Burnt Sienna - читать бесплатно онлайн полную версию книги автора David Morrell (NINE) #10

NINE

1

A sharp noise from outside made Fernando swing toward the door.

His wife tensed. “What was that?” she asked in Spanish. “It sounded like…”

“A shot.” Motioning for the children to stay back, Fernando cautiously opened the door. In the deepening twilight, he stared to his right toward Dale’s trailer. The shot had been in that direction. But it didn’t make sense. Dale and Beatrice wouldn’t be shooting at each other. Had the military officer returned? Hearing a second shot and a third, Fernando stiffened.

“They need our help,” he told his wife.

But his legs didn’t want to move.

Thunder rumbled. To the south, dense black clouds approached.

But Fernando’s attention was fixed to the north, where five men in suits walked swiftly through the gray light. They were about fifty yards away, rapidly narrowing the distance. One was short and stocky. Three were tall and heavy-chested. But the other, the one in the lead, although equally tall, radiated far more strength, scarily so. He had dark hair and sharply defined features stark with emotion. His angry march was relentless.

The thunder rumbled more loudly.

“It isn’t safe here,” Fernando said. “We have to go.”

“But where?”

Fernando immediately thought of where they’d survived the previous summer’s hurricane. “To the cave. Quickly. Bring the children.”

He grabbed his son’s hand and urged him from the trailer, hoping they wouldn’t be seen as they darted around the side. Ignoring the lightning and the thunder, they raced through the deepening shadows toward a sand dune.

If we can get around it without being seen… Fernando prayed. He had never felt a more powerful premonition. Those men seemed enveloped by a greater darkness than the approaching storm. Chilled by more than the suddenly cold wind, he ran harder. Rounding the cover of the dune, he and his family rushed toward a rocky bluff and the small, almost hidden mouth of a cave.

But even after they reached the echoing shelter of its blackness, Fernando didn’t feel safe. The cave was hard to see unless you knew where it was, especially with twilight about to turn to dark, but the footprints they’d left in the sand were another matter. If the men had flashlights…

Stop thinking like that, Fernando warned himself. Why should those men care about us? It’s Dale and Beatrice they’re interested in. We mean nothing to them.

That’s just the point. We mean nothing. If they noticed us, if they’re worried that we’ll be witnesses…

We can’t just wait here to be killed.

“I have to hide our tracks!”

Rushing from the cave, Fernando reached where the footprints curved around the dune. He yanked off his shirt and dragged it over the footprints, stepping backward, trying to smooth the sand, but the force of the wind almost yanked his shirt away. A few drops of rain struck his bare skin, then more drops, their cold force stinging him.

I don’t need to cover the tracks, he realized. The rain will do it for me.

But what if the men come before it does?

Lightning cracked, temporarily blinding him, making him feel exposed. As thunder rumbled and darkness again cloaked him, he hurried to the cover of the dune. Then the only sound was the shriek of the wind.

And a vehicle approaching.

Headlights blazed past the dune. Fernando heard the vehicle stop. The trailer’s door slammed. Beatrice shrieked. There were sounds of a struggle. Then the doors on the vehicle slammed, and the headlights veered away.

It sounded as if the men had taken Beatrice.

But what about Dale?

Stung by colder rain, Fernando peered around the dune. As the vehicle’s taillights disappeared into the darkness, he was startled by flames in the trailer’s living room windows. Seeing a body outside the screen door, he scrambled toward the trailer, almost blown off balance by the wind-driven sand. The man was Dale, he was certain, but when he got there, he was surprised to find a man in a military uniform. Where was -

Fernando frowned through the screen door. The flames were on the right, in the living room, spreading to the left toward the kitchen and the bedroom. Raising an arm to shield his face from the heat, he stepped closer, able to see into the kitchen, to see Dale sprawled on the floor. Then the flames blocked the way.

He isn’t moving. His face is covered with blood. He’s probably dead. I’d be foolish to -

Before Fernando realized what he was doing, he raced to the left, around to the bedroom side of the trailer. When Dale had repaired the damage from last summer’s hurricane, he had used a tarpaulin to seal a gap in the back corner of the bedroom. Fernando reached it and tore it free, the wind so fierce that it flipped the tarpaulin into the night. Drenched, Fernando forced himself into the narrow gap. Turning sideways, scraping his bare stomach and back, he squeezed into the bedroom.

Smoke drifted toward him, making him cough as he hurried around the bed. The doorway was filled with rippling, growing light. He felt the heat before he reached it and almost lost his nerve at the sight of the flames entering the kitchen. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, he prayed, then darted forward. Feeling the fire singe his hair, he grabbed Dale’s legs and pulled frantically toward the bedroom. He dragged him over the wreckage of a table, banged against a kitchen counter, and suddenly lost his balance. Falling backward but continuing to keep his grip on Dale’s legs, he landed in the shadows of the bedroom, and although the heat was accumulating in there, he had never felt anything so welcomely cool. In a rush, he tugged Dale to the gap and positioned his head toward it. Rain gusted in. The wind shrieked. Heart racing, he squeezed outside, turned, and blanched when he saw that the flames had entered the bedroom.

