Burnt Sienna

by David Morrell

  “I sure as hell wasn’t going to try to get my hands on you when nobody else was around. Enough important people saw us together at Sotheby’s that if my body gets fished out of the East River, you’ll be the first man the police want to talk to.”

  Bellasar, whose tan was enhanced by his brilliant smile, chuckled. “I assure you, if I wanted something to happen to you, your body wouldn’t be found in the East River or anywhere else, for that matter.” He let the threat sink in. “You have only yourself to blame. I made a fair offer. You chose to insult me by refusing. But I’m a reasonable man. I’ll give you a second chance. I’ll arrange for your life to be put back the way it was. I’ll even raise my offer to seven hundred thousand dollars. But I warn you — I am not known for my patience. There won’t be a third chance.” He let that threat sink in also.

  “Why are you so fixated on me? I can name a dozen artists with bigger reputations. Get one of them to do the portraits.” Malone mentioned the name of the most famous realist currently working.

  “I already own a portrait by him. You underestimate yourself. I’m confident that one day your reputation will be bigger than his. I’m a collector. It’s well known that you never accept commissions. If I could persuade you to accept a commission from me after you’ve turned down so many others, I’d be receiving something unique.”

  Malone didn’t respond.

  “Pride’s a wonderful thing.” Bellasar sighed. “But bear in mind, I have pride as much as you do. This stalemate can’t go on forever. One of us has to relent. But I can’t be the one who does. In my business, it’s crucial that I never show weakness, that I get what I want. If you relent, you receive an honest wage for honest work. If I relent, I tempt dangerous men to test me. Given those alternatives, you have the most to gain and the least to lose by forgoing your pride for a time.”

  “Honest work? Painting a likeness of your wife? You could get any competent sketch artist to do it.”

  “I didn’t say anything about a likeness.”

  “What?”

  “I wouldn’t hire a world-class artist and expect him to accept a preconceived notion of what a portrait is,” Bellasar said. “That would be absurd. Your style is representational rather than abstract, so I assumed the portraits would be in that manner. But I wouldn’t hold you to that approach. Inspiration mustn’t be constrained. All I ask is that you be totally honest to yourself and to the subject.”

  Malone pretended to debate with himself. His objection to accepting the commission had been that he had to maintain his independence, but Bellasar had just given him all the independence an artist could want. Bellasar had also given him a reason to accept without making Bellasar suspicious.

  “Honesty to myself and to the subject?”

  “That’s all.”

  “And when I finished, that would be the end of it? You’d put my life back the way it was? I could walk away, and I’d never hear from you again?”

  “You have my word. Of course, if you do decide to accept my offer, I hope that the drama you arranged at Sotheby’s gave you enough emotional satisfaction that we can be civil to each other.”

  Malone couldn’t help thinking that the drama had been arranged by both of them. Bellasar wouldn’t have made the appointment to meet Doug at Sotheby’s if he hadn’t assumed Doug would tell Malone. Bellasar had expected Malone to show up.

  “You’ve got a deal,” Malone said.

  4

  Bellasar’s Gulfstream 5 took off from Kennedy Airport at midnight. With modifications for a shower and a galley, the luxurious coporate jet had twenty seats, fifteen of which were occupied. Excluding Bellasar, Potter, Malone, and the two pairs of guards whom Malone had seen, there were eight passengers whose function Malone tried to figure out. Three broad-shouldered men might have been further bodyguards. Four attractive young women spent a lot of time working on laptop computers. The final passenger, a statuesque blonde with a crisp white silk blouse and a Scandinavian accent, turned out to be a flight attendant.

  “May I get you anything?”

  “Orange juice.”

  “Shall I add some champagne?”

  “No thanks.” The tranquilizer Bellasar had injected him with made him feel dehydrated. Alcohol would make him feel even more parched. Besides, he needed to be alert.

  As the jet streaked through the darkness, he peered out his window, trying to see lights below him.

  “I don’t approve of this,” Potter said, standing beside him.

  Malone turned toward the aisle.

