dull wash of illumination. Broken and missing boards from the roof were a second, inadequate source of light.
Suddenly Tanner heard a creaking behind him. The unmistakable sound of a footstep on the rotted floor. He tried to turn around, tried to rise. He was too late. Something crashed into the base of his skull. He felt himself grow dizzy, but he saw the foot. A foot encased in bandages.
As he collapsed on the rotted floor, blackness sweeping over him, he looked upward into a face.
Tanner knew he had found Omega.
It was Laurence Fassett!
He couldn't know how long he'd been unconscious. Five minutes? An hour? There was no way to tell. He couldn't see his watch, he couldn't move his left arm. His face was against the rough splintered floor of the crumbling station house. He could feel the blood slowly trickling from his wounded arm; his head ached.
Fassett!
The manipulator.
Omega.
As he lay there, isolated fragments of past conversations raced through his mind.
". . . we should get together .. . our wives should get together..."
But Laurence Fassett's wife had been killed in East Berlin. Murdered in East Berlin. That fact had been his most moving entreaty.
And there was something else. Something to do with a Woodward broadcast. . . . The broadcast about the C.I. A. a year ago.
"... I was in the States then. I saw that one."
There were other contradictions—none as obvious, but they were there. They wouldn't do him any good now. His life was about to end in the ruins of the Lassiter depot.
He moved his head and saw Fassett standing above him.
"We've got a great deal to thank you for. If you are as good a shot as I think you are you've created the perfect martyr out there. A dead hero. If he's only wounded, he'll soon be dead at any rate. . . . Oh, he's the other part of us, but even he'd recognize the perfect contribution of his sacrifice. . . . You see, I didn't lie to you. We are fanatics. We have to be."
"What now?"
"We wait for the others. One or two are bound to show up. Then it'll be over. Their lives and yours, I'm afraid. And Washington will have its Omega. Then, perhaps, a field agent named Fassett will be given another commendation. If they're not careful, they'll make me Director of Operations one day."
"You're a traitor." Tanner found something in the dark shadows by his right hand. It was a loose piece of flooring about two feet long, an inch or so wide. He awkwardly, painfully, sat up, pulling the plank to his side.
"Not by my lights. A defector, perhaps. Not a traitor. Let's not go into that. You wouldn't understand or appreciate the viewpoint. Let's just say in my opinion you're the traitor. All of you. Look around you ..."
Tanner lashed out with the piece of wood and crashed it with all his might across the bandaged foot in front of him. Blood erupted instantly, spreading through the gauze. Tanner flung himself upward into Fassett's groin, trying desperately to reach the hand with the gun. Fassett screamed in anguish. Tanner found the agent's wrist with his right hand, his left arm immobile, serving only as a limping tentacle. He drove Fassett back against the wall and ground his heel into Fassett's wounded foot, stamping it over and over again.
Tanner wrenched the gun free and it fell to the floor, sliding towards the open door and the dim shaft of light. Fassett's screams shattered the stillness of the station house as he slumped against the wall.
The Osterman weekend Page 21