The chauffeur spoke calmly. “He’s not on the train, Mr. Cardione. He drove into town this morning. We know that, too.”
The train slowly started up and rolled down the tracks. Joe stared at the immense human being holding the car door shut. His anger was nearly beyond control but he was realistic enough to know it would do him no good. The chauffeur stepped back, gave Cardone a second informal salute and walked rapidly towards the Rolls-Royce. Cardone pushed the car door open and stepped out onto the hot pavement.
“Hello there, Joe!” The caller was Amos Needham, of the second contingent of Saddle Valley commuters. A vice-president of Manufacturers Hanover Trust and the chairman of the special events committee for the Saddle Valley Country Club. “You market boys have it easy. When it gets rough you stay home and wait for the calm to set in, eh?”
“Sure, sure, Amos.” Cardone kept his eye on the chauffeur of the Rolls, who had climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine.
“I tell you,” continued Amos, “I don’t know where you young fellas are taking us!… Did you see the quotes for DuPont? Everybody else takes a bath and it zooms up! Told my trust committee to consult the Ouija board. To hell with you upstart brokers.” Needham chuckled and then suddenly waved his small arm, flagging down a Lincoln Continental approaching the depot. “There’s Ralph. Can I give you a lift, Joe?… But, of course not. You just stepped out of your car.”
The Lincoln pulled up to the platform, and Amos Needham’s chauffeur started to get out.
“No need, Ralph. I can still manipulate a door handle. By the way, Joe … that Rolls you’re looking at reminds me of a friend of mine. Couldn’t be, though. He lived in Maryland.”
Cardone snapped his head around and looked at the innocuous banker. “Maryland? Who in Maryland?”
Amos Needham held the car door open and returned Cardone’s stare with unconcerned good humor. “Oh, I don’t think you’d know him. He’s been dead for years.… Funny name. Used to kid him a lot.… His name was Caesar.”
Amos Needham stepped into his Lincoln and closed the door. At the top of Station Parkway the Rolls-Royce turned right and roared off towards the main arteries leading to Manhattan. Cardone stood on the tarred surface of the Saddle Valley railroad station and he was afraid.
Tremayne!
Tremayne was with Tanner!
Osterman was with Tanner!
Da Vinci … Caesar!
The architects of war!
And he, Guiseppe Ambruzzio Cardione, was alone!
Oh, Christ! Christ! Son of God! Blessed Mary! Blessed Mary, Mother of Christ! Wash my hands with his blood! The blood of the lamb! Jesus! Jesus! Forgive me my sins!… Mary and Jesus! Christ Incarnate! God all holy!
What have I done?
12
Tuesday—5:00 P.M.
Tremayne walked aimlessly for hours; up and down the familiar streets of the East Side. Yet if anyone had stopped him and asked him where he was, he could not have answered.
He was consumed. Frightened. Blackstone had said everything and clarified nothing.
And Cardone had lied. To somebody. His wife or his office, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that Cardone couldn’t be reached. Tremayne knew that the panic wouldn’t stop until he and Cardone figured out between them what Osterman had done.
Had Osterman betrayed them?
Was that really it? Was it possible?
He crossed Vanderbilt Avenue, realizing he had walked to the Biltmore Hotel without thinking about a destination.
It was understandable, he thought. The Biltmore brought back memories of the carefree times.
He walked through the lobby almost expecting to see some forgotten friend from his teens—and suddenly he was staring at a man he hadn’t seen in over twenty-five years. He knew the face, changed terribly with the years—bloated, it seemed to Tremayne, lined—but he couldn’t remember the name. The man went back to prep-school days.
Awkwardly the two men approached each other.
“Dick … Dick Tremayne! It is Dick Tremayne, isn’t it?”
“Yes. And you’re … Jim?”
“Jack! Jack Townsend! How are you, Dick?” The men shook hands, Townsend far more enthusiastic. “It must be twenty-five, thirty years! You look great! How the hell do you keep the weight down? Gave up myself.”
“You look fine. Really, you look swell. I didn’t know you were in New York.”
“I’m not. Based in Toledo. Just in for a couple of days.… I swear to God, I had a crazy thought coming in on the plane. I canceled the Hilton and thought I’d grab a room here just to see if any of the old crowd ever came in. Insane, huh?… And look what I run into!”
“That’s funny. Really funny. I was thinking the same sort of thing a few seconds ago.”
“Let’s get a drink.”
Townsend kept spouting opinions that were formed in the traditions of corporate thought. He was being very boring.
Tremayne kept thinking about Cardone. As he drank his third drink he looked around for the bar telephone booth he remembered from his youth. It was hidden near the kitchen entrance, and only Biltmore habitués-in-good-standing knew of its existence.
It wasn’t there any more. And Jack Townsend kept talking, talking, remembering the unmemorable out loud.
There were two Negroes in leather jackets, beads around their necks, standing several feet away from them.
They wouldn’t have been there in other days.
The pleasant days.
Tremayne drank his fourth drink in one assault; Townsend wouldn’t stop talking.
He had to call Joe! The panic was starting again. Maybe Joe would, in a single sentence, unravel the puzzle of Osterman.
“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 mark
s 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 Mulholland, 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 time 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 All-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 Cardione. 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.”
13
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, Ali?”
“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.”
“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.”
Th
e 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!”
The Osterman Weekend: A Novel Page 9