The Osterman Weekend: A Novel

by Robert Ludlum

  “Who called you?”

  “What’s his name.… That new exec Continuity brought from New York.”

  “Who?”

  “He told me his name.… Tanner. That’s it. Tanner. Jim Tanner, John Tanner …”

  “John Tanner doesn’t work here! Now, who told you to tell me this?” He grabbed Pomfret’s arm. “Tell me, you son of a bitch!”

  “Take your hands off me! You’re crazy!”

  Osterman recognized his mistake: Pomfret was no more than a messenger boy. He let go of the producer’s arm. “I’m sorry, Eddie. I apologize.… I’ve got a lot on my mind. Forgive me, please. I’m a pig.”

  “Sure, sure. You’re uptight, that’s all. You’re very uptight, man.”

  “You say this fellow—Tanner—called you this morning?”

  “About two hours ago. To tell you the truth, I didn’t know him.”

  “Listen. This is some kind of a practical joke. You know what I mean? I’m not doing the series, believe me.… Just forget it, okay?”

  “A joke?”

  “Take my word for it, okay?… Tell you what; they’re talking to Leila and me about a project here. I’ll insist on you as the money-man, how about it?”

  “Hey, thanks!”

  “Don’t mention it. Just keep this little joke between the two of us, right?”

  Osterman didn’t bother to wait for Pomfret’s grateful reply. He hurried away down the studio street, toward his car. He had to get home to Leila.

  A huge man in a chauffeur’s uniform was sitting in the front seat of his car! He got out as Bernie approached and held the back door open for him.

  “Mr. Osterman?”

  “Who are you? What are you doing in …”

  “I have a message for you.”

  “But I don’t want to hear it! I want to know why you’re sitting in my car!”

  “Be very careful of your friend, John Tanner. Be careful what you say to him.”

  “What in God’s name are you talking about?”

  The chauffeur shrugged. “I’m just delivering a message, Mr. Osterman. And now would you like me to drive you home?”

  “Of course not! I don’t know you! I don’t understand.…”

  The back door closed gently. “As you wish, sir. I was simply trying to be friendly.” With a smart salute, he turned away.

  Bernie stood alone, immobile, staring after him.

  7

  Tuesday—10:00 A.M.

  “Are any of the Mediterranean accounts in trouble?” Joe Cardone asked.

  His partner, Sam Bennett, turned in his chair to make sure the office door was shut. “Mediterranean” was their code word for those clients both partners knew were lucrative but dangerous investors. “Not that I know of,” he said. “Why? Did you hear something?”

  “Nothing direct.… Perhaps nothing at all.”

  “That’s why you came back early, though?”

  “No, not really.” Cardone understood that even for Bennett not all explanations could be given. Sam was no part of Zurich. So Joe hesitated. “Well, partly. I spent some time at the Montreal Exchange.”

  “What did you hear?”

  “That there’s a new drive from the Attorney General’s office; that the S.E.C. is handing over everything they have. Every possible Mafia connection with a hundred thousand or more is being watched.”

  “That’s nothing new. Where’ve you been?”

  “In Montreal. That’s where I’ve been. I don’t like it when I hear things like that eight hundred miles from the office. And I’m Goddamned reluctant to pick up a telephone and ask my partner if any of our clients are currently before a grand jury.… I mean, telephone conversations aren’t guaranteed to be private any more.”

  “Good Lord!” Bennett laughed. “Your imagination’s working overtime, isn’t it?”

  “I hope so.”

  “You know damned well I’d have gotten in touch with you if anything like that came up. Or even looked like it might come up. You didn’t cut a vacation short on those grounds. What’s the rest?”

  Cardone avoided his partner’s eyes as he sat down at his desk. “Okay. I won’t lie. Something else did bring me in.… I don’t think it has anything to do with us. With you or the company. If I find out otherwise, I’ll come to you, all right?”

