Burnt Sienna

1

Sotheby’s was on Manhattan’s exclusive Upper East Side, where York Avenue intersected with Seventy-second Street. The February sky was a gunmetal gray that threatened flurries. Ignoring a cold wind, Malone kept his hands in the pockets of a fleece-lined leather bomber jacket and watched the entrance to the block-long auction house from a bus stop on the opposite side of the street. A succession of taxis and limousines halted in front, their well-dressed passengers entering the building.

The time was shortly after 10:00 A.M. When Malone had arrived at Kennedy Airport late the previous afternoon, there had been just enough time to phone Sotheby’s before it closed and find out the subject of its auction today – Expressionist paintings – as well as the time the auction began – 10:15. He had spent a restless night at the Parker Meridian.

Doug Fennerman had said that he’d be meeting Bellasar and Potter here this morning. Malone hoped that the plan hadn’t changed. His own plan depended on it. Having agreed to cooperate with Jeb, he had tried to think of a way to accept Bellasar’s commission without arousing suspicion. After all, he had been adamant in his refusal to do the portraits. Now that Bellasar had gone to considerable expense to punish Malone by tearing apart his life, would Bellasar believe it likely that Malone would simply throw up his hands in surrender, admit the error of his ways, and agree to do the portraits? Wouldn’t Bellasar question this reaction? Wasn’t it more in character for Malone to respond with rage?

Do what I intended to do before Jeb showed up, Malone had decided. The only thing that’s changed is, I’m getting even in a different way than I imagined. His face felt burned by anger as much as the cold. He checked his watch again – 10:08 – returned his gaze to Sotheby’s entrance, and saw two muscular men get out of a limousine. Their cropped hair and rigid bearing suggested they had recently been in the military. Their slightly too-large suits allowed for concealed firearms while giving their bodies room to maneuver if they needed to act in a hurry. After scanning the area, they nodded toward the limo to indicate it was safe to get out.

Malone felt a spark shoot through his nervous system when Potter stepped into view. The short, somber man wore a funereal overcoat that emphasized the pallor of his skin. His thinning hair was tugged by the wind as he stepped back to allow another man to emerge from the limo. Malone stiffened.

From a dossier Jeb had shown him, Malone knew that the second man was sixty-one, but amazingly he seemed only in his late forties. He was tall but had a presence that made him appear to have even more stature. He had thick, wavy dark hair and broad, handsome features that Malone associated with Mediterranean countries. He had a solid-looking physique. He wore a white silk scarf over a superbly cut dark brown blazer and light brown slacks. No overcoat – he was oblivious to the weather. The impressiveness of the man’s separate parts was heightened by their totality, producing a sense of power and strength that made those around him seem insubstantial.

Derek Bellasar. Potter had said Bellasar didn’t allow his photograph to be taken, but Jeb had shown Malone photos taken secretly from a distance. There was no mistaking him.

Immediately, another man appeared, rushing out of Sotheby’s revolving door, smiling broadly, extending his right hand in welcome. He was Malone’s art dealer, Doug Fennerman, his red hair matched by his flushed face. Bellasar responded with only a cursory greeting. The gang’s all here, Malone thought, crossing the street, walking quickly closer but unable to reach the group before all of them disappeared into Sotheby’s.

He entered the reception area about fifteen seconds after they did. Making his way through the crowd, he saw Doug give Bellasar a catalog of the auction, retaining one for himself along with a small numbered paddle that was used for bidding. Evidently, Doug was here to act as an adviser to Bellasar and do the bidding for him. Bellasar must have thought it demeaning to raise his own hand. The group, including the bodyguards, went up a marble staircase with brass railings and turned to the left toward a spacious auction room.

Upstairs, Malone reached a desk where a Sotheby’s employee was registering anyone who intended to bid on the paintings. This close to the start of the auction, most of the attendees had already put in their names, so it took only a minute for Malone to present his driver’s license, give his name and address, and provide a signature.

“Chase Malone?” the man asked in surprise. “Are you the -”

Before the man could say anything about his work, Malone went into the brightly lit, green-carpeted auction room.