  “You had your chance. You didn’t want it.” The harsh cabin lights reflected off Potter’s glasses. “You were punished for not cooperating. That should have been the end of it. We shouldn’t have anything more to do with you.”

  “I’m not exactly eager to be here, either. Did you really expect me to do nothing after those bulldozers showed up at my house?”

  “That would have been the smart reaction.”

  “The smart thing would have been to leave me alone.”

  “How did you describe me the first time we met? I was trouble, you said.” Potter’s expression became more pinched. “We have something in common.”

  As Potter stepped away, the flight attendant came back with Malone’s orange juice.

  “We’ll be serving a choice of entrées,” she said. “Which would you prefer: London broil, Cornish hen, or risotto alla milanese?”

  Malone wasn’t hungry, but knew he had to keep up his strength. “Risotto.”

  “We also have an excellent selection of wines.”

  “All the pleasures.”

  “More than you can imagine.” The attractive flight attendant gave him an encouraging look, then proceeded to another passenger.

  “Comfortable?” Bellasar came along the aisle.

  “Potter isn’t.”

  “It’s his job to be unhappy. Do the fresh clothes my men bought you fit?”

  Malone barely nodded.

  “One of them also went to the Parker Meridian, collected your luggage, and paid your bill.”

  Malone reached for his wallet. “I always pay my own way. How much was it?”

  Bellasar spread his hands in amusement. “Until the portraits are completed, all of your expenses are my expenses. You’ll find I’m extremely generous to those who cooperate with me. I meant what I said. I hope we can put our disagreement behind us.”

  “Believe me, it’s my goal to get through this with as little friction as possible.” Malone glanced toward the darkness beyond the window. “Do you mind telling me where we’re headed?”

  “Southern France. I have a villa near Nice.”

  “That’s where your wife is?”

  “Yes. Patiently waiting.” Belassar’s dark brown eyes changed focus. “Is the fact that I’m in the arms business the reason you didn’t want to accept my offer?”

  “At the time, I didn’t know what your business was.”

  “But at Sotheby’s, you announced it to the world. How did you find out?”

  The question sounded casual, but Malone had no doubt he was being tested. “A friend of mine came to visit me on Cozumel. He’s a security expert. I told him what had happened. When I mentioned your name, he said he’d heard of you. He said to stay away from you. He said you’re a very scary guy.”

  “That would be Mr. Wainright.”

  “You were having me watched?”

  “I like to stay informed. He seems to be enjoying his vacation.”

  “You mean the bulldozers haven’t pushed down my house yet?”

  “They’ve been called off. As I promised, I’m going to reassemble your life. You do object to my business.”

  “I guess I keep thinking of all the children who’ve been killed by the land mines you sell to whatever Third World dictator is in power this month.”

  “Most of those children would eventually have starved to death.” Bellasar’s gaze drifted toward Potter coming along the aisle.

  “A phone ca
ll.”

  “It can’t wait?”

  Potter’s silence said everything.

  Bellasar turned to Malone. “Next time, let’s discuss your business instead of mine.”

  5

  A little after ten in the morning, Bellasar’s jet approached Nice’s airport. The blue of the Mediterranean reminded Malone of the Caribbean. The palm trees, too, reminded him of home. But the overbuilt coastline and the exhaust haze were nothing like the clear solitary splendor he had enjoyed on Cozumel. Bitter, he looked away from the view. Some chablis he had drunk with dinner, much of which he hadn’t eaten, had helped to relax him enough to sleep, although his dreams had been fitful, interspersed with images of children being blown up by land mines and a beautiful woman’s face rotting in a coffin.

  He never got into the airport terminal. Officers from customs and immigration came out to the jet, where they stood on the tarmac and spoke to Potter, who apparently had an understanding with them, for they looked briefly into the aircraft, nodded to its occupants, then stamped the passports Potter handed them. Presumably, their expeditious attitude would be rewarded under less public circumstances. Letting Potter handle the details, Bellasar had gone to a cabin in the rear before the authorities arrived; he hadn’t given Potter his passport; there was no proof that he had entered the country. Or that I did, either, Malone thought. When Potter had gone along the aisle collecting passports, he had taken Malone’s, but instead of showing it to the authorities, Potter had kept it in his pocket. Malone was reminded of how easy it was to disappear from the face of the earth.

