The Osterman Weekend: A Novel

by Robert Ludlum

  “Joe, I’m touched. I really am. But I don’t think it’s necessary. I don’t, really.”

  “But you’ll tell him?”

  “Tell him yourself. John and I have an unspoken pact. We don’t discuss his salary any more. Frankly because I agree with you.”

  “Then you’ve got problems.”

  “You’re not being fair. Problems to you may not be problems for us.”

  “I hope you’re right. Tell him that, too.” Cardone walked rapidly back to the bar and picked up his glass. Before Ali could speak he walked through the door back into the living room.

  Joe was telling her something and she didn’t understand.

  “Nobody appointed you or any other member of any news media to set yourselves up as infallible guardians of the truth! I’m sick and tired of it! I live with it every day.” Tremayne stood in front of the fireplace, his anger obvious to everyone.

  “Not infallible, of course not,” answered Tanner. “But no one gave the courts the right to stop us from looking for information as objectively as we can.”

  “When that information is prejudicial to a client or his opponent you have no right to make it public. If it’s factual, it’ll be heard in court. Wait’ll the verdict’s rendered.”

  “That’s impossible and you know it.”

  Tremayne paused, smiled thinly, and sighed. “I know I do. Realistically, there’s no solution.”

  “Are you sure you want to find one?” asked Tanner.

  “Of course.”

  “Why? The advantage is yours. You win the verdict, fine. If you lose, you claim the court was corrupted by a biased press. You appeal.”

  “It’s the rare case that’s won on appeal,” said Bernard Osterman sitting on the floor in front of the sofa. “Even I know that. They get the publicity, but they’re rare.”

  “Appeals cost money,” added Tremayne with a shrug. “Most of the time for nothing. Especially corporate appeals.”

  “Then force the press to restrain itself when there’s a lot of heat. It’s simple.” Joe finished his drink and looked pointedly at Tanner.

  “It’s not simple,” said Leila, sitting in an armchair opposite the sofa. “It becomes judgment. Who defines restraint? That’s what Dick means. There’s no clear-cut definition.”

  “At the risk of offending my husband, God forbid,” Virginia laughed as she spoke, “I think an informed public is just as important as an unbiased courtroom. Perhaps they’re even connected. I’m on your side, John.”

  “Judgment, again,” said her husband. “It’s opinion. What’s factual information and what’s interpreted information?”

  “One’s truth,” said Betty off-handedly. She was watching her husband. He was drinking too much.

  “Whose truth? Which truth?… Let’s create a hypothetical situation. Between John and myself. Say I’ve been working for six months on a complicated merger. As an ethical attorney I’m dealing with men whose cause I believe in; by putting together a number of companies thousands of jobs are saved, firms which are going bankrupt suddenly have new lives. Then along come several people who are getting hurt—because of their own ineptness—and start shouting for injunctions. Suppose they reach John and start yelling ‘Foul!’ Because they seem—seem, mind you—like underdogs, John gives their cause one minute, just one minute of network time across the country. Instantly my case is prejudiced. And don’t let anyone tell you the courts aren’t subject to media pressure. One minute as opposed to six months.”

  “Do you think I’d allow that? Do you think any of us would?”

  “You need copy. You always need copy! There are times when you don’t understand!” Tremayne’s voice grew louder.

  Virginia stood up. “Our John wouldn’t do that, darling.… I’m for another cup of coffee.”

  “I’ll get it,” said Alice, rising from the sofa. She’d been watching Tremayne, startled by his sudden vehemence.

  “Don’t be silly,” answered Ginny going into the hallway.

  “I’d like a drink.” Cardone held out his glass, expecting someone to take it.

  “Sure, Joe.” Tanner took his glass. “Gin and tonic?”

  “That’s what I’ve been drinking.”

  “Too much of,” added his wife.

  Tanner walked into the kitchen and began making Cardone’s drink. Ginny was at the stove.

  “I’m heating the Chemex; the candle burned out.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I always have the same problem. The damn candles go out and the coffee’s cold.”

