IN A SECRET ROOM IN WASHINGTON, D.C., a man named John Tanner is asked to stake his life and those of his wife and children in a gamble whose goal and risks no one will fully reveal to him.
IN A SMALL SUBURBAN TOWN, where only the nicest people live, friends, neighbors, everyone and anyone may be part of a monstrous conspiracy of international evil.
ROBERT LUDLUM
THE OSTERMAN WEEKEND
Bantam Books
by Robert Ludlum
THE APOCALYPSE WATCH
THE SCORPIO ILLUSION
THE ROAD TO OMAHA
THE BOURNE ULTIMATUM
THE ICARUS AGENDA
THE BOURNE SUPREMACY
THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION
THE PARSIFAL MOSAIC
THE BOURNE IDENTITY
THE MATARESE CIRCLE
THE GEMINI CONTENDERS
THE HOLCROFT COVENANT
THE CHANCELLOR MANUSCRIPT
THE ROAD TO GANDOLFO
THE RHINEMANN EXCHANGE
TREVAYNE
THE MATLOCK PAPER
THE OSTERMAN WEEKEND
THE SCARLATTI INHERITANCE
THE CRY OF THE HALIDON
Available from Bantam Books
THE OSTERMAN WEEKEND
A Bantam Book / published by arrangement with the author Bantam edition / February 1982
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1972 by Robert Ludlum.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
For information address: Bantam Books.
eISBN: 978-0-307-81389-3
Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.
v3.1_r1
FOR MICHAEL, JONATHAN, GLYNIS—
three extraordinary people who
possess, among so many talents,
the gifts of laughter and perception …
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Part One: Sunday Afternoon Chapter 1
Part Two: Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Part Three: The Weekend Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Part Four: Sunday Afternoon Chapter 30
Excerpt from Bourne Identity
1
Saddle Valley, New Jersey, is a Village.
At least real estate developers, hearing alarm signals from a decaying upper middle-class Manhattan, found a Village when they invaded its wooded acres in the late 1930’s.
The white, shield-shaped sign on Valley Road reads
SADDLE VALLEY
VILLAGE INCORPORATED 1862
Welcome
The “Welcome” is in smaller lettering than any of the words preceding it, for Saddle Valley does not really welcome outsiders, those Sunday afternoon drivers who like to watch the Villagers at play. Two Saddle Valley police cars patrol the roads on Sunday afternoon.
It might also be noted that the sign on Valley Road does not read
SADDLE VALLEY, NEW JERSEY
or even
SADDLE VALLEY, N.J.
merely
SADDLE VALLEY
The Village does not acknowledge a higher authority; it is its own master. Isolated, secure, inviolate.
On a recent July Sunday afternoon, one of the two Saddle Valley patrol cars seemed to be extraordinarily thorough. The white car with blue lines roamed the roads just a bit faster than usual. It went from one end of the Village to the other—cruising into the residential areas—in front of, behind and to the sides of the spacious, tastefully landscaped one-acre lots.
This particular patrol car on this particular Sunday afternoon was noticed by several residents of Saddle Valley.
It was meant to be.
It was part of the plan.
John Tanner, in old tennis shorts and yesterday’s shirt, sneakers and no socks, was clearing out his two-car garage with half an ear cocked to the sounds coming from his pool. His twelve-year-old son, Raymond, had friends over, and periodically Tanner walked far enough out on the driveway so he could see past the backyard patio to the pool and make sure the children were all right. Actually, he only walked out when the level of shouting was reduced to conversation—or periods of silence.
Tanner’s wife, Alice, with irritating regularity, came into the garage through the laundry-room entrance to tell her husband what to throw out next. John hated getting rid of things, and the resulting accumulation of junk exasperated her. This time she motioned toward a broken lawn spreader which had lain for weeks at the back of the garage.
John noticed her gesture. “I could mount it on a piece of wrought iron and sell it to the Museum of Modern Art,” he said. “Remnants of past inequities. Pre-gardener period.”
Alice Tanner laughed. Her husband noted once again, as he had for so many years, that it was a nice laugh.
“I’ll haul it to the curb. They pick up Mondays.” Alice reached for the relic.
“That’s okay. I’ll do it.”
“No, you won’t You’ll change your mind halfway down.”
Her husband lifted the spreader over a Briggs and Stratton rotary lawn mower while Alice sidled past the small Triumph she proudly referred to as her “status symbol.” As she started pushing the spreader down the driveway, the right wheel fell off. Both of them laughed.
“That’d clinch the deal with the museum. It’s irresistible.”
Alice looked up and stopped laughing. Forty yards away, in front of their house on Orchard Drive, the white patrol car was slowly cruising.
“The gestapo’s screening the peasants this afternoon,” she said.
