The Osterman weekend Page 11

  Tanner awkwardly, unsteadily, got up. "You're not going on with this? You've got to call it off."

  "Call it off? One of my men was just killed. We call it off now and you're also dead. So's the rest of your family."

  Tanner saw the sadness in the agent's eyes. One didn't argue with such men. They told the truth.

  "Have you checked on the others?"

  "Yes, we have."

  "Where are they?"

  "The Cardones are at home. Tremayne stayed in New York; his wife's out here."

  "What about the Ostermans?"

  "I'll go into that later. You'd better get back inside. We've doubled the patrol."

  "No you don't. What about the Ostermans. Aren't they in California?"

  "You know they're not. You placed a call to them on your credit card at four-forty-six this afternoon."

  "Then where are they?"

  Fassett looked at the news director and replied simply. "They obviously made reservations under another name. We know they're in the New York area. We'll find them."

  "Then it could have been Osterman."

  "It could have been. You'd better get back. And don't worry. We've got an army out here."

  Tanner looked over at the woods where Fassett's man had been murdered. His whole body involuntarily shook for a moment. The proximity of such a brutal death appalled him. He nodded to the government men and started towards his house feeling only a sickening emptiness.

  "Is it true about Tremayne?" asked Jenkins softly. "He's in the city?"

  "Yes. He had a fair amount to drink and took a room at the Biltmore."

  "Anyone check the room tonight?"

  Fassett turned his attention from the figure of Tanner disappearing into the house. He looked at Jenkins. "Earlier, yes. Our man reported that he went—probably staggered—to his room a little after midnight. We told him to pull out and pick Tremayne up again at seven. What's bothering you?"

  "I'm not sure yet. It'll be clearer when we confirm Cardone's situation."

  "We did confirm it. He's at home."

  "We assume he's at home because we haven't had any reason to think otherwise up to now."

  "You'd better explain that."

  "The Cardones had dinner guests. Three couples. They all came together in a car with New York plates. Surveillance said they left in a hurry at twelve-thirty. . . . I'm wondering now if Cardone was in that car. It was dark. He could have been."

  "Let's check it out. With both. The Biltmore'll be no problem. With Cardone we'll have Da Vinci make another phone call."

  Eighteen minutes later the two government men sat in the front seat of an automobile several hundred yards down the road from the Tanner house. The radio came in clearly.

  "Information in, Mr. Fassett. The Da Vinci call got us nowhere. Mrs. Cardone said her husband wasn't feeling well; he was sleeping in a guest room and she didn't want to disturb him. Incidentally, she hung up on us. The Biltmore confirmed.

  There's no one in room ten-twenty-one. Tremayne didn't even sleep in his bed."

  "Thank you, New York," said Laurence Fassett as he flipped the channel button to off. He looked over at Jenkins. "Can you imagine a man like Cardone refusing a telephone call at four-thirty in the morning? From Da Vinci?"

  "He's not there."

  "Neither's Tremayne."

  12

  Thursday — 6:40 a.m.

  Fassett told him he could stay home on Thursday. Not that he had to be given permission; nothing could have dragged him away. Fassett also said that he'd contact him in the morning. The final plans for the total protection of the Tanner family would be made clear.

  The news director put on a pair of khaki trousers and carried his sneakers and a sportshirt downstairs. He looked at the kitchen clock: twenty minutes to seven. The children wouldn't be up for at least an hour and a half. Ali, with luck, would sleep until nine-thirty or ten.

  Tanner wondered how many men were outside. Fassett had said there was an army, but what good would an army be if Omega wanted him dead? What good had an army been for the government man in the woods at three-thirty in the morning? There were too many possibilities. Too many opportunities. Fassett had to understand that now. It had gone too far. If the preposterous were real, if the Ostermans, the Cardones or the Tremaynes really were a part of Omega, he couldn't simply greet them at his door as if nothing had happened. It was absurd!

  He went to the kitchen door and quietly let himself out. He'd go towards the woods until he saw someone. He'd reach Fassett.