  Tanner chuckled and poured the tonic. Then he realized that Ginny was making a comment, a rather unattractive comment. “I told Ali to get an electric pot, but she refuses.”

  “John?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s a beautiful night. Why don’t we all take a swim?”

  “Sure. Good idea. I’ll backwash the filter. Let me get this to Joe.” Tanner returned to the living room in time to hear the opening bars of “Tangerine.” Ali had put on an album called “Hits of Yesterday.”

  There were the proper responses, the laughs of recognition.

  “Here you are, Joe. Anyone else for anything?”

  There was a chorus of no-thanks. Betty had gotten up and was facing Dick Tremayne by the mantle. Tanner thought they looked as though they’d been arguing. Ali was at the stereo showing Bernie the back of the album cover; Leila Osterman sat opposite Cardone, watching him drink his gin and tonic, seemingly annoyed that he drank so quickly.

  “Ginny and I are going to backwash the pool. We’ll take a swim, okay? You’ve all got suits here; if not, there’re a dozen extras in the garage.”

  Dick looked at Tanner. It was a curious look, thought the news editor. “Don’t teach Ginny too much about that damned filter. I’m holding firm. No pool.”

  “Why not?” asked Cardone.

  “Too many kids around.”

  “Build a fence,” said Joe with a degree of disdain.

  Tanner started out toward the kitchen and the back door. He heard a sudden burst of laughter behind him, but it wasn’t the laughter of people enjoying themsleves. It was forced, somehow unkind.

  Was Fassett right? Was Omega showing the signs? Were the hostilities slowly coming to the surface?

  Outside he walked to the edge of the pool, to the filter box. “Ginny?”

  “I’m over here, by Ali’s tomato plants. This stake fell down and I can’t retie the vine.”

  “Okay.” He turned and walked over to her. “Which one? I can’t see it.”

  “Here,” said Ginny, pointing.

  Tanner knelt down and saw the stake. It hadn’t fallen over, it had been snapped. “One of the kids must have run through here.” He pulled up the thin broken dowel and placed the tomato vine carefully on the ground. “I’ll fix it tomorrow.”

  He got up. Ginny stood very close to him and put her hand on his arm. He realized they couldn’t be seen from the house.

  “I broke it,” Ginny said.

  “Why?”

  “I wanted to talk to you. Alone.”

  She had undone several buttons of her blouse below the neckline. He could see the swell of her breasts. Tanner wondered if Ginny was drunk. But Ginny never got drunk, or if she did, no one ever knew it.

  “What do you want to talk about?”

  “Dick, for one thing. I apologize for him. He can become gross … rude, when he’s upset.”

  “Was he rude? Upset? I didn’t notice.”

  “Of course you did. I was watching you.”

  “You were wrong.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Let’s get the pool done.”

  “Wait a minute.” Ginny laughed softly. “I don’t frighten you, do I?”

  “My friends don’t frighten me,” Tanner said, smiling.

  “We know a great deal about each other.”

  Tanner watched Ginny’s face closely, her eyes, the slight pinching of her lips. He wondere
d if this was the moment the unbelievable was about to be revealed to him. If it was, he’d help her say it. “I suppose we always think we know our friends. I sometimes wonder if we ever do.”

  “I’m very attracted … physically attracted to you. Did you know that?”

  “No, I didn’t,” said Tanner, surprised.

  “It shouldn’t bother you. I wouldn’t hurt Ali for the world. I don’t think physical attraction necessarily means a commitment, do you?”

  “Everyone has fantasies.”

  “You’re sidestepping.”

  “I certainly am.”

  “I told you, I wouldn’t harm your commitments.”

  “I’m human. They’d be harmed.”

  “I’m human, too. May I kiss you? At least I deserve a kiss.”

  Ginny put her arms around the startled Tanner’s neck and pressed her lips against his, opening her mouth. Tanner knew she was doing her best to arouse him. He couldn’t understand it. If she meant what she was doing, there was nowhere to complete the act.

