The Osterman weekend

by Ludlum, Robert

  "I don't believe that. If it's true it should be made public."

  "Impossible. There'd be legal massacre. Courts and money are not an immaculate combination. ... Today it's the conglomerates. Pick up the newspaper any day. Turn to the financial pages and read about the manipulators. Look at the charges and countercharges. It's a mother lode for Omega.

  A directory of candidates. None of those boys lives in a deep freeze. Not one of them. An unsecured loan is granted, a stock margin is expanded— temporarily—girls are provided to a good customer. Omega digs just a little with the right people and a lot of slime gets in the bucket. It's not very hard to do. You just have to be accurate. Enough so to frighten."

  Tanner looked away from the blond man who spoke with such precision. With such relaxed confidence. "I don't like to think you're right."

  Suddenly, Fassett crossed back to the table and turned off the tape recorder. The wheels stopped. "Why not? It's not just the information uncovered —that could be relatively harmless—^but the way it's applied. Take you, for instance. Suppose, just suppose, a story based on occurrences around twenty some-odd years ago outside Los Angeles were printed in the Saddle Valley paper. Your children are in school there, your wife happy in the community. . . . How long do you think you'd stay there?"

  Tanner lurched out of his chair and faced the shorter man across the desk. His rage was such that his hands trembled. He spoke with deep feeling, barely audible.

  "That's filthy!"

  'That's Omega, Mr. Tanner. Relax, I was only making a point." Fassett turned the recorder back on and continued as Tanner returned warily to his chair. "Omega exists. Which brings me to the last part of... stage one."

  "What's that?"

  Laurence Fassett sat down behind the desk. He crushed out his cigarette, while Tanner reached into his pocket and withdrew a pack. "We know now that there's a timetable for Omega. A date for the chaos to begin. . . . I'm not telling you anything you don't know when I admit that my agency is often involved in exchange of personnel with the Soviets."

  "Nothing I don't know."

  "One of ours for two or three of theirs is the normal ratio...."

  "I know that, too."

  "Twelve months ago on the border of Albania such an exchange took place. Forty-five days of haggling. I was there, which is why I'm here now. During the exchange our team was approached by several members of the Soviet Foreign Service. The best way I can describe them to you is to call them moderates. The same as our moderates."

  "I understand what our moderates oppose. What do the Soviet moderates oppose?"

  "Same thing. Instead of a Pentagon—and an elusive military-industrial complex—it's the hardliners in the Presidium. The militarists."

  "I see."

  "We were informed that the Soviet militarists have issued a target date for the final phase of Operation Omega. On that date the plan will be implemented. Untold hundreds of powerful executives in the American business community will be reached and threatened with personal destruction if they do not follow the orders given them. A major financial crisis could be the result. An economic disaster is not impossible It's the truth.

  "That is the end of stage one."

  Tanner got out of his chair, drawing on his cigarette. He paced up and down in front of the desk. "And with that information I have the option to get out of here?"

  "You do."

  "You're too much. Honest to Christ, you're too much!... The tape's running. Go on."

  "Very well. Stage two. We knew that Omega was made up of the very same type of individual it will attack. It had to be, otherwise the contacts could never have been made, the vulnerabilities never established. In essence, we basically knew what to look for. Men who could infiltrate large companies, men who worked either in or for them, who could associate with their subjects. ... As I mentioned previously, Omega is a code name for a cell or a group of agents. There is also a geographical code name; a clearing house for the forwarding of information. Having passed through this source, the authenticity is presumably established because of its operational secrecy. The geographical code name for Omega is difficult to give an accurate translation of, but the nearest is 'Chasm of ... Leather' or 'Goat Skin.' "

  " 'Chasm of Leather'?" Tanner put out his cigarette.

  "Yes. Remember, we learned this over three years ago. After eighteen months of concentrated research we pinpointed the 'Chasm of Leather' as one of eleven locations throughout the country. ..."

  "One of them being Saddle Valley, New Jersey?"

  "Let's not get ahead of ourselves."

  "Am I right?"