He grabbed Dale’s shoulders and pulled. Dale’s head came through. Seeing the flames reach the bed, Fernando pulled harder. The wind filled his mouth, taking his breath away. Harder! he told himself. But Dale’s chest was caught on something, the pockets of his fisherman’s jacket so full they jammed him. Fernando shoved him back in. Unable to remove the jacket, he yanked its bulging flaps through the gap, then tugged again on Dale’s shoulders, exhaling in triumph when Dale came toward him. Dale’s chest was through. His stomach. His hips. With one last pull, Fernando fell backward, Dale landing next to him, the wind and rain overwhelming them.

But Fernando couldn’t take the time to catch his breath. As the flames reached the gap, he lifted Dale to his feet, doubled him over his right shoulder, and staggered toward the other trailer. When he burst inside, leaving the storm behind, he set Dale on the floor and groped through the darkness to find a candle and light it. What he saw as the tiny flame grew made him moan in sympathy. Dale’s face was raw, swollen with bruises. Not even the fierce rain had been able to wash the blood off. Fresh blood seeped from his nose, and Fernando shivered, not because of his wet clothes but because of excitement as he realized, Corpses don’t bleed.

“My God, you’re alive.”

2

Pain roused him. It stabbed. It festered. It ached. His entire face was alive with it, pulsing with agony, about to burst. And his scalp. And his stomach, oh, Jesus, his stomach. And the right side of his chest hurt so…

As his nerve ends came back to life, the pain grew and dragged him from his delirium, prodding him into consciousness. His swollen eyelids struggled open, sending the tortured area around them into spasms. Among shadows, he saw a flickering light. The fire. He was lying in the trailer. The flames were about to reach him. Sienna. Where was… Moaning, he squirmed to get away from the flames. Hands grabbed him: Bellasar’s men. A face appeared before him: Bellasar about to hit him again. He thrashed harder to get away, the effort intensifying his pain.

A distant voice said something he couldn’t understand.

He struggled.

“Be still,” the voice said.

In Spanish.

“You’re safe,” the voice said.

Malone opened his eyes a little more, seeing a face with gray beard stubble, wizened from years of working in the sun.

“You’re safe,” Fernando repeated.

Movement made Malone tense until he realized it was Fernando’s wife touching his forehead with a cloth. Other movement made him glance toward a corner, where Fernando’s children huddled, afraid.

Having trouble getting air through his nose, he opened his mouth, his jaw hurting, but when he expanded his chest to take a deep breath, the pain in his upper-right ribs was even worse.

Outside, wind shrieked. Rain lanced against the windows.

“Sienna,” he managed to say. “Where…”

Fernando frowned, as if Malone had spoken gibberish.

Which I did, Malone realized. Not only had he spoken in English, but Fernando had never heard Sienna’s name before. He knew her as Beatrice.

“Beatrice,” Malone said. “¿Donde está? ¿Qué pasa?”

Fernando and Bonita exchanged troubled looks.

“¿Qué pasa?” he demanded.

Fernando sighed and told him what he had heard.

Malone closed his eyes, his emotional pain greater than what his body suffered. He imagined the terror Sienna must have felt when she was forced into the car. The terror would be worse now, as Bellasar prepared whatever hell he had in mind for her.

If she was still alive.

How long ago had they taken her? Straining to clear his thoughts, Malone checked his watch and saw that the time was almost 10:30. Bellasar and his men had arrived at dusk, around 8:45. He had no idea how long they’d remained after he was knocked unconscious, but he doubted it had been long. That meant they had about a ninety-minute head start.

By now, they’re close to the border, he thought sickly. No, I’m wrong. The rain at the window made him realize the storm would have slowed them. They might even have had to take shelter in Santa Clara. There was still a chance.

“Help me stand,” he told Fernando.

“No. You mustn’t try to move.”

“Please.” Malone grimaced. “Help me stand.”

“But…”

Malone shuddered, sitting up. Nausea swept through him as he struggled for the further energy to get on his feet.

“Loco.” Fernando lifted him, holding him steady as Malone wavered.

Malone fumbled at the pockets of his jacket. “Help me open these zippers.”

Confused, Fernando did, his curiosity turning to amazement when he saw the wad of pesos Malone pulled out.

“Half of this is yours,” Malone said.

“What?”

“I’m going to keep some in case I need it on the way to Yuma. Otherwise” Malone waited for a swirl of dizziness to pass. “Your share’s about four thousand dollars.”

Fernando’s wife gasped.

Malone fumbled in his jeans, pulling out the Explorer’s keys. “You’ve been a good friend.”

Fernando’s voice was tight from emotion. “De nada.”