  "Good morning." It was Jenkins, dark circles of weariness under his eyes. He was sitting on the ground just beyond the edge of the woods. He couldn't be seen from the house or even the pool.

  'Hello. Aren't you going to get any sleep?"

  "I'm relieved at eight. I don't mind. What about you? You're exhausted."

  "Look, I want to see Fassett. I've got to see him before he makes any more plans."

  The patrolman looked at his wristwatch. "He was going to call you after we gave him the word you were up. I don't think he expected it'd be so early. That may be good though. Wait a sec." Jenkins walked a few feet into the woods and returned with a canvas-pack radio. "Let's go. We'll drive over."

  "Why can't he come here?"

  "Relax. Nobody could get near your house. Come on. You'll see."

  Jenkins picked up the radio by its shoulder strap and led Tanner through a newly created path in the woods surrounding his property. Every thirty to forty feet were men, kneeling, sitting, lying on their stomachs facing the house, unseen but seeing. As Jenkins and Tanner approached each man, weapons were drawn. Jenkins gave the radio to the patrol on the east flank.

  "Call Fassett. Tell him we're on our way over," he said.

  "That agent was killed last night because the killer knew he'd been recognized. One part of Omega was identified and that was unacceptable." Fassett sipped coffee, facing Tanner. "It was also another sort of warning, but that doesn't concern you."

  "He was murdered fifty yards from my house, from my family! Everything concerns me!"

  "All right! . . . Try to understand. We can assume the information on you has been returned; remember, you're just Tanner the newsman, nothing else. They're circling like hawks now, wary of each other. None knowing whether the others have accomplices, scouts of their own. . . . The killer— one tentacle of Omega—^ran a private surveillance. He collided with the agent; he had no choice but to kill. He didn't know him, he'd never seen him before. The only thing he could be sure of was that whoever posted the man would become concerned when he didn't report. Whoever was responsible for that man in the woods would come and find him. That was the warning; his death."

  "You can't be sure of that."

  "We're not dealing with amateurs. The killer knew the body would be removed before daylight. I told you in Washington, Omega's fanatic. A decapitated body fifty yards from your house is the kind of mistake that would call for an NKVD execution. If Omega was responsible. If not..."

  "How do you know they're not working together? The Ostermans or the Cardones or the Tremaynes are any part of it, they could have planned it together."

  "Impossible. They haven't been in contact since the harassment began. We've fed them all—each of them—contradictory stories, illogical suppositions, half truths. We've had cables routed through Zurich, telephone calls from Lisbon, messages delivered by strangers in dead-end streets. Each couple is in the dark. None know what the others are doing."

  The agent named Cole looked up at Fassett from the chair by the motel window. He knew that Fassett could not be absolutely sure of his last statement. They'd lost the Ostennans for nearly twelve hours. There was a surveillance lapse of three and three-and-a-half hours, respectively, with Tremayne and Cardone. Still, thought Cole, Fassett was right to say what he did.

  "Where are the Ostermans? You said last night —this morning—that you didn't know where they were."

  "We found them. In a New York hotel. From
what we've learned, it's doubtful Osterman was in the area last night."

  "But, again, you're not sure."

  "I said doubtful. Not beyond doubt."

  "And you're convinced it had to be one of them?"

  "We think so. The killer was male almost certainly. It. . . took enormous strength. ... He knew the grounds around your property better than we did. And you should know we've studied your place for weeks."

  "For God's sake then, stop them! Confront them! You can't let it go on!"

  "Which one?" Fassett asked quietly.

  "All of them! A man was killed!"

  Fassett put his coffee cup down. "If we do as you suggest, which, I admit, is tempting—it was my man who was killed, remember—we not only wash out any chance we have to expose Omega, but we also take a risk with you and your family that I can't justify."

  "We couldn't be taking any greater risk and you know it."

  "You're in no danger. Not as long as you continue to act in a normal manner. If we walk in now we're admitting the weekend is a trap. That trap couldn't have been set without your assistance. . . • We'd be signing your death warrants."