  "We placed agents within these communities," continued the C.LA. man, disregarding Tanner's question. "We ran checks on thousands of citizens —a very expensive exercise—and the more we researched, the more evidence we turned up that the Village of Saddle Valley was the 'Chasm of Leather.' It was a thorough job. Watermarks on stationery, analysis of dust particles the East German officer brought out in the sealed folders he gave us when he defected, a thousand different items checked and rechecked. . . . But mainly, the information about certain residents unearthed in the research."

  "I think you'd better get to the point."

  "That will be your decision. I've just about concluded stage two." Tanner remained silent, so Fassett continued. "You are in a position to give us incalculable assistance. In one of the most sensitive operations in current U.S.-Soviet relations, you can do what no one else can do. It might even appeal to you, for as you must have gathered from what I've said, the moderates on both sides are at this moment working together."

  "Please clarify that."

  "Only fanatics subscribe to this type of insurgency. It's far too dangerous for both countries. There's a power struggle in the Soviet Presidium. The moderates must prevail for all our sakes. One way to accomplish this is to expose even part of Omega and kill the target date."

  "How can I do anything?"

  "You know Omega, Mr. Tanner. You know Omega very well."

  Tanner caught his breath. For a moment he believed his heart had stopped. He felt the blood rush to his head. He felt, for an instant, somewhat sick.

  "I find that an incredible statement."

  "I would, too, if I were you. Nevertheless, it's true."

  "And I gather this is the end of stage two? . . . You bastard. You son of a bitch!" Tanner spoke hardly above a whisper.

  "Call me anything you like. Hit me if you want to. I won't hit back. ... I told you, I've been through this before."

  Tanner got out of the chair and pressed his fingers against his forehead. He turned away from Fassett, then whipped around. "Suppose you're wrong?" he whispered. "Suppose you Goddamn idiots have made another mistake!"

  "We haven't. . . . We don't claim to have flushed Omega out completely. However, we have narrowed it down. You're in a unique position."

  Tanner walked to the window and started to pull up the shade.

  "Don't touch that! Hold it down!" Fassett leaped from his chair and grabbed Tanner's wrist with one hand and the string of the shade with his other. Tanner looked into the agent's eyes.

  "And if I walk out of here now, I live with what you’ve told me? Never knowing who's in my house, who I'm talking to in the street? Living with the knowledge that you think someone might fire a rifle into this room if I lift up the shade?"

  "Don't over-dramatize. These are merely precautions."

  Tanner walked back to his side of the desk but did not sit down. "Goddamn you," he said softly. "You know I can't leave. . . ."

  "Do you accept the conditions?"

  "I do."

  "I must ask you to sign this affidavit." He took out a page from the manila folder and placed it in front of Tanner. It was a concise statement on the nature and penalties of the National Security Act. It referred to Omega in unspecific terms—Exhibit A, defined as the tape recording. Tanner scribbled his name and remained standing, staring at Fassett.

  "I shall now as
k you the following questions." Fassett picked up the folder and flipped to the back pages. "Are you familiar with the individuals I now specify? Richard Tremayne and his wife, Virginia. ... Please reply."

  Astounded, Tanner spoke softly, "I am."

  "Joseph Cardone, born Guiseppe Ambruzzio Cardione, and his wife, Elizabeth?"

  "I am."

  "Bernard Osterman and his wife, Leila?"

  "Yes."

  "Louder, please, Mr. Tanner."

  "I said, yes."

  "I now inform you that one, two, or all three of the couples specified are essential to the Omega operation."

  "You're out of your mind! You're insane!"

  "We're not. ... I spoke of our exchange on the Albanian border. It was made known to us then that Omega, Chasm of Leather, operated out of a Manhattan suburb—and that confirmed-our analysis. That Omega was comprised of couples—men and women fanatically devoted to the militaristic policies of the Soviet expansionists. These couples were well paid for their services. The couples specified—the Tremaynes, the Cardones, and the Ostermans—currently possess coded bank accounts in Zurich, Switzerland, with amounts far exceeding any incomes ever reported."

  "You can't mean what you're saying!"

  "Even allowing for coincidence, and we have thoroughly researched each party involved, it is our opinion that you are being used as a very successful cover for Omega. You're a newsman above reproach.