2

The murmurs of several hundred people filled it. Scanning the crowd, Malone spotted Bellasar, Potter, and Doug halfway down the middle aisle. The bodyguards stood at each side of the room, studying everyone. As the only voice became that of the auctioneer, Malone leaned against a stone pillar at the back and waited.

The first piece, a not-bad Kandinsky, went for $600,000. Watching the price displayed in various currencies on an electronic board at the front of the auction room, Malone couldn’t help remembering that, ten years earlier, his own work had been priced at a hundred dollars. Now it went for hundreds of thousands. Given the poverty in the world, was any painting, no matter who created it, worth these exorbitant amounts? His complaint was hypocritical, he knew, for until now, he hadn’t refused any money. Most of his earnings had been saved to protect his independence. A good thing, he mentally added, for if the gamble he was about to take failed, he was going to need all his financial resources.

The next item, a better-than-average Klee, went for $850,000. But it wasn’t until the auctioneer introduced the third painting, a starkly bleak Munch in the style of his famous The Scream, that a whisper went through the room. In the catalog, the item had a minimum estimated value of $1.2 million. As was customary, the auctioneer began the bidding at 50 percent of that figure: $600,000.

Malone noticed a shift in the way Bellasar sat, a compacting of muscles, a gathering of energy. Doug made a slight gesture with his paddle, indicating to the auctioneer that he would open the bid at the requested amount. The auctioneer automatically raised the bid to $650,000, which someone else took and which Doug capped as soon as the auctioneer went to $700,000. That was the pattern. With barely a motion of his paddle, Doug outdid every offer. The signal was clear. Others in the room could bid all they wanted, but Doug would always go higher.

The bidding languished at $1 million.

“Going once,” the auctioneer said. “Going twice.”

“One point one,” Malone said.

The auctioneer steadied his gaze toward the back of the room, seeming to ask for confirmation.

“One point one,” Malone repeated.

Puzzled, Doug turned to see who was bidding against him and blinked in surprise when he saw Malone. Something he said made Bellasar and Potter spin.

“One point one million,” the auctioneer said. “The bid is one point one. Do I have -”

“Two,” Doug said.

“Three,” Malone said.

“Four.”

“Five.”

Even from a distance, it was obvious that the auctioneer was sizing up Malone, troubled by his sneakers, jeans, and leather jacket, wondering if he had the money to back up his bid. “Sir, if -”

An assistant approached the auctioneer and whispered into his ear. What he said was presumably what several members of the audience were already telling one another. They had recognized Malone. His name was being murmured.

“Very well,” the auctioneer said. “One point five million. Do I have -”

“Six.” The voice was no longer Doug’s, but Bellasar’s: a baritone with a hint of an Italian accent and more than a hint of annoyance.

“Eight,” Malone said.

“Two million,” Bellasar said defiantly.

“It’s yours.” Malone shrugged. “I guess you just can’t take no for an answer.”

The fury in Bellasar’s eyes was palpable.

“A black-market arms dealer’s money is as good as anybody’s, right?” Malone asked the auctioneer.

Bellasar stood.

“Of course, there’s blood all over the money,” Malone said. “But who says blood and art don’t go together?”

The bodyguards approached from the sides.

Avoiding them, Malone walked down the aisle toward Bellasar.

“Chase, what are you doing?” Doug asked in alarm.

Murmurs in the room grew louder.

Bellasar’s face was rigid with anger. “You just forced me to pay a million more than I had to for that painting.”

“I don’t recall twisting your arm. Maybe it’s God’s way of letting you know you have too much money. Why don’t you add that amount to what it cost you to tear apart my life? You’re interested in my paintings? I’ve decided to change my style. I’m now into performance art.”

Reaching into the pockets of his bomber jacket, Malone came out with a tube of oil paint in each hand. The caps had already been removed. Squeezing hard, he shot two streams of scarlet paint over Bellasar’s dark brown blazer.

Bellasar jerked his head back in shock.

“The color of blood,” Malone said. “You could call it a metaphor.”