  "I don't understand that."

  "Then take my word for it," said Fassett sharply. "Omega must come to us. There's no other way."

  Tanner paused, watching Fassett carefully. "That's not entirely true, is it? What you're saying is ... it's too late."

  "You're very perceptive."

  Fassett picked up his cup and went to the table where there was a thermos of coffee. "There's only one more day. At the most two. Some part of Omega will break by then. All we need is one. One defection and it's over."

  "And one stick of dynamite in my house blows us to hell."

  "There'll be nothing like that. No violence. Not directed at you. Put simply, you're not important. Not any longer. They'll only be concerned about each other."

  "What about yesterday afternoon?"

  "We've put out a police-blotter story. A robbery. Bizarre to be sure, but a robbery nevertheless. Just what your wife thinks happened, the way she thinks it happened. You don't have to deny anything."

  "They'll know it's a lie. They'll call it."

  Fassett looked calmly up from the thermos. "Then we'll have Omega, won't we? We'll know which one it is."

  "What am I supposed to do? Pick up a telephone and call you? They may have other ideas ..."

  "We'll hear every word said in your house starting with your first guest tomorrow afternoon. Later this morning two television repairmen will come to fix the sets damaged in the robbery. While tracing antenna wiring they'll also install miniaturized pick-ups throughout your home. Starting with the first arrival tomorrow, they'll be activated."

  "Are you trying to tell me you won't activate them until then?"

  Cole interrupted. "No, we won't. We're not interested in your privacy, only your safety."

  "You'd better get back," said Fassett. "Jenkins will drop you off at the south end of your property. You couldn't sleep so you went for a walk."

  Tanner crossed slowly to the door. He stopped and looked back at Fassett. "It's just like it was in Washington, isn't it? You don't give me any alternative."

  Fassett turned away. "We'll be in touch. If I were you I'd relax, go to the Club. Play tennis, swim. Get your mind off things. You'll feel better."

  Tanner looked at Fassett's back in disbelief. He was being dismissed, as a less-than-respected subordinate is dismissed before a high policy conference.

  "Come on," said Cole, standing up, "I'll see you to the car." As they walked, he added, "I think you should know that that man's death last night complicates Fassett's job more than you’ll ever realize. That killing was directed at him. It was his warning."

  The news director looked at Cole closely. "What do you mean?"

  "There are signs between old-line professionals and this is one of them. You're insignificant now. . . . Fassett's brilliant. He's set the forces in motion and nothing can stop them. The people who conceived Omega realize what's happened. And they're beginning to see that they may be helpless. They want the man responsible to know they'll be back. Sometime. A severed head means a massacre, Mr. Tanner. They took his wife. Now he's got three kids to worry about."

  Tanner felt the sickness coming upon him again.

  "What kind of a world do you people live in?"

  "The same one you do."

  13

  Thursday — 10:15 A.M.

  When Alice awoke at ten-fifteen Thursday morning her immediate reaction was to remain in bed forever. She could hear the children arguing downstairs and the indistinguishable but patient words from her husband settling the dispute. She thought about his remarkable sense of small kindnesses that added up to major concern. That wasn't bad after so many years of marriage.

  Perhaps her husband wasn't as quick or dramatic as Dick Tremayne, or as sheerly powerful as Joe Cardone, or as witty or bright as Bernie Osterman, but she wouldn't exchange places with Ginny, Betty, or Leila for anything in the world. Even if everything started all over again, she would wait for John Tanner, or a John Tanner. He was that rare man. He wanted to share, had to share. Everything. None of the others did. Not even Bernie, although he was the most like John. Even Bernie had quiet secrets, according to Leila.

  In the beginning, Alice had wondered if her husband's need to share was merely the result of his pity for her. Because she was to be pitied, she realized without any sense of self-indulgence. Most of her life before she met John Tanner had been spent in flight or in pursuit of sanctuary Her father, a self-professed rectifier of the world's ills, was never able to stay too long in one place. A contemporary John Brown.