“If you’ll just do one more thing for me.”

Fernando waited to hear what it was.

“Help me to my car.”

3

There must have been something in the way Malone said it or in the look he gave. Fernando didn’t argue. With a nod, he put an arm around Malone’s left side, careful not to aggravate the pain on his right.

When Malone pulled the door open, rain shoved them back. He braced himself and stepped into the raging darkness, Fernando going with him, holding him up. Drenched, they staggered toward the gutted trailer. Despite the storm, a few flames struggled to flicker, guiding the way toward the dark outline of the Explorer next to the trailer.

If only the fire hasn’t spread to it… Apprehension made Malone’s heart pound faster. Despite the cold rain, he sweated. He smelled smoke. Lightning gave him a glimpse of the driver’s side. Heat had blistered the car’s paint. He felt along the windows, finding them intact. “Fernando, the tires,” he fought to say in the wind. “Are they all right?”

“Yes.”

“Help me inside.”

Fernando eased him behind the steering wheel. The effort increased the pain in Malone’s ribs and made him see gray for a moment. He fumbled to put the key in the ignition switch.

“Are you sure you can do this?” Fernando asked.

“I have to.”

“We will pray for you.”

“I’ll need it.” Malone turned the key. For a moment, he was afraid water had gotten into the electrical system, but after the briefest hesitation, the engine started. He switched on the headlights. They barely pierced the storm. When he turned on the windshield wipers, he saw Fernando running into the darkness toward his trailer. Then he pressed the accelerator and tore up wet sand, heading toward Santa Clara.

The strength of the wind made the waves higher than usual, thrusting them farther onto the beach. Malone had to steer close to the storm-obscured dunes, forced to reduce his speed so he wouldn’t crash into them. It made him furious.

Just remember, Bellasar had to go through this, too. He had to face the same obstacles, Malone thought. I’m not really losing time.

But they’re still ninety minutes ahead, and the storm wasn’t as bad as this when they left.

He had no doubt that Bellasar’s destination was the nearest major airport, which was in Yuma. The only way Bellasar could have arrived so fast (he must have been closer than his estate in France) was by jet.

But he won’t be flying anywhere in this storm, Malone thought. Bellasar’s ninety-minute head start doesn’t mean anything as long as he can’t take off.

A gully loomed, water churning through it. Before Malone could hit the brake pedal, the Explorer charged down and up through it, splashing waves on each side and over the windshield. Driving blindly, desperate to control his steering, Malone couldn’t understand where the gully had come from. He’d driven along the beach many times and had never encountered the obstacle. Then he remembered there had been numerous wide, shallow dips. Were they the equivalent of dry streambeds? In major storms, did water rage from the bluffs on the right and fill these dips with flash floods?

The wave drained from his windshield. Wind buffeted the car. At once his headlights reflected off another gully, this one wider. Reflexively, he stamped the brakes, instantly realizing it was the wrong decision. As the car’s tires dug into the wet sand, he wouldn’t be able to stop in time. He would slide into the surging water and be trapped. He needed to go as fast as possible, to force the car through to the other side. Jerking his foot off the brake, he applied gas. He felt the car skid and then gain speed. And more speed.

When the front end hit the water, the impact jolted his teeth together. Waves sprayed. But the car kept surging forward. Flying forward. With a punishing jolt, it landed on the opposite bank and started to climb the crest.

But the back end was in the water. Although the tires dug into sand, they fought the strength of the current. Malone pressed harder on the gas pedal. The car gained traction, but not enough. He felt the back end shifting sideways. Oh, Jesus, the current’s pulling me in.

As the Explorer swirled in the raging water, he tried to work the steering wheel. It spun in his hands, the current controlling him. The water drowned the engine. The electrical system shorted out. The headlights darkened. He felt the force of the water beneath the car. Then the Explorer twisted sideways and walloped to a stop. Blocked by the edges of the gully, the car was now a plug, the current roaring against it, rising above the windows on the driver’s side and pouring over the roof. Water seeped past the windows. I’m going to drown in here, he thought.

He shifted to the passenger side and pressed the switch to lower the window, belatedly remembering that, with the electrical system dead, the window wouldn’t budge. More water seeped in. He pulled the latch on the passenger door and shoved, wincing from the pain the effort caused him.

Nothing happened.

He tried harder.

The door opened slightly.

He rammed his shoulder against it. The force of the water spilling over the roof caught the door and thrust it fully open, yanking him with it. He barely had time to breathe before he was sucked under. The current’s turmoil shocked him. He couldn’t tell up from down, right from left. He struggled to swim but found it impossible. About to inhale water, he brushed against the side of the channel. The current foamed around a curve and hurled him against a slope, where he gasped for air, clawing. He kicked his feet to propel him, kept clawing, and broke free, flopping onto the top of the sand. A wave crashed into him, almost dragging him back. Another wave followed, this one rolling him onto higher ground.