He reached back to drive a fist into Bellasar’s stomach but changed position as one of the bodyguards lunged. Pivoting, Malone grabbed the man’s arm, swung, and sent him flying into a row of chairs emptied by members of the audience anxious to get away from the commotion. “Call the police!” someone yelled. As the chairs crashed and the bodyguard rolled, Malone prepared a second time to hit Bellasar, but the other bodyguard rushed him. Malone knocked the man to the floor, felt something sting his neck, and spun to thrust the sharp object away, realizing with alarm that Bellasar had pricked him with something on a ring he wore. Something inside the ring. As Bellasar swiveled the ring’s crested top back into place, Malone’s neck felt on fire. The heat rushed through his body. He had time to punch the first bodyguard before his mind swirled. Frantic, he struggled, but somebody hit him, and the floor became rubbery, his knees collapsing. As out-of-focus hands grabbed him, dragging him along the blurry aisle, his hearing lasted slightly longer than his fading vision. He tried to thrash but was powerless. The last thing he remembered was the scrape of his shoes on carpet.

3

He awoke to a raging headache, finding himself strapped to a chair in a large, dark, echoing area. The only light was from a harsh unshielded bulb above his head. Two men, a different pair than the first two, played cards at a nearby table.

“Need to go to the bathroom?” one of them asked.

“Yes.”

“Too bad. Besides, you already did.”

Malone’s jeans were wet where he’d urinated on himself. His stomach was queasy. The back of his neck ached where Bellasar’s ring had jabbed him.

In the distance, a door opened and closed with a metallic thump. Two pairs of footsteps scraped on concrete, approaching through the darkness. Bellasar and Potter stepped into view. Bellasar now wore a navy blazer and gray slacks; Potter looked even more somber than usual.

Bellasar studied him. “You’re a fool.”

“I’m not the one who paid a million more than he had to for a painting.”

Bellasar spread his hands. “Money can be replaced. I was referring to your refusal to cooperate with me. If you’d accepted my commission, your life wouldn’t be in such disarray at the moment.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t and it is.” Bellasar studied him harder, then shook his head. “What did you hope to accomplish with that incident at Sotheby’s?”

“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 call.”

“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 palazzo.”

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.

The last time Malone had worn formal clothes had been eight years earlier at his art dealer’s wedding. He hadn’t enjoyed it, had felt constricted. But he was damned if he was going to let Bellasar sense his discomfort. When he entered the library two hours later, he looked as if he wore a tuxedo every day of his life.

The large two-story area had shelves from floor to ceiling on all four sides, every space filled with books except where there were doors and windows. Ladders on rollers allowed access to the highest shelves on the main level. Similar ladders on rollers were on a walkway on the second level. The glow from colored-glass lamps reflected off leather reading chairs and well-oiled side tables.

Next to a larger table in the middle, Bellasar – commanding in his tuxedo, his dark hair and Italian features made more dramatic by his formal clothes – raised a glass of red liquid to his lips. A male servant stood discreetly in the background.

“Feeling rested?” Bellasar asked.

“Fine.” Malone held up the pamphlet. “I’m returning this. I hate to think something might happen to it in my room.”

“Just because it’s a first edition?”

“It’s awfully expensive bedside reading.”

“All of these are rare first editions. I wouldn’t read the texts in any other form. What’s the point of collecting things if you don’t use them?”

“What’s the point of collecting things in the first place?”

“Pride of ownership.”

Malone set the pamphlet on a table. “Perhaps a paperback is more my style.”

“Did you get a chance to look through it?”

“It’s a classic discussion of the causes of overpopulation and of ways to control it. I’d heard of Malthus before. I’d just never looked at his actual words.”

Bellasar sipped more of the red liquid. “What would you like to drink? I’m told you like tequila.”

“You don’t miss much.”

“I was raised to believe it’s a sin to be uninformed. May I recommend a brand from a private estate in Mexico’s Jalisco region? The agave juice is distilled three times and aged twenty years. The family makes only limited quantities that it sells to preferred customers. This particular lot had a quantity of only two hundred bottles. I purchased them all.”