  They got off the plane and broke into two groups, most of them remaining to transfer luggage to a waiting helicopter while Bellasar, Potter, three bodyguards, and Malone walked to a second helicopter. The familiar whump-whump-whump of the rotors wasn’t reassuring. Feeling the weight of liftoff, seeing the airport get smaller beneath him, Malone pretended that it was ten years earlier, that he was on a military mission. Put yourself in that mind-set. Start thinking like a soldier again. More important, start feeling like one.

  He glanced toward the front of the chopper, comparing its levers, pedals, and other controls to those he had been familiar with. There were several advances in design, particularly a group of switches that the pilot didn’t use and whose purpose Malone didn’t understand, but at heart, the principle of flying this craft was the same, and he was able to detach his mind from the tension around him and imagine that he was behind the controls, guiding the chopper.

  Bellasar said something.

  “What?” Malone turned. “I can’t hear you. The noise of the rotors.”

  Bellasar spoke louder. “I said I’ve purchased the contents of the best art-supply shop in Nice. The materials are at my villa, at your disposal.”

  “You were that certain I’d eventually agree?”

  “The point is, this way you won’t have any delay in getting started.”

  “I won’t be able to start right away anyhow.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I can’t just jump in. I have to study the subject first.”

  Bellasar didn’t reply for a moment. “Of course.”

  Potter kept concentrating on Malone’s eyes.

  “But don’t study too long,” Bellasar said.

  “You didn’t mention there was a time limit. You told me I could do this the way I needed to. If I’d known there were conditions, I wouldn’t have —”

  “No conditions. But my wife and I might soon have to travel on business. If you can get your preparations concluded before then, perhaps you can work without her. From a sketch perhaps.”

  “That’s not how I do things. You wanted an honest portrait. Working from a sketch is bullshit. If I can’t do this right, I won’t do it at all. You’re buying more than just my autograph on a canvas.”

  “You didn’t want to accept the commission, but now you’re determined to take the time to do it properly.” Belassar turned toward Potter. “Impressive.”

  “Very.” Potter kept his eyes on Malone.

  “There.” Bellasar pointed through the Plexiglas.

  Malone followed his gesture. Ahead, to the right, nestled among rocky, wooded hills, a three-story château made of huge stone blocks glinted in the morning sun. If Malone had been painting it, he would have made it impressionistic, its numerous balconies, gables, and chimneys blending, framed by a swirl of elaborate flower gardens, sculpted shrubs, and sheltering cypresses.

  The pilot spoke French into a small micophone attached to his helmet, presumably identifying himself to his security controller on the ground. As the helicopter descended, Malone saw stables, tennis courts, a swimming pool, and another large stone building that had a bell tower and reminded Malone of a monastery. Beyond high walls, farmland spread out, vineyards, cattle. He could discern small figures working, and as the helicopter settled lower toward a landing pad near the château, the figures became large enough for Malone to see that many were guards carrying weapons.

  “Can you tolerate it here?” Belassar sounded ironic.

  “It’s beautiful,” Malone acknowledged, “if you ignore the guards.”

  “It belonged to my father and grandfather and great-grandfather, all the way back to the Napoleonic Wars.”

  Thanks to arms sales, Malone thought.

  The chopper set down, the roar of the motors diminishing to a whine.

  “These men will show you to your room,” Bellasar said. “I’ll expect you for cocktails in the library at seven. I’m sure you’re looking forward to meeting my wife.”

  “Yes,” Malone said. “For seven hundred thousand dollars, I’m curious what my subject looks like.”

