Burnt Sienna

  Beyond him, in the murky dining area, someone knocked on the front door. A second sequence of knocking, louder, ended with disappointed voices and the sound of a car driving away.

  “At first, I explained to everyone who came that we were closed, but finally there were too many. It became too much.” Weary, Yat gestured for Malone to join him in the dining area.

  To the right, on the bar, Malone saw a tequila bottle and a half-empty glass. “What’s the matter? Tell me.”

  Yat stared toward the front door. “They kept wanting to know when the restaurant would be open again, and I couldn’t bear repeating so many times that I didn’t know. In the end, I finally just sat here and listened to them bang on the door.”

  “You’ve got to tell me,” Malone said.

  “A man came here this morning and offered to buy the Coral Reef for more money than I ever expected to see in a lifetime.”

  Malone had a sick sinking feeling.

  “I spoke to my wife and children about it. They work so hard. We all work so hard.” Yat shook his head, depressed. “It was too much to resist.”

  “Potter,” Malone said.

  “Yes, Alexander Potter — the same man who was here the other night. He said to tell you he sends his regards.”

  “And those of a man named Derek Bellasar?”

  “Yes. The Coral Reef is to remain closed indefinitely until Señor Bellasar decides what to do with the property.” Yat stared at his glass, picked it up, and took a deep swallow. “I should have thought about it longer. I should have waited before I signed the papers. Now I understand that the money means nothing if I don’t know what to do with my time. I didn’t realize until now how important coming here was to me.”

  Yat’s use of the past tense was so poignant that Malone poured tequila into a glass. “I know how important it was to me.” When Malone swallowed the clear, sharp, slightly oily liquid, his eyes watered, but not just from the alcohol. He felt as if someone had died. Bellasar, you son of a bitch, I’m going to get you for this, he thought.

  “I almost forgot,” Yat said. “You had a phone call.”

  “What?” Malone wrinkled his brow. “From whom?”

  “A man at the gallery in New York that sells your paintings. He said he had something important to talk to you about.”

  With an even sicker feeling, Malone reached for the phone.

  8

  “You sold the gallery?” Malone dismally repeated what he had just heard.

  “Hey, I’m as surprised as anybody.” Douglas Fennerman’s voice was faint, the telephone connection a hiss. “Believe me, it was the last thing on my mind. But out of the blue, this absolutely fantastic offer came in.”

  “From a man named Alexander Potter, negotiating for someone called Derek Bellasar.”

  “That’s a funny thing, Chase. Potter said you’d know who bought the gallery even before I told you the name. But just in case you didn’t, he said to make sure I passed along —”

  “His regards.”

  “Are you clairvoyant?”

  “And Bellasar’s regards, also.”

  “Amazing. Do you know these people well?”

  “No, but believe me, I intend to.”

  “Then everything’s going to work out. You and I go back so far, you’d have been the first person I called, even if Potter hadn’t suggested it. I want to tell you how honored I feel to have represented you.”

  Malone felt a tightness in his throat. “If you hadn’t promoted me so tirelessly, I never would have had any breaks.”

  “Hey, you’re the one with the talent. I’m just the messenger. But just because we’re not in business together any longer, that doesn’t mean we won’t still be friends.”

  “Sure,” Malone managed to say.

  “We’ll still get together from time to time.”

  “… Sure.”

  Doug sounded melancholy. “You bet.” He tried to muster his former enthusiasm. “And at least it won’t be like you’re in business with strangers. Since you and Potter and Bellasar are acquainted with one another, it’s something to build on. After you’ve worked with them for a while, you might even get to be friends.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You never know.”

  “I do know.” Malone’s jaw muscles hardened.

  “Well, you won’t be in business with them anytime soon,” Doug said.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Bellasar plans a complete renovation of the gallery. All your paintings are being put in storage until the job’s completed.”

  “What?”

  “You’re going to be off the market temporarily. Could be a wise move. My guess is, once the gallery reopens, your work will increase in value because it’s been unavailable.”

  Malone tightened his grip on the phone. “And my guess is, Bellasar will guarantee those paintings are unavailable for a very long time.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Making Bellasar and Potter wish they’d never heard of me.”