“What?” Tanner picked up the wheel and threw it into the well of the spreader.
“Saddle Valley’s finest is on the job. That’s the second or third time they’ve gone down Orchard.”
Tanner glanced at the passing patrol car. The driver, Officer Jenkins, returned his stare. There was no wave, no gesture of greeting. No acknowledgment. Yet they were acquaintances, if not friends.
“Maybe the dog barked too much last night”
“The baby-sitter didn’t say anything.”
“A dollar fifty an hour is hush money.”
“You’d better get this down, darling.” Alice’s thoughts turned from the police car. “Without a wheel it becomes father’s job. I’ll check the kids.”
Tanner, pulling the spreader behind him, went down the driveway to the curb, his eyes drawn to a bright light about sixty yards away. Orchard Drive, going west, bore to the left around a cluster of trees. Several hundred feet beyond the mi
dpoint of the bend were Tanner’s nearest neighbors, the Scanlans.
The light was the reflection of sun off the patrol car. It was parked by the side of the road.
The two policemen were turned around in their seats, staring out the rear window, staring, he was sure, at him. For a second or two, he remained motionless. Then he started to walk toward the car. The two officers turned, started the engine and sped off.
Tanner looked after it, puzzled, then walked slowly back toward his house.
The Saddle Valley police car raced out toward Peachtree Lane; there it slowed and resumed cruising speed.
Richard Tremayne sat in his air-conditioned living room watching the Mets blow a six-run lead. The curtains of the large bay windows were open.
Suddenly Tremayne rose from his chair and went to the window. The patrol car was there again. Only now it was hardly moving.
“Hey, Ginny!” he called to his wife. “Come here a minute.”
Virginia Tremayne walked gracefully down the three steps into the living room. “What is it? Now you didn’t call me to tell me your Mets or Jets hit something?”
“When John and Alice were ova: last night … were he and I … all right? I mean, we weren’t too loud or anything, were we?”
“You were both plastered. But pleasant. Why?”
“I know we were drunk. It was a lousy week. But we didn’t do anything outlandish?”
“Of course not. Attorneys and newsmen are models of decorum. Why do you ask?”
“Goddamn police car’s gone by the house for the fifth time.”
“Oh.” Virginia felt a knot in the pit of her stomach. “Are you sure?”
“You can’t miss that car in the sunlight.”
“No, I guess you can’t.… You said it was a rotten week. Would that awful man be trying to …”
“Oh, Jesus, no! I told you to forget that. He’s a loudmouth. He took the case too personally.” Tremayne continued looking out the window. The police car was leaving.
“He did threaten you, though. You said he did. He said he had connections.…”
Tremayne turned slowly and faced his wife. “We all have connections, don’t we? Some as far away as Switzerland?”
“Dick, please. That’s absurd.”
“Of course it is. Car’s gone now … probably nothing. They’re due for another raise in October. Probably checking out houses to buy. The bastards! They make more than I did five years out of law school.”
“I think you’re a little edgy with a bad head. That’s what I think.”
“I think you’re probably right.”
Virginia watched her husband. He kept staring out the window. “The maid wants Wednesday off. We’ll eat out, all right?”
“Sure.” He did not turn around.
His wife started up into the hall. She looked back at her husband; he was now looking at her. Beads of perspiration had formed on his forehead. And the room was cool.
The Saddle Valley patrol car headed east toward Route Five, the main link with Manhattan twenty-six miles away. It stopped on a road overlooking Exit 10A. The patrolman to the right of the driver took a pair of binoculars from the glove compartment and began scanning the cars coming off the exit ramp. The binoculars had Zeiss-Ikon lenses.
After several minutes he tapped the sleeve of the driver, Jenkins, who looked over through the open window. He motioned the other man to give him the binoculars, and put them to his eyes, tracking the automobile specified by his fellow officer. He spoke one word: “Confirmed.”
Jenkins started the car and headed south. He picked up the radio phone. “Two car calling in. Heading south on Register Road. Tailing green Ford sedan. New York plates. Filled with niggers or P.R.’s.”
The crackling reply came over the speaker, “Read you, two car. Chase ’em the hell out.”
“Will do. No sweat. Out.”
The patrol car then turned left and sped down the long incline into Route Five. Once on the highway, Jenkins pressed the accelerator to the floor and the car plunged forward on the smooth surface. In sixty seconds the speedometer read ninety-two.
Four minutes later the patrol car slowed down rounding a long curve. A few hundred yards beyond the curve stood two aluminum-framed telephone booths, glass and metal reflecting the harsh glare of the July sun.
The police car came to a stop and Jenkins’ companion climbed out.
“Got a dime?”
“Oh, Christ, McDermott!” Jenkins laughed. “Fifteen years in the field and you don’t carry the change to make contact.”