He struggled upright and staggered onward. But his legs didn’t want to support him. Dazed, he sank to his knees. He gulped air and shivered. Despite the pain in his ribs, his chest heaved.

Santa Clara was too far to walk to in the storm. The roiling stream blocked him from going back to Fernando. The odds were he would get hypothermia and die out here.

It didn’t matter. What happened to him wasn’t important. Getting to Sienna was, and now he would never be able to help her.

Lights flashed from farther along the beach. A car.

Help, he thought.

He managed to stand.

It’s someone who can help me.

Squinting from the headlights, he waved his arms. An alarming thought made him wave his arms harder. Dear God, the car’s coming so fast, the driver won’t be able to see the stream in time to stop. He’ll do what I did and crash into it.

Stop! he mentally shouted. The headlights sped closer.

Abruptly another alarming thought seized him. Nobody drives along this beach at night in a storm unless…

It’s the police. Someone saw the fire. They’re hurrying out to investigate.

Or it’s a friend of Ramirez, wondering where he is.

Assaulted by stronger rain, Malone looked frantically around for a place to hide, but the only place was a dune on his right. His legs were numb with cold. He seemed to take forever as the headlights got larger. With a torturous effort, he rounded the dune and collapsed.

Can’t go any farther.

From his vantage point, he saw the headlights glint off the raging stream. They seemed to be slowing. Had the driver seen the stream in time?

Or did the driver see me? Malone wondered.

A car stopped just before the stream. Malone couldn’t tell if it was the police. He tensed, waiting to see what the driver would do.

Two men got out.

Flashlights gleamed toward the dune.

Shit, Malone thought. What if they work for Bellasar? What if he sent them back to make sure I’m dead.

He struggled toward a farther dune.

But the flashlights kept coming. They checked the first dune, found where his footprints led to the next, and followed.

Malone didn’t have the strength to do anything except crawl. His hands and knees didn’t seem to belong to him. He felt skewered in place.

The flashlights centered on him, hurting his swollen eyes as he squinted up. He waited for the bullet that would blow his brains out.

“Jesus, what happened to you?” a familiar voice asked.

Malone frowned up at a burly man beyond one of the flashlights, straining to identify him.

“My God, Chase,” Jeb said, hurrying to lift him, “we have to get you to a hospital.”

4

“No. Not the hospital.”

“What? I can’t hear you.” Driving as fast as he dared along the stormy beach, Jeb risked a glance toward Malone in the backseat.

“The airport,” Malone murmured. “Yuma’s airport.”

“The poor son of a bitch is delirious,” the man next to Jeb said.

“Save your strength,” Jeb said.

“Yuma’s airport.” Malone shivered. “Bellasar’s there. He’s got Sienna with him.”

“What?”

Malone tried to explain about Ramirez.

“I know about him,” Jeb said. “This morning, Ramirez used a computer at the Mexican immigration office at the border to find out what he could about a couple named Dale and Beatrice Perry. Dale Perry was one of ours.”

“I took his wallet.”

“We eventually figured that out. A half hour after his name surfaced, I was on an Agency jet to talk to the Mexican immigration official whose computer Ramirez used.”

“Bellasar arrived ahead of you,” Malone managed to say.

“How? Dale Perry was our man, not his. Bellasar couldn’t have known about him.”

“Unless somebody in the Agency is on his payroll.” Malone forced out the words. “How else could Bellasar have known we were at that safe house in Virginia?”

A rumble of thunder was followed by a heavy silence in the car.

“Hell,” Jeb said.

Malone hugged himself, shivering worse.

“We’ve got to get him out of those wet clothes.” Jeb’s stocky companion crawled into the backseat and opened a travel bag on the floor. He pulled out a shirt and a pair of jeans. “Since we’re about to get intimate, I might as well introduce myself. Name’s Dillon.”

“I’ve got the heater turned as high as it goes,” Jeb said. “We’ll do everything we can to get you warm, Chase.”

The weather was so bad, no matter how fast Jeb tried to drive, it still took four hours – twice as long as usual – to reach the border. Dillon tried to use a cell phone to warn the Yuma authorities not to let Bellasar’s jet take off, but the storm was so bad that the call wouldn’t go through.

Beyond the border, the weather improved, but it still took an hour to get to Yuma. The cell phone finally worked.

Malone, who’d been drifting in and out of a feverish sleep, barely heard Dillon talking urgently to someone in Yuma. He fought toward consciousness, his chest cramping as he tried to get a sense of what the person on the other end was saying.

“Here!” Jeb swerved into the modest airport and skidded to a stop in front of the single-story terminal. Police cars, their roof lights flashing, waited. Jeb rushed out of the car, hurrying to a group of officers. Malone struggled to get out and join him, but even before he took a step, he saw the bleak look with which Jeb turned to him.

“I’m sorry, Chase. I wish I… Bellasar’s jet took off forty-five minutes ago.”