  "We don't claim that all three couples are involved. It's conceivable that one or possibly two of the couples are being used as decoys, as you are. But it's doubtful. The evidence—the Swiss accounts, the professions, the unusual circumstances of your association—point to a cell."

  "Then how did you disqualify me?" asked Tanner numbly.

  "Your life from the day you were bom has been microscopically inspected by professionals. If we're wrong about you, we have no business doing what we're doing."

  Tanner, exhausted, sat down with difficulty in the chair. "What do you want me to do?"

  "If our information is correct, the Ostermans are flying east on Friday and will stay with you and your family over the weekend. Is that right?"

  "It was."

  "Don't change it. Don't alter the situation."

  "That's impossible now. . .."

  "It's the only way you can help us. All of us."

  "Why?"

  "We believe we can trap Omega during this coming weekend. If we have your cooperation. Without it, we can't."

  "How?"

  "There are four days remaining before the Ostermans arrive. During this period our subjects—the Ostermans, the Tremaynes, and the Cardones—will be harassed. Each couple will receive untraceable telephone calls, cablegrams routed through Zurich, chance meetings with strangers in restaurants, in cocktail lounges, on the street. The point of all this is to deliver a common message. That John Tanner is not what he appears to be. You are something else. Perhaps a double agent, or a Polit-bureau informer, or even a bona fide member of my own organization. The information they receive will be confusing, designed to throw them off balance."

  "And make my family a set of targets. I won't permit it! They'd kill us!"

  "That's the one thing they won't do."

  "Why not? If anything you say is true—and I'm by no means convinced that it is. I know these people. I can't believe it!"

  "In that event, there's no risk at all."

  "Why not?"

  "If they—any one or all couples—are not involved with Omega, they'll do the normal thing. They'll report the incidents to the police or the F.B.I. We'll take over then. If one or two couples make such reports and the other or others do not, we'll know who Omega is."

  "And . . . supposing you are right. What then? What are your built-in guarantees?"

  "Several factors. All fool-proof. I told you the 'information' about you will be false. Whoever Omega is will use his resources and check out what he learns with the Kremlin itself. Our confederates there are prepared. They will intercept. The information Omega gets back from Moscow will be the truth. The truth until this afternoon, that is. You are simply John Tanner, news director, and no part of any conspiracy. What will be added is the trap. Moscow will inform whoever runs a check on you to be suspicious of the other couples. They may be defectors. We divide. We bring about a confrontation and walk in."

  "That's awfully glib. It sounds too easy."

  "If any attempt was made on your life or the lives of your family, the entire Omega operation would be in jeopardy. They're not willing to take that risk. They've worked too hard. I told you, they're fanatics. The target date for Omega is less than one month away."

  "That's not good enough."

  "There's something else. A minimum of two armed agents will be assigned to each member of your family. Twenty-four-hour surveillance. They'll never be more than fifty yards away. At any time."

  "Now I know you're insane. You don't know Saddle Valley. Strangers lurking around are spotted quickly and chased out! We'd be sitting ducks."

  Fassett smiled. "At this moment we have thirteen men in Saddle Valley. Thirteen. They're daily residents of your community."

  "Sweet Jesus!" Tanner spoke softly. "Nineteen-eighty-four is creeping up on us, isn't it?"

  "The times we live in often call for it."

  "I don't have a choice, do I? I don't have a choice at all." He pointed to the tape recorder and the affidavit lying beside it. "I'm hung now, aren't I?"

  "I think you're over-dramatizing again." "No, I'm not. I'm not dramatizing anything. ... I have to do exactly what you want me to do, don't I? I have to go through with it. . . . The only alternative I have is to disappear ... and be hunted. Hunted by you and—if you're right—by this Omega."

  Fassett returned Tanner's look without a trace of deceit. Tanner had spoken the truth and both men knew it.

  "It's only six days. Six days out of a lifetime."

  4

  Monday—8:05 p.m.

  The flight from Dulles Airport to Newark seemed unreal. He wasn't tired. He was terrified. His mind kept darting from one image to another, each visual picture pushing the previous one out into the distance. There were the sharp staring eyes of Laurence Fassett above the tape recorder's turning reels. The drone of Fassett's voice asking those interminable questions; then the voice growing louder and louder.

