The Osterman Weekend: A Novel

by Robert Ludlum

  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 pipe. “You don’t want nobody to use your name, 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.

  5

  Tuesday—3:30 A.M. California Time

  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!”

  “Who was it? Why are you shouting? What did they say?”

  “He … the son of a bitch grunted like a bull. He said, he said we were to watch out for the … Tan One. That’s what he said. He made sure I heard the words. The Tan One. What the hell is that?”

  “The what?”

  “The Tan One! That’s all he kept repeating!”

  “It doesn’t make sense.… Was it Hawaii? Did the operator say where the call came from?”

  Osterman stared at his wife in the dim light of the bedroom. “Yes. I heard that clearly. It was overseas.… It was Lisbon. Lisbon, Portugal.”

  “We don’t know anyone in Portugal!”

  “Lisbon, Lisbon, Lisbon …” Osterman kept repeating the name quietly to himself. “Lisbon. Neutral. Lisbon was neutral.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Tan One …”

  “Tan … tan. Tanner. Could it be John Tanner? John Tanner!”

  “Neutral!”

  “It’s John Tanner,” said Leila quietly.

  “Johnny?… What did he mean, ‘Watch out’? Why should we watch out? Why place a call at three-thirty in the morning?”

  Leila sat up and reached for a cigarette. “Johnny’s got enemies. The San Diego waterfront still hurts because of him.”

  “San Diego, sure! But Lisbon?”

  “Daily Variety said last week that we’re going to New York,” continued Leila, inhaling smoke deeply. “That we’d probably stay with our ex-neighbors, the Tanners.”

  “So?”

  “Perhaps we’re too well advertised.” She looked at her husband.

  “Maybe I’ll call Johnny.” Osterman reached for the phone.

  Leila grabbed his wrist. “Are you out of your mind?”

  Osterman lay back down.

  Joe opened his eyes and glanced at his watch: six-twenty-two. Time to get up, have a short workout in his gym and perhaps walk over to the Club for an hour’s practice on the golf range.

  He was an early riser, Betty the opposite. She would sleep till noon whenever she had the chance. They had two double beds, one for each of them, because Joe knew the debilitating effects of two separate body temperatures under the same set of covers. The benefits of a person’s sleep were diminished by nearly fifty percent when he shared a bed all night with somebody else. And since the purpose of the marriage bed was exclusively sexual, there was no point in losing the benefits of sleep.

  A pair of double beds was just fine.

  He finished ten minutes on the exercycle and five with seven-and-a-half-pound handbells. He looked through the thick glass window of the steam bath and saw that the room was ready.

  A panel light above the gym’s wall clock flashed on. It was the front doorbell. Joe had the device installed in case he was home alone and working out.

  The clock read six-fifty-one, much too early for anyone in Saddle Valley to be ringing front doorbells. He put the small weights on the floor and walked to his house intercom.

  “Yes? Who is it?”

  “Telegram, Mr. Cardione.”

  “Who?”

  “Cardione, it says.”

  “The name is Cardone.”

  “Isn’t this Eleven Apple Place?”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  He flicked off the intercom and grabbed a towel from the rack, draping it around him as he walked rapidly out of the gym. He didn’t like what he had just heard. He reached the front door and opened it. A small man in uniform stood there chewing gum.

  “Why didn’t you telephone? It’s pretty early, isn’t it?”

  “Instructions were to deliver. I had to drive out here, Mr. Cardione. Almost fifteen miles. We keep twenty-four-hour service.”

  Cardone signed for the envelope. “Why fifteen miles? Western Union’s got a branch in Ridge Park.”

  “Not Western Union, Mister. This is a cablegram … from Europe.”r />
  Cardone grabbed the envelope out of the uniformed man’s hand. “Wait a minute.” He didn’t want to appear excited, so he walked normally into the living room where he remembered seeing Betty’s purse on the piano. He took out two one-dollar bills and returned to the door. “Here you are. Sorry about the trip.” He closed the door and ripped open the cablegram.

  L’UOMO BRUNO PALIDO NON È AMICO DEL ITALIANO. GUARDA BENE VICINI DI QUESTA MANIERA. PROTECIATE PER LA FINA DELL A SETTTMANA.