Malone sank.

5

“Your ribs are bruised but not broken,” the doctor said. Windows vibrated from the roar of jets taking off and landing at the Marine Corps Air Station at the edge of Yuma. “Your nose is broken. You’ve got a concussion.”

“Is the concussion going to kill me?”

The tall, thin doctor, a captain, peered over his spectacles. “Not if you take it easy for a while.”

“He’s talking about R and R,” Jeb said.

“I know what he’s talking about.”

“What he’s not talking about,” Jeb said, “is trying to go after Bellasar. We’ll handle it. You’re in no shape to do it.”

“How?”

“I don’t -”

“How are you planning to go after him? Tell me how you’ll get Sienna back.”

Jeb looked uncomfortable.

The doctor glanced from one man to the other. “Excuse me, gentlemen. I don’t think I should be hearing this.”

The door swung shut behind him.

“Do you know where Bellasar went?” Malone asked.

“South over Mexican airspace.”

“And then?”

“By the time we alerted the Mexican authorities, he was off their radar.”

The painkillers the doctor had given Malone didn’t stop his skull from throbbing. “So he probably flew over Baja and reached the Pacific.”

“That’s the theory.”

“He could be going anywhere.”

“We’ve asked Canada and the Central American countries to alert us about unidentified civilian aircraft.”

Malone massaged his forehead. “We can’t assume he’ll go back to his estate in France. The most I can hope for is, whatever Bellasar plans to do to Sienna, he’ll wait until they get off the jet. It gives us a little more time.”

“To do what? A man that powerful… I’m sorry, Chase.”

“I won’t give up! Tell me what you learned about Bellasar since we disappeared. Maybe there’s something that’ll help us.”

“The arms dealer Bellasar planned to use to broker the weapon -”

“Tariq Ahmed.”

Jeb nodded. “He got word that Bellasar’s wife had run away with another man. He doesn’t know the Agency’s involved. Bellasar’s trying to keep that a secret, but the fact that Sienna ran off jeopardized the negotiations. Ahmed’s the kind who believes that if a man can’t control his wife, he can’t be depended upon to control his business. There’s a chance Bellasar might keep her alive to show Ahmed that she’s back and that he’s the boss.”

“Maybe.”

“You’ve got a look in your eyes. What?”

“Bellasar might prove what a man he is by inviting Ahmed to watch him kill her.”

Another jet roared into the air.

“That’s just the sick sort of thing Bellasar would do,” Jeb said. “Kill her in front of Ahmed. It would solve a lot of problems. He’d not only get the negotiations back on track; he’d also scare the hell out of anybody tempted to underestimate him.”

“If your people keep a closer watch on Ahmed -”

“He might lead us to Bellasar.”

“And Sienna.” Jeb pulled out his cell phone.

6

As the fuselage hummed from the Gulfstream 5’s powerful engines, Sienna barely looked out at the whitecapped ocean below. She told herself she ought to. This would be the last time she’d see it. But she didn’t care. Staring at the back of the seat, she kept remembering what Derek had done to Chase. In her mind, she saw Chase lying on the floor, the flames spreading toward him. He was dead. Nothing else mattered.

Someone stood in the aisle. When she turned, Potter’s expression had never been more sullen, the gaze behind his spectacles never more sour.

“That business with the duffel bags in the plane,” he said. “Cute. I’m going to enjoy what happens to you.”

She returned her mournful stare to the back of the seat. In a moment, Potter’s presence was replaced by a darker one, and she didn’t need to look to know who took the seat next to her.

“How much did you tell them?” Derek asked.

“Everything I could.”

“Which wasn’t anything important. You were never present for meetings. I never engaged in pillow talk. You know nothing about my business.”

“Then you don’t have anything to be afraid of.”

“Did you live with me for so long and not learn even the most basic thing about me?” Derek grasped her chin and turned it in his direction. “I’m not afraid of anything.”

“I didn’t live with you, Derek.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You would never allow anyone to live with you. I just happened to share the same building with you.”

“Why did you betray me?”

“You expected me to wait around until you killed me? It was all right for you to plan my murder, but for me to leave was unforgivable? You arrogant… Even if you hadn’t been planning to kill me, I’d have left you. For the first time in my life, I found a man who cared for me more than he did for himself.”

“I gave you the best of everything.”

“And treated me like one of those things.”

“It’s better than dying.”

7

“Good!” Jeb pushed the disconnect button on his cell phone and turned to let Dillon know what he’d learned.

Malone interrupted, emerging from a stack of battered furniture in an outdoor storage unit.

“I don’t know what we’re doing here.” Jeb squinted from the morning sun.

“I had to pick up this suitcase.”

“What’s so important about it? I already got you fresh clothes.”

Malone opened it.

Jeb stared at the money.