  Then he did understand. She was promising.

  She meant that.

  “Oh, Johnny! Oh, God, Johnny!”

  “All right, Ginny. All right. Don’t.… ” Perhaps she really was drunk, thought Tanner. She’d feel like a fool tomorrow. “We’ll talk later.”

  Ginny pulled slightly back. Her lips to the side of his. “Of course, we’ll talk later.… Johnny?… Who is Blackstone?”

  “Blackstone?”

  “Please! I’ve got to know! Nothing will change, I promise you that! Who is Blackstone?”

  Tanner held her shoulders, forcing her face in front of his own.

  She was crying.

  “I don’t know any Blackstone.”

  “Don’t do this!” she whispered. “Please, for God’s sake, don’t do this! Tell Blackstone to stop it!”

  “Did Dick send you out here?”

  “He’d kill me,” she said softly.

  “Let me get it straight. You’re offering me …”

  “Anything you want! Just leave him alone.… My husband’s a good man. A very, very decent man. He’s been a good friend to you! Please, don’t hurt him!”

  “You love him.”

  “More than my life. So please, don’t hurt him. And tell Blackstone to stop!”

  She rushed off into the garage.

  He wanted to go after her and be kind, but the specter of Omega prevented him. He kept wondering whether Ginny, who was capable of offering herself as a whore, was also capable of things far more dangerous.

  But Ginny wasn’t a whore. Careless, perhaps, even provocative in a humorous, harmless way, but it had never occurred to Tanner or anybody Tanner knew that she would share her bed with anyone but Dick. She wasn’t like that.

  Unless she was Omega’s whore.

  There was the forced laughter again from inside the house. Tanner heard the opening clarinet strains of “Amapola.” He knelt down and picked the thermometer out of the water.

  Suddenly he was aware that he wasn’t alone. Leila Osterman was standing several feet behind him on the grass. She’d come outside silently; or perhaps he was too preoccupied to hear the kitchen door or the sound of her footsteps.

  “Oh, hi! You startled me.”

  “I thought Ginny was helping you.”

  “She … spilled filter powder on her skirt.… Look, the temperature’s eighty-three. Joe’ll say it’s too warm.”

  “If he can tell.”

  “I see what you mean,” said Tanner getting to his feet, smiling. “Joe’s no drinker.”

  “He’s trying.”

  “Leila, how come you and Bernie got in a couple days ago?”

  “He hasn’t told you?” Leila was hesitant, seemingly annoyed that the explanation was left to her.

  “No. Obviously.”

  “He’s looking around. He had conferences, lunches.”

  “What’s he looking for?”

  “Oh, projects. You know Bernie; he goes through phases. He never forgets that The New York Times once called him exciting … or incisive, I never remember which. Unfortunately, he’s acquired expensive tastes.”

  “You’ve lost me.”

  “He’d like to find a class series; you know, the old Omnibus type. There’s a lot of talk around the agencies about upgrading.”

  “Is there? I hadn’t heard it.”

  “You’re in news, not programming.”

  Tanner took out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Leila. As he lit it he could see the concern, the strain, in her eyes. “Bernie has a lot going for him. You and he have made the agencies a great deal of money. He won’t have any trouble; he’s persuasive as hell.”

  “It takes more than persuasion, I’m afraid,” Leila said. “Unless you want to work for a percentage of nonprofit culture.… No, it takes influence. Enormous influence; enough to make the money people change their minds.” Leila drew heavily on her cigarette, avoiding Tanner’s stare.

  “Can he do that?”

  “He might be able to. Bernie’s word carries more weight than any other writer’s on the coast. He has ‘clout,’ as they say.… It extends to New York, take my word for it.”

  Tanner found himself not wanting to talk. It hurt too much. Leila had all but told him, he thought. All but proclaimed the power of Omega. Of course Bernie was going to do what he wanted to do. Bernie was perfectly capable of making people change their minds, reverse decisions. Or Omega was, and he was part of it—part of them.

  “Yes,” he said softly. “I’ll take your word for it. Bernie’s a big man.”