  DA VINCI

  Cardone walked into the kitchen, found a pencil on the telephone shelf and sat down at the table. He wrote out the translation on the back of a magazine.

  The tight-brown man is no friend of the Italian. Be cautious of such neighbors. Protect yourself against the end of the week. Da Vinci.

  What did it mean? What “light-brown … neighbors”? There were no blacks in Saddle Valley. The message didn’t make sense.

  Suddenly Joe Cardone froze. The light-brown neighbor could only mean John Tanner. The end of the week—Friday—the Ostermans were arriving. Someone in Europe was telling him to protect himself against John Tanner and the upcoming Osterman weekend.

  He snatched up the cablegram and looked at the dateline.

  Zurich.

  Oh, Jesus Christ! Zurich!

  Someone in Zurich—someone who called himself Da Vinci, someone who knew his real name, who knew John Tanner, who knew about the Ostermans—was warning him!

  Joe Cardone stared out the window at his backyard lawn. Da Vinci, Da Vinci!

  Leonardo.

  Artist, soldier, architect of war—all things to all men.

  Mafia!

  Oh, Christ! Which of them?

  The Costellanos? The Batellas? The Latronas, maybe.

  Which of them had turned on him? And why? He was their friend!

  His hands shook as he spread the cablegram on the kitchen table. He read it once more. Each sentence conjured up progressively more dangerous meanings.

  Tanner!

  John Tanner had found out something! But what?

  And why did the message come from Zurich?

  What would any of them have to do with Zurich?

  Or the Ostermans?

  What had Tanner discovered? What was he going to do?… One of the Battella men called Tanner something once; what was it?

  “Volturno!”

  Vulture.

  “… no friend of the Italian.… Be cautious.… Protect yourself.…”

  How? From what? Tanner wouldn’t confide in him. Why should he?

  He, Joe Cardone, wasn’t syndicate; he wasn’t famiglia. What could he know?

  But “Da Vinci’s” message had come from Switzerland.

  And that left one remaining possibility, a frightening one. The Cosa Nostra had learned about Zurich! They’d use it against him unless he was able to control the “light-brown man,” the Italian’s enemy. Unless he could stop whatever it was John Tanner was about to do, he’d be destroyed.

  Zurich! The Ostermans!

  He had done what he thought was right! What he had to do to survive. Osterman had pointed that out in a way that left no doubts. But it was in other hands now. Not his. He couldn’t be touched any more.

  Joe Cardone walked out of the kitchen and returned to his miniature gymnasium. Without putting on gloves he started pounding the bag. Faster and faster, harder and harder.

  There was a screeching in his brain.

  “Zurich! Zurich! Zurich!”

  Virginia Tremayne heard her husband get out of bed at six-fifteen, and knew immediately that something was wrong. Her husband rarely stirred that early.

  She waited several minutes. When he didn’t return, she rose, put on her bathrobe, and went downstairs. He was in the living room standing by the bay window, smoking a cigarette and reading something on a piece of paper.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Look at this,” he answered quietly.

  “At what?” She took the paper from his hand.

  Take extreme caution with your editorial friend. His friendship does not extend beyond his zeal. He is not what he appears to be. We may have to report his visitors from California.

  Blackstone

  “What is this? When did you get it?”

  “I heard noises outside the window about twenty minutes ago. Just enough to wake me up. Then there was the gunning of a car engine. It kept racing up and down.… I thought you heard it, too. You pulled the covers up.”

  “I think I did. I didn’t pay any attention.…”

  “I came down and opened the door. This envelope was on the doormat.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  “Who’s Blackstone?”

  “The commentaries. Basis of the legal system.…” Richard Tremayne flung himself down in an armchair and brought his hand up to his forehead. With the other he rolled his cigarette delicately along the rim of an ashtray. “Please.… Let me think.”

  Virginia Tremayne looked again at the paper with the cryptic message. “ ‘Editorial friend.’ Does that mean?…”

  “Tanner’s onto something and whoever delivered this is in panic. Now they’re trying to make me panic, too.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe they think I can help them. And if I don’t they’re threatening me. All of us.”

  “The Ostermans.”