  "Omega!"

  And the faces of Bernie and Leila Osterman, Dick and Ginny Tremayne, Joe and Betty Cardone.

  None of it made sense! He'd get to Newark and suddenly the nightmare would be over and he'd remember giving Laurence Fassett the public service features and signing the absent pages of the F.C.C. filing.

  Only he knew he wouldn't.

  The hour's ride from Newark to Saddle Valley was made in silence, the taxi driver taking his cue from his fare in the back seat who kept lighting cigarettes and who hadn't answered him when he'd asked how the flight had been.

  SADDLE VALLEY

  VILLAGE INCORPORATED 1862

  Welcome

  Tanner stared at the sign as it caught the cab's headlights. As it receded he could only think of the words "Chasm of Leather."

  Unreal.

  Ten minutes later the taxi pulled up to his house. He got out and absently handed the driver the fare agreed upon.

  "Thanks, Mr. Tanner," said the driver, leaning over the seat to take the money through the window.

  "What? What did you say?" demanded John Tanner.

  "I said 'Thanks, Mr. Tanner.' "

  Tanner leaned down and gripped the door handle, pulling the door open with all his strength.

  "How did you know my name? You tell me how you knew my name!"

  The taxi driver could see beads of perspiration rolling down his passenger's face, the crazy look in the man's eyes. A weirdo, thought the driver. He carefully moved his left hand toward the floor beneath his feet. He always kept a thin lead pipe there.

  "Look, Mac," he said, his fingers around the i pipe. "You don't wan
t nobody to use your name, I take the sign off your lawn."

  Tanner stepped back and looked over his shoulder. On the lawn was the wrought-iron lantern, a weatherproof hurricane lamp hanging from a crossbar by a chain. Above the lamp, reflected in the light, were the words:

  THE TANNERS 22 ORCHARD DRIVE

  He'd looked at that lamp and those words a thousand times. The Tanners. 22 Orchard Drive, At that moment they, too, seemed unreal. As if he had never seen them before.

  "I'm sorry, fella. I'm a little on edge. I don't like flying." He closed the door as the driver began rolling up the window. The driver spoke curtly.

  "Take the train then. Mister. Or walk, for Christ's sake!"

  The taxi roared off, and Tanner turned and looked at his house. The door opened. The dog bounded out to meet him. His wife stood in the hall light, and he could see her smile.

  The white French telephone, with its muted Hollywood bell, had rung at least five times. Leila thought sleepily that it was foolish to have it on Bernie's side of the bed. It never woke him, only her.

  She nudged her husband's ribs with her elbow. "Darling Bernie. Bernie! It's the phone."

  "What?" Osterman opened his eyes, confused. "The phone? Oh, the Goddamn phone. Who can hear it?"

  He reached over in the darkness and found the thin cradle with his fingers.

  "Yes? . . . Yes, this is Bernard Osterman. . . . Long distance?" He covered the phone with his hand and pushed himself up against the headboard. He turned toward his wife. "What time is it?"

  Leila snapped on her bedside lamp and looked at the table clock. "Three-thirty. My God!"

  "Probably some bastard on that Hawaiian series. It's not even midnight there yet." Bernie was listening at the phone. "Yes, operator, I'm waiting. . . . It's very long distance, honey. If it is Hawaii, they can put that producer on the typewriter; we've had it. We never should have touched it. . . . Yes, operator? Please hurry, will you?"

  "You said you wanted to see those islands without a uniform on, remember?"

  "I apologize. . . . Yes, operator, this is Bernard Osterman, damn it! Yes? Yes? Thank you, operator. . . . Hello? I can hardly hear you. Hello? . . . Yes, that's better. Who's this? . . . What? What did you say? . . . Who is this? What's your name? I don't understand you. Yes, I heard you, but I don't understand. . . . Hello? . . . Hello! Wait a minute! I said wait a minute!" Osterman shot up and flung his legs over the side of the bed. The blankets came after him and fell on the floor at his feet. He began punching the center bar on the white French telephone. "Operator! Operator! The Goddamn line's dead!"