  6

  The spacious bedroom had oak paneling and a four-poster bed. After showering, Malone found a plush white robe laid out for him. He also found that his bag had been unpacked and was on the floor next to the armoire. Opening the armoire, he saw that his socks and underwear had been placed in a drawer, his turtlenecks and a pair of chino slacks in another. He had used a packaged toothbrush and razor he had found on a ledge above the marble sink. Now he carried his toilet kit into the bathroom and arranged its various items on that shelf, throwing out the designer shampoo and shaving soap Bellasar had provided. The small gesture of rebellion gratified him. He put on the chinos and a forest green turtleneck. Looking for the tan loafers that had been in his bag, he found them in the walk-in closet, along with the sneakers he’d been wearing, and paused in surprise at the unfamiliar sport coats, dress slacks, and tuxedo hanging next to his leather jacket. Before he tried on one of the sport coats, he already knew it would fit him perfectly. Yes, there was little about him Bellasar didn’t know, Malone realized warily. Except the most important thing: Bellasar didn’t know about his deal with Jeb. Malone took that for granted, because if Bellasar had known, Malone would have been dead by now.

  From his years in the military, Malone had learned that no matter how tired he was after a long flight, it was a mistake to take a nap. The nap would only confuse his already-confused internal clock. The thing to do was push through the day and go to sleep when everybody else normally went to sleep. The next morning, he’d be back on schedule.

  Opening the bedroom door, he found a man in the hallway. The man wore a Beretta 9-mm pistol and carried a two-way radio. With a slight French accent and in perfect English, the man said, “Mr. Bellasar asked me to be at your disposal in case you wanted a tour of the grounds.”

  “He certainly pays attention to his guests.”

  Proceeding along the corridor, Malone listened to his escort point out the various paintings, tables, and vases, all from the French Regency period. Other corridors had their own themes, he learned, and every piece was museum quality.

  They went down a curving stairway to a foyer topped by the most intricate crystal chandelier Malone had ever seen. “It’s five hundred years old,” the escort explained. “From a Venetian palazzo. The marble on this floor came from the same p
alazzo.”

  Malone nodded. Yes, Bellasar was definitely a collector.

  Outside, the sun felt pleasant, but Malone ignored it, concentrating only on his surroundings as he strolled with his escort through gardens, past topiaries and ponds, toward the swimming pool.

  Abruptly he whirled. Gunfire crackled.

  “From the testing range,” the escort explained, gesturing toward an area beyond an orchard. Several assault rifles made it sound as if a small war were taking place over there. The escort avoided going in that direction, just as he avoided going toward the large stone building whose bell tower had made Malone think of a monastery and which was in the same direction.

  “It’s called the Cloister,” the escort said. “Before the French Revolution, monks lived there, but after the Church’s lands were confiscated, one of Mr. Bellasar’s ancestors acquired the property. Not before a mob destroyed all the religious symbols, though. There’s still a room that you could tell was a chapel — if you were allowed over there. Which you’re not.”

  Malone shrugged, pretending to be interested only in what the escort showed him and in nothing that the escort avoided. For now, what he was mainly interested in were the high stone walls that enclosed the grounds and were topped by security cameras. The entrances at the back and front had sturdy metal barriers and were watched by guards with automatic weapons. Getting out wouldn’t be easy.

  When something blew up past the orchard, the explosion rumbling, none of the guards reacted. Malone’s escort didn’t even bother looking in that direction. “I’ll show you where your painting supplies are. Mr. Bellasar suggests that you work in a sunroom off the terrace. It has the best light.”

  7

  When Malone returned to his room, a thick pamphlet lay on his bedside table. Its paper was brown with age. Carefully, he picked it up and turned the stiff, brittle pages. The text was in English, the author Thomas Malthus, the title An Essay on the Principle of Population. A handwritten note accompanied it. “I thought you’d enjoy some leisure reading.” Leisure? Malone thought. With a title like that? On an inside page, he read that the pamphlet had been published and printed in London in 1798. A priceless first edition. The note concluded, “Cocktails and dinner are formal.” To reinforce the point, the tuxedo that Malone had noticed in the closet was now laid out on the bed, along with a pleated white shirt, black pearl cuff links and studs, a black silk cummerbund, and a black bow tie.