  “Exactly. They’re threatening us with Zurich.”

  “Oh, my God! They know! Someone’s found out!”

  “It looks that way.”

  “Do you think Bernie got frightened? Talked about it?”

  Tremayne’s eye twitched. “He’d be insane if he did. He’d be crucified on both sides of the Atlantic.… No, that’s not it.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “Whoever wrote this is someone I’ve either worked with in the past or refused to handle. Maybe it’s one of the current cases. Maybe one of the files on my desk right now. And Tanner got wind of it and is making noises. They expect me to stop him. If I don’t, I’m finished. Before I can afford it.… Before Zurich goes to work for us.”

  “They couldn’t touch you!” said Tremayne’s wife with fierce, artificial defiance.

  “Come on, darling. Let’s not kid each other. In polite circles I’m a merger analyst. In the boardrooms I’m a corporate raider. To paraphrase Judge Hand, the merger market is currently insane with false purchase. False. That means fake. Buying with paper. Pieces of fiction.”

  “Are you in trouble?”

  “Not really—I could always say I was given wrong information. The courts like me.”

  “They respect you! You’ve worked harder than any man I know. You’re the best damned lawyer there is!”

  “I’d like to think so.”

  “You are!”

  Richard Tremayne stood at the large bay window looking out at the lawn of his seventy-four-thousand-dollar ranch house. “Isn’t it funny. You’re probably right. I’m one of the best there is in a system I despise.… A system Tanner would rip apart piece by piece on one of his programs if he knew what really made it go. That’s what the little message is all about.”

  “I think you’re wrong. I think it’s someone you’ve beaten who wants to get even. Who’s trying to frighten you.”

  “Then he’s succeeded. What this … Blackstone is telling me isn’t anything I don’t know. What I am and what I do makes me Tanner’s natural enemy. At least he’d think so.… If only he knew the truth.”

  He looked at her and forced a smile. “They know the truth in Zurich.”

  6

  Tuesday—9:30 A.M. California Time

  Osterman wandered aimlessly around the studio lot, trying to get his mind off the pre-dawn phone call. He was obsessed by it.

  Neither he nor Leila had slept again. They’d kept trying to narrow down the possibilities and when those were exhausted they explored the more important question of why.

  W
hy had he been called? What was behind it? Was Tanner onto another one of his exposés?

  If he was, it had nothing to do with him. Nothing to do with Bernie Osterman.

  Tanner never talked in specifics about his work. Only in generalities. He had a low pressure point when it came to what he considered injustice, and since the two men often disagreed on what constituted fair game in the marketplace, they avoided specifics.

  Bernie thought of Tanner as a crusader who had never traveled on foot. He’d never gone through the experience of watching a father come home and announce he had no job the next day. Or a mother staying up half the night sewing wonders into a worn-out garment for a child going to school in the morning. Tanner could afford his indignation, and he had done fine work. But there were some things he would never understand. It was why Bernie had never discussed Zurich with him.

  “Hey, Bernie! Wait a minute!” Ed Pomfret, a middle-aged, rotund, insecure producer, caught up with him on the sidewalk.

  “Hello, Eddie. How’s everything?”

  “Great! I tried reaching you at your office. The girl said you were out.”

  “Nothing to do.”

  “I got the word, guess you did, too. It’ll be good working with you.”

  “Oh?… No, I didn’t get the word. What are we working on?”

  “What’s this? Jokes?” Pomfret was slightly defensive. As if he was aware that Osterman thought he was a second-rater.

  “No jokes. I’m wrapping up here this week. What are you talking about? Who gave you the word?”

  “That new man from Continuity phoned me this morning. I’m handling half of the segments on The Interceptor series. He said you were doing four running shots. I like the idea.”

  “What idea?”

  “The story outline. Three men working on a big, quiet deal in Switzerland. Right away it grabbed me.”

  Osterman stopped walking and looked down at Pomfret.

  “Who put you up to this?”

  “Put me up to what?”

  “There’s no four shots. No outlines. No deal. Now tell me what you’re trying to say.”

  “You’ve got to be joking. Would I kid powerhouses like you and Leila? I was tickled to death. Continuity told me to phone you, ask for the outlines!”