“It’ll be interesting to find out what the rest of the world is missing.”

In the background, the servant poured the drink.

“And make me another of these,” Bellasar said.

The servant nodded.

“Since you’re a connoisseur, what special vodka do you prefer in your Bloody Mary?” Malone asked.

“Vodka? Good heavens, no. This isn’t a Bloody Mary. It’s a blend of fresh vegetable juices. I never drink alcohol. It damages brain and liver cells.”

“But you’re not bothered if the rest of us drink it?”

“As Malthus might have said, alcohol is a way of reducing the population.” It wasn’t clear if Bellasar was joking.

To the left, a door opened, and the most beautiful woman Malone had ever seen stepped into the room.

8

Malone had to remind himself to breathe.

It was obvious now why Bellasar had insisted that cocktails and dinner be formal. Bellasar wanted a stage in which to present another of his possessions.

The woman’s evening dress was black but caught the lamp glow around her in a way that made it shimmer. It was strapless, leaving the elegant curve of her tan shoulders unbroken. It was low-cut, revealing the smooth tops of her breasts. Its waist left no doubt how firm her stomach was. Its sensuous line flowed over her hips and down to her ankles, emphasizing how long and statuesque her legs were.

But the ultimate effect was to focus attention on her face. The magazine cover hadn’t done justice to the burnt sienna color of her skin. Her features were in perfect proportion. The curve of her chin paralleled the opposite curve of her eyebrows, which further paralleled the way she had twisted her long, lush fiery brunette hair into a swirl. But the grace of symmetry was only a partial explanation for her beauty. Her eyes were the key – and the captivating spirit behind them.

Captivating even though she was troubled. “The others are late?” Her voice made Malone think of grapes and hot summer afternoons.

“There won’t be any others,” Bellasar said.

“But when you told me the evening was formal, I thought…”

“It’ll be just the three of us. I want you to meet Chase Malone. He’s an artist. Perhaps you’ve heard of him.”

Malone felt his cheeks turn warm with self-consciousness as she looked at him.

“I recognize the name.” Her accent was American. She sounded hesitant.

“There’s no reason you should know my work,” Malone said. “The art world’s too preoccupied with itself.”

“But you will know his work,” Bellasar said.

She looked puzzled.

“He’s going to paint you. Mr. Malone, allow me to introduce my wife, Sienna.”

“You never mentioned anything about this,” Sienna said.

“It’s an idea I’ve been considering. When I had the good fortune to cross paths with Mr. Malone, I offered a commission. He graciously accepted.”

“But why would -”

“To immortalize you, my dear.”

Throughout the afternoon, Malone had begun to wonder if Jeb had been telling the truth about the danger Sienna was in. After all, Jeb might have been willing to say anything to get Malone to accept the assignment. But a darkness in Bellasar’s tone now convinced him. For her part, Sienna seemed to have no idea how close she was to dying.

“Can you start tomorrow morning?” Bellasar asked her.

“If that’s what you want.” She sounded confused.

“If you want. You’re not being forced,” Bellasar said.

But that was exactly how Sienna looked – forced – when she turned toward Malone. “What time?”

“Is nine o’clock too early?”

“No, I’m usually up by six.”

“Sienna’s an avid horsewoman,” Bellasar explained. “Early every morning, she rides.”

Bellasar’s pride in Sienna’s riding seemed artificial, Malone thought. He sensed another dark undertone and couldn’t help recalling that Bellasar’s three previous wives had died in accidents. Was that how Bellasar planned for Sienna to be killed – in a faked riding accident? He nodded. “I used to ride when I was a kid. Nine o’clock, then. In the sunroom off the terrace.”

“Good.” As Bellasar leaned close to kiss Sienna’s right cheek, he was distracted by something at the edge of her eye.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“Nothing.” He turned toward Malone. “You haven’t tasted your tequila.”

9

The dining room had logs blazing in a huge fireplace. The table was long enough to seat forty and looked even longer with just the three of them. Bellasar took the end, while Malone and Sienna sat on each side of him, facing each other. As candlelight flickered, the movements of servants echoed in the cavernous space.