“Don’t be a smartass. I’ve got nickels, but one of them’s an Indian head.”
“Here.” Jenkins took a coin from his pocket and handed it to McDermott “An ABM could be stuck and you wouldn’t use a Roosevelt dime to alert operations.”
“Don’t know that I would.” McDermott walked to the phone booth, pushed in the squeaky, shiny door, and dialed “0”. The booth was stifling, the still air so close that he kept the door open with his foot.
“I’ll head down to the U-turn,” yelled Jenkins from the car window. “Pick you up on the other side.”
“Okay.… Operator. A collect call to New Hampshire. Area Code three-one-two. Six-five-four-oh-one. The name is Mr. Leather.”
There was no mistaking the words. McDermott had placed a call to the state of New Hampshire and the telephone operator put it through. However, what the operator could not know was that this particular number did not cause a telephone to ring in the state of New Hampshire. For somewhere, in some underground complex housing thousands of trunk lines, a tiny relay was activated and a small magnetized bar fell across a quarter-inch space and made another connection. This connection caused—not a bell—but a low humming sound to emanate from a telephone two hundred and sixty-three miles south of Saddle Valley, New Jersey.
The telephone was in a second-floor office in a red brick building fifty yards inside a twelve-foot-high electrified fence. The building was one of perhaps ten, all connected with one another to form a single complex. Outside the fence the woods were thick with summer foliage. The location was McLean, Virginia. The complex was the Central Intelligence Agency. Isolated, secure, inviolate.
The man sitting behind the desk in the second-floor office crushed out his cigarette in relief. He’d been waiting anxiously for the call. He noted with satisfaction that the small wheels of the recording device automatically started revolving. He picked up the telephone.
“Andrews speaking. Yes, operator, I accept the charges.”
“Leather reporting,” came the words rerouted from the state of New Hampshire.
“You’re cleared. Tape going, Leather.”
“Confirming the presence of all suspects. The Cardones just arrived from Kennedy Airport.”
“We knew he landed …”
“Then why the hell did we have to race down here?”
“That’s a rotten highway, Route Five. He could have an accident.”
“On Sunday afternoon?”
“Or any other time. You want the statistics on accidents for that route?”
“Go back to your Goddamn computers …”
Andrews shrugged. Men in the field were always irritated over one thing or another. “As I read you, all three suspects are present. Correct?”
“Correct. Tanners, Tremaynes and the Cardones. All accounted for. All waiting. The first two are primed. We’ll get to Cardone in a few minutes.”
“Anything else?”
“Not for now.”
“How’s the wife?”
“Jenkins is lucky. He’s a bachelor. Lillian keeps looking at those houses and wants one.”
“Not on our salary, McDermott.”
“That’s what I tell her. She wants me to defect.”
For the briefest of seconds Andrews reacted painfully to McDermott’s joke. “The pay’s worse, I’m told.”
“Couldn’t be.… There’s Jenkins. Be in touch.”
Joseph Cardone drov
e his Cadillac into the circular drive and parked in front of the stone steps leading to the huge oak door. He turned off the engine and stretched, bending his elbows beneath the roof. He sighed and woke his boys of six and seven. A third child, a girl of ten, was reading a comic book.
Sitting beside Cardone was his wife, Betty. She looked out the window at the house. “It’s good to get away, but it’s better to get home.”
Cardone laughed and put his large hand on his wife’s shoulder. “You must mean that.”
“I do.”
“You must. You say it every time we come home. The exact words.”
“It’s a nice home.”
Cardone opened the door. “Hey. Princess … get your brothers out and help your mother with the smaller bags.” Cardone reached in and withdrew the keys from the ignition. He started toward the trunk. “Where’s Louise?”
“She probably won’t be here till Tuesday. We’re three days early, remember? I gave her off till then.”
Cardone winced. The thought of his wife’s cooking was not pleasant. “We eat out.”
“We’ll have to today. It takes too long to defrost things.” Betty Cardone walked up the stone steps, taking the front-door key out of her purse.
Joe dismissed his wife’s remark. He liked food and he did not like his wife’s preparation of it. Rich debutantes from Chestnut Hill couldn’t begin to cook like good South Side Italian mamas from Philadelphia.
One hour later he had the central air-conditioning going full blast throughout the large house, and the stuffy air, unchanged for nearly two weeks, was becoming bearable again. He was aware of such things. He’d been an exceptionally successful athlete—his route to success, both social and financial. He stepped out on the front porch and looked at the lawn with the huge willow tree centered in the grass within the circular drive. The gardeners had kept it all up nicely. They should. Their prices were ridiculous. Not that price ever concerned him any more.
Suddenly there it was again. The patrol car. This was the third time he’d seen it since leaving the highway.
“Hey, you! Hold it!”