8

“No, you come to me,” Ahmed said into his scrambler-equipped telephone. Outside, the traffic sounds of Istanbul’s evening rush hour grew louder. “I don’t see why I should put myself out for you. You’re the one whose affairs are out of order. It’s your obligation to regain my confidence.”

“But you don’t have the proper facilities.” Bellasar’s voice, crackling with static, came from his own scrambler-equipped telephone aboard his jet. He had refueled at a client’s airstrip in El Salvador, toward which he’d been flying from Miami when he’d learned where Sienna and Malone were hiding. “My technicians can’t guarantee the safety of the demonstration unless it’s conducted in a level-four chamber.”

“If the weapon is so sensitive, that doesn’t fill me with confidence, either.”

“I guarantee that when I’m finished, I’ll definitely have your confidence.”

“It’ll take a great deal to convince me your personal affairs are back in order.”

“Not after tomorrow. I have a special demonstration planned. Believe me, you’ve never seen anything like it.”

9

As the Agency’s jet reached its maximum speed, Jeb came back from the cockpit’s radio. “We just got a report that Ahmed ordered his pilot to be ready to fly to Nice tomorrow.”

“Then the meeting must be at Bellasar’s estate,” Malone said. “We can intercept Bellasar at Nice’s airport. We can get Sienna away from him.”

“No. He’s too far ahead of us. We’ll never get there in time.”

“But you can have the French authorities do it.”

“On what basis? As far as the French are concerned, he hasn’t done anything wrong.”

“Then, damn it, order a special ops team to take Sienna away from him.”

“Without permission from the French? At a major airport? Bellasar’s bodyguards wouldn’t just throw down their weapons and surrender. There’d be gunfire. There’s too great a risk civilians would be killed.”

“Jesus, you’re telling me we know where and when he’s going to kill her, but we can’t stop it?”

“If I had the power to make the decision, I would, but the guy dragging his feet is Laster.”

“That son of a -”

“Hey, I don’t like him any more than you do,” Jeb said, “but he’s got a point. We can’t cause an international incident over what looks like a family fight.”

Malone trembled from anger, pain, and exhaustion.

“When was the last time you took your pain pills?” Jeb asked.

“They make me groggy.”

“Good. You need some rest.”

They studied each other.

Malone mentally resisted, then nodded.

He swallowed two pills and tried to tell himself that things weren’t as hopeless as they seemed, that there was something he could think of to save Sienna, but he had the terrible suspicion he was wrong.

Isn’t denial the first phase of grief? he asked himself.

Don’t give up. She isn’t dead yet.

10

No one talked to her again. No one even looked at her. They behaved as if she weren’t present. As far as they’re concerned, I’m already a corpse, Sienna thought.

Throughout the flight, when meals were served, she wasn’t offered anything, a further example of the contempt with which she was treated. Not that she was hungry. Chase’s death had so numbed her that she couldn’t care less about food. But that didn’t matter – if she was going to starve, by God, she wanted it to be her choice. As everyone else ate, she went to the galley at the rear of the jet. When she brought back crackers and a cup of tea, she got no reaction from anyone. She was like a ghost passing among them. She felt like hurling the steaming tea at Derek, and that was when she realized that despair had given way to fury.

She was determined to survive. To get even. How she was going to survive, she had no idea. But she had to think aggressively. Because survival wasn’t enough. She had to make Derek pay.

That motivation fiercely possessing her, she forced herself to pick up a cracker. Her emotions were so chaotic that the thought of eating made her nauseous, but she marshaled her strength. She bit into the cracker, chewed tastelessly, swallowed hard, and got it down.

She took another bite, then another.

Still, no one looked at her. Staring at the back of Derek’s head, she thought, You bastard, I’m not a thing. You can’t just hang me on a wall. Her memory angrily transported her back to the room where she had seen the portraits of her and Derek’s other wives.

And the photographs of Derek’s sister, whom she and the portraits so closely resembled.

And the clothes on the mannequin, and the shoes neatly arranged, and the scrapbook.

And the urn.

None of this would have happened if I hadn’t resembled Derek’s sister.

Derek’s sister, she chillingly realized, was the only chance she had.

11

“I need to wake you, Chase.”

Malone felt as if his eyelids had weights on them. Slowly, Jeb came into focus. “The same drill as before. How many fingers am I holding up?”

“… Three.”

“Seeing double?”

“… No.”

“Feeling sick to your stomach?”

“No.” Malone rubbed his hand across his face, regretting the gesture when his injuries protested. He squinted toward the darkness outside the jet’s window. “Where are we?”

“Over the Atlantic. Do you remember refueling at Dulles?”

Malone thought a moment. “Yes.”

“I think we can stop worrying about your concussion.”

“Where are we headed?”

“Southern France.”

“Didn’t Laster object?”

“He doesn’t know about this.”

Malone’s surprise increased when he noticed Jeb’s partner, Dillon, talking to five stocky men in the forward seats.