“Food and sex,” Bellasar said.

Malone shook his head in puzzlement. He noticed that Sienna kept her eyes down, concentrating on her meal. Or was she trying to avoid attracting Bellasar’s attention?

“Food and sex?” Malone asked.

“Two of the four foundations of Malthus’s argument.” Bellasar looked at a plate of poached trout being set before him. “Humans need food. Their sexual attraction is powerful.”

“And the other two?”

“Population grows at a geometric rate: one, two, four, eight, sixteen, thirty-two. In contrast, food production grows at a mathematical rate: one, two, three, four, five, six. Our ability to reproduce always outreaches our ability to feed the population. As a consequence, a considerable part of society is doomed to live in misery.”

Bellasar paused to savor the trout. “Of course, we can try to check the growth of population by contraception, chastity, and limiting the number of children a woman may have. Some societies recommend abortion. But the power of the sex drive being what it is, the population continues to grow. This year alone, the world’s population has swelled with the equivalent of everyone living in Scandinavia and the United Kingdom. We’re approaching the six billion mark, with ten billion estimated by the middle of the twenty-first century. There won’t – there can’t – be enough food to sustain them all. But other factors come into play, for God’s merciful plan arranges that whenever there’s a drastic imbalance between population and food supply, pestilence and war reduce it.”

“‘God’s merciful plan’?” Malone asked in disbelief.

“According to Malthus. But I agree with him. He was an Anglican minister, by the way. He believed that God allowed misery to be part of His plan in order to test us, to make us try to rise to the occasion and strengthen our characters by overcoming adversity. When those who have been sufficiently challenged and bettered die, they go on to their eternal reward.”

“In the meantime, because of starvation, pestilence, and war, they’ve endured hell on earth,” Sienna said.

“Obviously, you haven’t been listening closely, my dear. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have missed the point.”

Sienna concentrated on her plate.

“So war’s a good thing,” Malone said acidly. “And so are weapons merchants.”

“It’s easy to condemn what you don’t understand. Incidentally, my great-great-great-grandfather had a friendship with Malthus.”

“What?”

“After the first edition of his essay was published, Malthus traveled from England to the Continent. My ancestor had the good fortune to meet him at a dinner party in Rome. They spent many evenings together, exchanging ideas. That pamphlet I lent to you was given to my ancestor by Malthus himself.”

“You’re telling me that because of Malthus’s ideas, your ancestor became an arms dealer?”

“He considered it a vocation.” Bellasar looked with concern toward Sienna. “My dear, you don’t seem to be enjoying the trout. Perhaps the rabbit in the next course will be more to your liking.”

10

Malone lay in his dark bedroom, staring, troubled, at the ceiling. The evening had been one of the strangest he had ever experienced, the conversation on such a surreal level that he felt disoriented, his mind swirling worse than when he’d been tranquilized.

Jet lag insisted. His eyelids fluttered shut. He dreamed of two men wearing wigs and frilly long jackets from 1798, huddled by a fire in a smoky tavern, pointedly discussing the fate of the multitudes. He dreamed of Sienna on horseback, galloping through cypresses, never seeing the trip wire that jerked up, toppled her horse, and snapped her neck. He dreamed of the roar of a helicopter coming in for a landing, barely pausing before it lifted off, the rumble of its engine receding into the distance. His eyes jerked open as he realized that the helicopter had not been a dream.

Getting out of bed, he approached the large windows opposite him. Peering out, he saw the shadows of trees across gardens and moonlight reflecting off ponds. Floodlights illuminated courtyards and lanes. A guard stepped into view, throwing away a cigarette, shifting his rifle from his left shoulder to his right. Far off, the angry voices of two men were so muffled that Malone couldn’t tell what they shouted at each other. The guard paid them no attention. The argument stopped. As silence drifted over the compound, Malone wiped a hand across his weary face and returned to bed, about to sink back into sleep when he heard a distant gunshot. He was willing to bet that the guard didn’t pay attention to that, either.