  They stood quietly for a moment, then Leila spoke sharply. “Are you satisfied?”

  “What?”

  “I asked if you were satisfied. You’ve just questioned me like a cop. I can even furnish you with a list of his appointments, if you’d like. And there are hairdressers, department stores, shops—I’m sure they’d confirm my having been there.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “You know perfectly well! That’s not a very nice party in there, in case you haven’t noticed. We’re all behaving as if we’d never met before, as if we really didn’t like our new acquaintances.”

  “That has nothing to do with me. Maybe you should look to yourselves.”

  “Why?” Leila stepped back. Tanner thought she looked bewildered, but he didn’t trust his appraisal. “Why should we? What is it, John?”

  “Can’t you tell me?”

  “Good Lord, you are after him, aren’t you? You’re after Bernie.”

  “No, I’m not. I’m not after anyone.”

  “You listen to me, John! Bernie would give his life for you! Don’t you know that?”

  Leila Osterman threw the cigarette on the ground and walked away.

  As Tanner was about to carry the chlorine bucket to the garage, Ali came outside with Bernie Osterman. For a moment he wondered whether Leila had said anything. Obviously she hadn’t. His wife and Bernie simply wanted to know where he kept the club soda and to tell him that everyone was getting into suits.

  Tremayne stood in the kitchen doorway, glass in hand, watching the three of them talking. To Tanner he seemed nervous, uneasy.

  Tanner walked into the garage and placed the plastic bucket in the corner next to the garage toilet. It was the coolest place. The kitchen door opened and Tremayne walked down the steps.

  “I want to see you a minute.”

  “Sure.”

  Tremayne turned sideways and slid past the Triumph. “I never see you driving this.”

  “I hate it. Getting in and out of it’s murder.”

  “You’re a big guy.”

  “It’s a small car.”

  “I … I wanted to say I’m sorry about that bullshit I was peddling before. I have no argument with you. I got burned on a case several weeks ago by a reporter on The Wall Street Journal. Can you imagine? The Journal! My firm decided not to go ahead on the strength of it.”

  “Fr
ee press or fair trial. A damned valid argument. I didn’t take it personally.”

  Tremayne leaned against the Triumph. He spoke cautiously. “A couple of hours ago, Bernie asked you—he was talking about last Wednesday—if you were working on anything like that San Diego story. I never knew much about that except that it’s still referred to in the newspapers …”

  “It’s been exaggerated out of proportion. A series of waterfront payoffs. Indigenous to the industry, I think.”

  “Don’t be so modest.”

  “I’m not. It was a hell of a job and I damned near got the Pulitzer. It’s been responsible for my whole career.”

  “All right.… Fine, good.… Now, I’m going to stop playing games. Are you digging around something that affects me?”

  “Not that I know of.… It’s what I said to Bernie; I’ve a staff of seventy-odd directly involved with news gathering. I don’t ask for daily reports.”

  “Are you telling me you don’t know what they’re doing?”

  “I’m better than that,” said Tanner with a short laugh. “I approve expenditures; nothing is aired without my clearing it.”

  Tremayne pushed himself away from the Triumph. “All right, let’s level.… Ginny came back inside fifteen minutes ago. I’ve lived with that girl for sixteen years. I know her.… She’d been crying. She was outside with you and she came back crying. I want to know why.”

  “I can’t answer you.”

  “I think you’d better try!… You resent the money I make, don’t you?”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Of course it is! You think I haven’t heard Ali on your back! And now you subtly, off-handedly drop that nothing is aired without your clearing it! Is that what you told my wife? Am I supposed to hear the details from her? A wife can’t testify; are you protecting us? What do you want?”

  “Get hold of yourself! Are you into something so rotten you’re getting paranoid? Is that it? You want to tell me about it?”

  “No. No! Why was she crying?”

  “Ask her yourself!”

  Tremayne turned away and John Tanner could see the lawyer’s body begin to shake as he passed his hands on the hood of the small sports car.