“Who…”

“I made some calls en route from Yuma. These are guys I’ve worked with from time to time. They’re looking for work. When they came aboard at Dulles, you’d fallen back asleep.”

“But you said Laster didn’t sanction a mission.”

“Affirmative. This isn’t official. You’re hiring them with what’s in your suitcase.”

“An unsanctioned mission could cost you your job. Why are you sticking your neck out?”

“Because you saved my life in Panama.”

“You already paid that back.”

“No. If not for me, you wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“If not for you, I’d never have met Sienna.”

“Then let’s see if we can get her back,” Jeb said. “This is the latest information we have.”

Malone frowned at a dossier Jeb handed him.

Opening it, he found an eight-by-ten-inch photograph. “A picture of Sienna.” Then he felt a chill as he realized he was wrong.

The photograph showed a sensuous dark-haired woman sitting with Bellasar, drinking from a champagne glass on a terrace that overlooked a beach.

“It was taken at Puerto Vallarta three months ago,” Jeb said. “There were a lot of guards around Bellasar, so our photographer had to work from a distance. The poor angle and the graininess make it seem this woman is Sienna. But the truth is, she’s the daughter of a French industrialist who manufactures some of the weapons Bellasar sells. Bellasar met her at a cocktail party the father gave in Paris six months ago.”

“About the time Bellasar started rejecting Sienna. Of course. He’d found her replacement.” Malone concentrated on the photograph. “With slightly longer hair and some surgery to narrow her chin, she’ll look even more like Sienna.”

“And like Bellasar’s sister. Until Sienna told us about her, we had no idea about the sister’s importance.” Jeb pointed toward the next photograph.

His skin prickling, Malone studied it. The voluptuous dark-haired woman wasn’t Sienna, and yet she had the same body type and facial structure, the same smoldering quality in her eyes. In shadows, the two could have been confused for each other.

“Bellasar and his sister became lovers when he was fourteen and she was a year younger,” Jeb said.

“What?”

“By all accounts, the sister – her name was Christina – was remarkably self-indulgent and impetuous. They went everywhere together. Did everything together.”

“But if it was so obvious, the parents must have known. Didn’t they object?”

“They didn’t have a chance.”

Malone was puzzled.

“The parents died in a fire at their summer home in Switzerland – the same summer Bellasar and his sister became lovers.” Jeb let the significance sink in.

“Oh shit,” Malone murmured.

“For the next three years, Bellasar and Christina partied. Rome, London, Rio. Meanwhile, a trust ran the business. But when Bellasar turned eighteen, he and his sister took control. Their tastes were so expensive that, to generate more income, they ran the business more ruthlessly than the trust had. But thirteen years later, the parties ended.”

“What do you mean?”

“When Christina was thirty, she died in a fall from a hotel balcony in Rome. It seems Bellasar wasn’t enough for her. She had affairs with every man who came along. One night in Rome, Bellasar broke into her room, found her with a woman, and couldn’t keep control any longer. They fought. It ended when she went over the balcony.”

“He murdered his sister?” Malone tasted bile. “But according to this dossier, he wasn’t charged.”

“The only witness was the woman Bellasar found her with. Bellasar paid her off. The story was that Christina had been doing drugs, which was true, and that she’d toppled over the railing. The bribed witness died in a hit-and-run accident three months later.”

“And ever since, he’s been searching for someone to replace his sister.”

12

She knew she had to try to sleep. She couldn’t risk fatigue dulling her thoughts. More, her plan depended on Derek’s knowing she had slept.

At first, she pretended, merely closing her eyes and tilting her seat back. Furious ideas buzzed through her mind, interrupted by bursts of fear that she strained to repress. She had to make rage her solitary emotion. To steady herself, she concentrated on the drone of the jet’s engines. The darkness behind her closed eyes deepened.

A hand shook her roughly.

“Uh…”

“Wake up.” Potter shook her again.

Groggy, she blinked, adjusting her eyes to the harsh lights in the cabin, noting that outside it was dark.

“Get in the rest room.”

“What?”

“We’re about to land,” Potter said. “Get in the rest room. Stay there until I tell you to come out.”

As the jet descended, Sienna saw lights below and recognized the glitter of the Promenade des Anglais along Nice’s harbor.

“Damn it, do what I tell you.” Potter yanked her seat belt open and pulled her upright so hard, her teeth snapped together. He dragged her to the back and shoved her into the rest room.

As the door was slammed in her face, Sienna remembered a time when Derek would have killed Potter for treating her like that, but now Derek hadn’t even bothered to glance at the commotion.

Hearing the engines change pitch as the jet descended, she braced her hands against the rest room’s walls. Moments later, with the slightest of bumps, the jet landed. Whatever Derek had in mind, it wouldn’t be long now. She prayed that he wouldn’t keep demonstrating his contempt by staying away from her. Her plan depended on getting close enough to talk to him.