  Bennett got out of the chair and accepted his partner’s non-explanation. Over the years he’d learned not to question Joe too closely. For in spite of his partner’s gregariousness, Cardone was a private man. He brought large amounts of capital into the firm and never asked for more than a proper business share. That was good enough for Bennett.

  Sam walked to the door, laughing softly. “When are you going to stop running from the phantom of South Philadelphia?”

  Cardone returned his partner’s smile. “When it stops chasing me into the Bankers’ Club with a hot lasagna.”

  Bennett closed the door behind him, and Joe returned to the ten-day accumulation of mail and messages. There was nothing. Nothing that could be related to a Mediterranean problem. Nothing that even hinted at a Mafia conflict. Yet something had happened during those ten days; something that concerned Tanner.

  He picked up his telephone and pushed the button for his secretary. “Is this everything? There weren’t any other messages?”

  “None you have to return. I told everyone you wouldn’t be back until the end of the week. Some said they’d call then, the others will phone you Monday.”

  “Keep it like that. Any calls, I’ll be back Monday.”

  He replaced the phone and unlocked the second drawer of his desk, in which he kept an index file of three-by-five cards. The Mediterranean clients.

  He put the small metal box in front of him and started fingering through the cards. Perhaps a name would trigger a memory, a forgotten fact which might have relevance.

  His private telephone rang. Only Betty called him on that line; no one else had the number. Joe loved his wife, but she had a positive genius for irritating him with trivial matters when he wished no interruptions.

  “Yes, dear?”

  Silence.

  “What is it, honey? I’m jammed up.”

  Still his wife didn’t answer.

  Cardone was suddenly afraid. No one but Betty had that number!

  “Betty? Answer me!”

  The voice, when it came, was slow, deep and precise.

  “John Tanner flew to Washington yesterday. Mr. Da Vinci is very concerned. Perhaps your friends in California betrayed you. They’ve been in contact with Tanner.”

  Joe Cardone heard the click of the disconnected telephone.

  Jesus! Oh, Jesus! Oh, Christ! It was the Ostermans! They’d turned!

  But why? It didn’t make sense! What possible connection could there be between Zurich and anything remotely Mafia? They were light-years apart!

  Or were they? Or was one using the other?

  Cardone tried to steady himself but it was impossible. He found himself crushing the small metal box.

  What could he do? Who could he talk to?

  Tanner himself? Oh, God, of course not!

  The Ostermans? Bernie Osterman? Christ, no! Not now.

  Tremayne. Dick Tremayne.

  8

  Tuesday—10:10 A.M.

  Too shaken to sit in a commuter’s seat on the Saddle Valley express, Tremayne decided to drive into New York.

  As he sped east on Route Five toward the George Washington Bridge, he noticed a light blue Cadillac in his rearview mirror. When he pulled to the left, racing ahead of the other cars, the Cadillac did the same. When he returned to the right, squeezing into the slower flow, so did the Cadillac—always several automobiles behind him.

  At the bridge he neared a tollbooth and saw that the Cadillac, in a faster adjacent lane, came parallel. He tried to see who the driver was.

  It was a woman. She turned her face away; he could only see the back of her head. Yet she looked vaguely familiar.

  The Cad
illac sped off before he could reflect further. Traffic blocked any chance he had to follow. He was certain the Cadillac had followed him, but just as surely, the driver did not want to be recognized.

  Why? Who was she?

  Was this woman “Blackstone”?

  He found it impossible to accomplish anything in his office. He canceled the few appointments he had made, and, instead, reexamined the files of recent corporate mergers he had favorably gotten through the courts. One folder in particular interested him: The Cameron Woolens. Three factories in a small Massachusetts town owned for generations by the Cameron family. Raided from the inside by the oldest son. Blackmail had forced him to sell his share of the company to a New York clothing chain who claimed to want the Cameron label.

  They got the label, and closed the factories; the town went bankrupt. Tremayne had represented the clothing chain in the Boston courts. The Cameron family had a daughter. An unmarried woman in her early thirties. Headstrong, angry.

  The driver of the Cadillac was a woman. About the right age.