  The newspapers eventually labeled him . . . lunatic.

  The Los Angeles police eventually killed him.

  She remembered the words.

  Los Angeles, February 10, 1945. Jason McCall, whom authorities believe to have been in the pay of the Communists, was shot down today outside his canyon headquarters when he emerged brandishing what appeared to be a weapon. The Los Angeles police and agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation unearthed McCall's whereabouts after an extensive search....

  The Los Angeles police and the agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, however, had not bothered to determine that Jason McCall's weapon was a bent piece of metal he called his "plowshare."

  Mercifully, Alice had been with an aunt in Pasadena when the killing took place. She'd met the young journalism student, John Tanner, at the public inquest after her father's death. The Los Angeles authorities wanted the inquest public. There was no room for a martyr. They wanted it clear that under no circumstances was McCall's death a murder.

  Which, of course, it was.

  The young journalist—returned from the war— knew it and labeled it as such. And although his story did nothing for the McCall family, it did bring him closer to the sad and bewildered girl who became his wife.

  Alice stopped thinking and rolled over on her stomach. It was all past. She was where she wanted to be.

  Several minutes later she heard strange male voices downstairs in the hallway. She started to sit up when the door opened and her husband came in. He smiled and bent down, kissing her lightly on the forehead, but in spite of his casualness, there was something strained about him.

  "Who's downstairs?" she asked.

  "The T.V. men. They're rebooking the sets, but the outside antenna system's loused up. They have to locate the trouble."

  "Which means I get up."

  "It does. I'm not taking chances with you in bed in front of two well-proportioned men in overalls."

  "You once wore overalls. Remember? In your senior year you had that job at the gas station."

  "And when I got home I also remember they came off with alarming ease. Now, up you go."

  He was tense, she thought; he was imposing control on the situation, on himself. He announced that in spite of the pressures which descended on him on Thursdays, on this particu
lar Thursday he was staying at home.

  His explanation was simple. After yesterday afternoon, regardless of the continuing police investigation, he wasn't about to leave his family. Not until everything was cleared up.

  He took them to the Club, where he and Ali played doubles with their neighbors, Dorothy and Tom Scanlan. Tom was reputed to be so rich he hadn't gone to work in a decade.

  What struck Ali was her husband's determination to win. She was embarrassed when he accused Tom of miscalling a line shot and mortified when he made an unusually violent overhead, narrowly missing Dorothy's face.

  They won the set, and the Scanlans turned down another. So they went to the pool, where John demanded what amounted to extraordinary service from the waiters. Late in the afternoon he spotted McDermott and insisted he join them for a drink. McDermott had come to the Club—so John told his wife—to tell a member that his car was long overdue at a parking meter in town.

  And always, always, Tanner kept going to the telephone inside the Club. He could have had one brought to the poolside table but he wouldn't do so. He claimed that the Woodward conferences were getting heated and he'd rather not talk in public.

  Alice didn't believe it. Her husband had many talents and perhaps the most finely honed was his ability to remain calm, even cold, under acute pressure. Yet today he was obviously close to panic.

  They returned to Orchard Drive at eight o'clock. Tanner ordered the children to bed; Alice revolted.

  "I've had it!" she said firmly. She pulled her husband into the living room and held his arm. "You're being unreasonable, darling. I know how you felt. I felt it, too, but you've been barking orders all day long. Do this! Do that! It's not like you."

  Tanner remembered Fassett He had to remain calm, normal. Even with Ali.

  "I'm sorry. It's a delayed reaction, I guess. But you're right. Forgive me."

  "It's over and done with," she added, not really accepting his quick apology. "It was frightening, but everything's all right now. It's over."

  Oh, Christ, thought Tanner. He wished to God it were that simple. "It's over and I've behaved childishly and I want my wife to say she loves me so we can have a couple of drinks and go to bed together." He kissed her lightly on the lips. "And that, madam, is the best idea I've had all day."