The harsh light in the rest room made her look as sick as she felt. The bruise on her jaw, from when Ramirez had punched her, was alarming. If there’s ever been a time when I need to look good, she warned herself, this is it. A sink drawer contained basic cosmetics. Hearing voices in the main cabin (probably immigration officials checking the plane), she hurriedly tried to make herself presentable. Trembling, she washed her face, removing the specks of dried blood. She did the best she could with her hair, applied powder to the bruise on her jaw, and used a little lipstick, her lower lip stinging when she put pressure on it.

The door was yanked open.

Potter glared. “Move.”

She didn’t give him time to repeat the order. Veering past him, she headed along the aisle. She did her best to hide her nervousness, to look as confident as if she were still in Derek’s good graces. But her determination faltered when she saw only bodyguards and not Derek waiting at the exit.

As she went down the steps toward the tarmac, she paid little attention to the sweet smell of the sea, even though she knew she should savor it – she might never experience it again. She couldn’t let anything distract her. The helicopter was already warming up. She had a sense of events moving terribly fast. With bodyguards on each side and in back of her, she was herded toward the open hatch, and in another sign of how much had changed, no one offered to help her in. She climbed up, hoping to get Derek to look at her. She failed, but she did manage to take the seat next to him before a bodyguard claimed it.

For a moment, she was afraid that Derek would change seats, but the bodyguards took the others, leaving only one in back, which Potter, his expression more dour, sat in. She fastened her safety harness. The hatch was closed. Aggravating the uneasy sinking feeling in her stomach, the helicopter took off.

Except for the muffled roar of the engines, the compartment was silent.

“I had a strange dream,” she said to Derek, not looking at him.

He stared ahead, giving no indication that he had heard.

She waited a moment, trying to seem confused. “I was falling.”

Again no response.

As the helicopter rose into the darkness of the hills, she concentrated to remember everything as vividly as she could. The locked room next to Derek’s bedroom. The portraits of his other wives. The photographs of Derek’s sister. The details in them. The scrapbook.

Derek’s sister had died on June 10.

A newspaper on the plane had been dated June 8.

“It wasn’t like the usual nightmare about falling,” she said. “Where everything’s dark and you don’t know where you’re falling. This was almost like it was really happening.”

The muffled rumble of the helicopter’s engines filled the silence. Her heart pounded so hard that she thought it would burst. She’d pushed what she needed to say as much as she dared. If Derek didn’t respond…

“Falling?” Derek’s voice was so subdued it took her a moment to realize that he’d spoken and to figure out the word.

“Onto a street.” She remembered the death certificate had said that Christina died at 3:00 A.M. “It was night. But I saw streetlights and the headlights of a car and lights in some windows. The reflection on the pavement rushed toward me. Then I hit, and other kinds of lights exploded in my head, and I woke up.”

“Falling,” Derek said.

“The pain when I hit was…” She lapsed into silence.

Thirty seconds.

A minute.

I failed, she thought.

“And where were you falling from?”

She didn’t answer.

“Was that not in the dream?” he asked.

“A railing.” She paused as if trying to come to terms with the detail. What she said next was full of puzzlement. “On a balcony.”

And now, at last, Derek turned and assessed her.

“A balcony,” he said.

“Of a hotel.” She shuddered and looked at him, searching his eyes, trying to establish emotional contact. “I could feel my insides rush up. It was like it was really happening.”

“A balcony.”

Lights glowed in a valley ahead.

The pilot identified himself to the compound. He got permission to come in.

The chopper descended.

“Someone called me Christina.”

Derek’s gaze was more intense.

“A man. I don’t understand. Why would I respond to someone calling me Christina?”

“I’ve had enough of this,” Derek said flatly.

“What do you mean?”

“Who told you about her?”

“I still don’t -”

“The CIA?”

“You know someone named Christina?” Sienna asked.

“There’s one way to end this. Describe the balcony.”

“I…”

“If the nightmare was so vivid, you ought to have seen what you fell from. You’ve made such a drama about this. Describe the balcony.”

Sienna hesitated. She was going to have to guess, but if she made the wrong choice… She remembered the photographs she had seen on the wall of the locked room. One of them had shown a teen-aged Christina on a balcony, leaning against an ornate metal railing, a view of St. Peter’s in the distance. Had the hotel been a favorite?

“It was spacious. There was a black metal railing, very ornate. St. Peter’s was in the distance.”

The helicopter swooped lower, the lights of Derek’s estate enlarging, other lights coming on, illuminating the landing pad.

“You’re playing a game with me!” he said.

“Game?”

“If you think I’m not going to kill you because of some trick you’re -”

“Trick? I don’t -”

“Shut up. Don’t say another word.”

“I dreamed I was on a pony.”

“What?”

“I was a little girl on a pony. The Alps were all around me. But I’ve never been to Switzerland, and I’ve never owned a pony. How could I have felt I was actually riding that pony? I loved that pony. Jesus, am I losing my mind?”