  Yet to select one was to dismiss so many other possibilities. The merger builders knew whom to call when legal matters got sticky. Tremayne! He was the expert. A forty-four year old magician wielding the new legal machinery, sweeping aside old legal concepts in the exploding economy of the conglomerates.

  Was it the Cameron daughter in the light blue Cadillac?

  How could he know? There were so many. The Camerons. The Smythes of Atlanta. The Boyntons of Chicago. The Fergusons of Rochester. The corporate raiders preyed upon old families, the moneyed families. The old moneyed families pampered themselves, they were targets. Who among them might be Blackstone?

  Tremayne got out of his chair and walked aimlessly around his office. He couldn’t stand the confinement any longer; he had to go out.

  He wondered what Tanner would say if he called him and suggested a casual lunch. How would Tanner react? Would he accept casually? Would be put him off? Would it be possible—if Tanner accepted—to learn anything related to Blackstone’s warning?

  Tremayne picked up the phone and dialed. His eyelid twitched, almost painfully.

  Tanner was tied up in a meeting. Tremayne was relieved; it had been a foolish thing to do. He left no message and hurried out of his office.

  On Fifth Avenue, a Checker cab pulled up directly in front of him, blocking his path at the corner crossing.

  “Hey, mister!” The driver put his head out the window.

  Tremayne wondered whom he was calling—so did several other pedestrians. They all looked at one another.

  “You, mister! Your name Tremayne?”

  “Me? Yes.…”

  “I got a message for you.”

  “For me? How did you?…”

  “I gotta hurry, the light’s gonna change and I got twenty bucks for this. I’m to tell you to walk east on Fifty-fourth Street. Just keep walking and a Mr. Blackstone will contact you.”

  Tremayne put his hand on the driver’s shoulder. “Who told you? Who gave you …”

  “What do I know? Some wack sits in my cab since nine-thirty this morning with the meter on. He’s got a pair of binoculars and smokes thin cigars.”

  The “Don’t Walk” sign began to blink.

  “What did he say!… Here!” Tremayne reached into his pocket and withdrew some bills. He gave the driver a ten. “Here. Now. tell me, please!”

  “Just what I said, mister. He got out a few seconds ago, gave me twenty bucks to tell you to walk east on Fifty-fourth. That’s all.”

  “That’s not all!” Tremayne grabbed the driver’s shirt.

  “Thanks for the ten.” The driver pushed Tremayne’s hand away, honked his horn to disperse the jaywalkers in front of him, and drove off.

  Tremayne controlled his panic. He stepped back onto the curb and retreated under the awning of the storefront behind him, looking at the men walking north, trying to find a man with a pair of binoculars or a thin cigar.

  Finding nobody, he began to edge his way from store entrance to store entrance, towards Fifty-fourth Street. He walked slowly, staring at the passersby. Several collided against him going in the same direction but walking much faster. Several others, heading south, noticed the strange behavior of the blond man in his expensively cut clothes, and smiled.

  On the Fifty-fourth Street corner, Tremayne stopped. In spite of the slight breeze and his lightweight suit, he was perspiring. He knew he had to head east. There was no question about it.

  One thing was clear. Blackstone was not the driver of the light blue Cadillac. Blackstone was a man with binoculars and thin cigars.

  Then who was the woman? He’d seen her before. He knew it!

  He started east on Fifty-fourth, walking on the right side of the pavement. He reached Madison and no one stopped him, no one signaled, no one even looked at him. Then across Park Avenue to the center island.

  No one.

  Lexington Avenue. Past the huge construction sites. No one.

  Third Avenue. Second. First.

  No one.

  Tremayne entered the last block. A dead-end street terminating at the East River, flanked on both sides by the canopies of apartment house entrances. A few men with briefcases and women carrying department store boxes came and went from both buildings. At the end of the street was a light tan Mercedes-Benz sedan parked crossways, as if in the middle of a turn. And near it stood a man in an elegant white suit and Panama hat. He was quite a bit shorter than Tremayne. Even thirty yards away, Tremayne could see he was deeply tanned. He wore thick, wide sunglasses and was looking directly at Tremayne as Tremayne approached him.

  “Mr.… Blackstone?”

  “Mr. Tremayne. I’m sorry you had to walk such a distance. We had to be sure, you see, that you were alone.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” Tremayne was trying to place the accent. It was cultivated, but not the sort associated with the northeastern states.

  “A man who’s in trouble often, mistakenly, looks for company.”

  “What kind of trouble am I in?”

  “You did get my note?”

  “Of course. What did it mean?”

  “Exactly what it said. Your friend Tanner is very dangerous to you. And to us. We simply want to emphasize the point as good businessmen should with one another.”

  “What business interests are you concerned with, Mr. Blackstone? I assume Blackstone isn’t your name so I could hardly connect you with anything familiar.”

  The man in the white suit and hat and dark glasses took several steps towards the Mercedes.

  “We told you. His friends from California …”

  “The Ostermans?”

  “Yes.”

  “My firm has had no dealings with the Ostermans. None whatever.”

  “But you have, haven’t you?” Blackstone walked in front of the hood and stood on the other side of the Mercedes.

  “You can’t be serious!”

  “Believe me when I say that I am.” The man reached for the door handle, but he did not open the door. He was waiting.

  “Just a minute! Who are you?”

  “Blackstone will do.”

  “No!… What you said! You couldn’t …”

  “But we do. That’s the point. And since you now know that we do, it should offer some proof of our considerable influence.”

  “What are you driving at?” Tremayne pressed his hands against the Mercedes’ hood and leaned toward Blackstone.

  “It’s crossed our minds that you may have cooperated with your friend Tanner. That’s really why we wanted to see you. It would be most inadvisable. We wouldn’t hesitate to make public your contribution to the Osterman interests.”

  “You’re crazy! Why would I cooperate with Tanner? On what? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Blackstone removed his dark glasses. His eyes were blue and penetrating, and Tremayne could see freckles about his nose and cheekbones. “If that’s true then you have nothing to worry
about.”

  “Of course it’s true! There’s no earthly reason why I should work with Tanner on anything!”

  “That’s logical.” Blackstone opened the door of the Mercedes. “Just keep it that way.”

  “For God’s sake, you can’t just leave! I see Tanner every day. At the Club. On the train. What the hell am I supposed to think, what am I supposed to say?”

  “You mean what are you supposed to look for? If I were you, I’d act as if nothing had happened. As if we’d never met.… He may drop hints—if you’re telling the truth—he may probe. Then you’ll know.”

  Tremayne stood up, fighting to remain calm. “For all our sakes, I think you’d better tell me whom you represent. It would be best, it really would.”

  “Oh, no, counselor.” A short laugh accompanied Blackstone’s reply. “You see, we’ve noticed that you’ve acquired a disturbing habit over the past several years. Nothing serious, not at this time, but to be considered.”

  “What habit is that?”

  “Periodically you drink too much.”

  “That’s ridiculous!”

  “I said it wasn’t serious. You do brilliant work. Nevertheless, at such times you haven’t your normal control. No, it would be a mistake to burden you, especially in your current state of anxiety.”

  “Don’t go. Please!…”

  “We’ll be in touch. Perhaps you’ll have learned something that will help us. At any rate, we always watch your … merger work with great interest.”

  Tremayne flinched. “What about the Ostermans? You’ve got to tell me.”

  “If you’ve got a brain in your legal head, you won’t say a thing to the Ostermans! Or hint at anything! If Osterman is cooperating with Tanner, you’ll find out. If he’s not, don’t give him any ideas about you.” Blackstone climbed into the driver’s seat of the Mercedes and started the motor. He said, just before he drove off, “Keep your head, Mr. Tremayne. We’ll be in touch.”

  Tremayne tried to marshal his thoughts; he could feel his eyelid twitch. Thank Christ he hadn’t reached Tanner! Not being prepared, he might have said something—something asinine, dangerous.