  “Wait a minute, Chase. Obviously, I haven’t been clear. There’s no reason to feel threatened. If there’s something you’re worried about, if you need to be reassured about something, just tell me. I’m meeting them Wednesday morning at an auction at Sotheby’s. I’ll pass your message along.”

  Sotheby’s? Malone quickly calculated: Wednesday morning’s thirty-six hours from now. He gripped the phone so hard that his hand cramped.

  9

  “Chase?”

  The husky shout made Malone turn from the suitcase he was furiously packing.

  “Are you in there, Chase?”

  Peering through a bedroom window, Malone saw a tall, heavy-chested man with short blond hair and a sunburned, big-boned face standing on the devastated beach.

  “Jeb?” he yelled.

  The big man chuckled.

  “Jeb! My God, why didn’t you let me know you were coming?”

  “I can hear you, but I can’t see you, buddy. Where are you?”

  “I’ll be right out!”

  When Malone hurried from the house onto the back patio, Jeb Wainright broke into a grin. Thirty-seven, the same age as Malone, he wore sandals, baggy brown shorts, and a garish flower-patterned short-sleeved shirt that had its three top buttons open and showed the curly blond hair on his chest. His shorts revealed the bullet scar on his left thigh from the night Malone had saved his life after they’d been shot down during the Panama invasion. Even after ten years, he still had his military physique: broad shoulders, well-developed muscles.

  “I knocked, but I didn’t get an answer.” Jeb grinned more broadly as Malone came toward him. His face was as craggy as the exposed limestone around him. “I started to worry that you didn’t live here anymore, especially after I saw all this.” He gestured toward the torn-up beach and the toppled palm trees. “What the hell happened? It looks like a hurricane hit this place.”

  “It’s a land developer’s idea of civic improvements.”

  “These aren’t the only changes. I drove past that fantastic restaurant we went to the last time. I figured we’d have dinner there, but it’s closed.”

  “Courtesy of the same land developer. I don’t want to ruin my mood by talking about it.” Malone gripped Jeb’s shoulders. “It’s good to see you. How long has it been? At least a year?”

  Jeb nodded. “And now I’m back for another diving vacation. Maybe a little windsurfing.”

  “Where’s your stuff ?”

  “In a rented car out front.”

  “I’ll help you carry it in. You’ll stay here, of course.” A troubled thought made Malone hesitate. “But you’ll have the place to yourself. You caught me at a bad time. I have to fly to New York tomorrow.”

  “What? But I just got here. Can’t you put off the trip for a couple of days?”

  Malone shook his head no. Anger quickened his pulse. “I need to settle a score with the guy who’s responsible for all t
his. You’ll understand when those bulldozers get cranked up again. You might even find yourself sleeping on the beach if they get orders to push these walls down.”

  “As bad as that?”

  “Worse.”

  “Tell me about it.” Jeb pointed toward the beach. “Let’s take a walk.”

  10

  As they reached the pounding surf, Jeb scanned the horizon, making sure there weren’t any boats in view. After the demolition job the bulldozers had done, there weren’t any nearby places where someone could hide and aim a shotgun microphone at them. All the same, Jeb had to be cautious.

  “It started with a guy named Potter,” Malone said.

  “Yeah, I know about him.”

  Malone turned to him in surprise.

  “And I also know about Bellasar,” Jeb said. “The reason I wanted to come down to the water is, your house is probably bugged, but this surf is loud enough, it’s all anybody will hear if a mike is trained on us from a distance.”

  “My house is bugged?” Malone looked as if Jeb spoke gibberish. “Why would —”

  “Bellasar’s thorough. He would have checked you out before Potter approached you. And he would have kept the surveillance in place to monitor your reaction to what he’s done to you.”

  “How do you —” Malone’s features hardened. “So. You didn’t just happen to show up for a vacation.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then maybe you should tell me a couple of things, old buddy. Like, for starters, what in Christ are you really doing here?”

  “I switched jobs since I saw you last.”

  Malone stared and waited.

  “I’m not in corporate security anymore. I work for a different kind of company.”

  The word had implications. “Surely you’re not talking about —”

  “The Agency.” Jeb held his breath, waiting for a reaction. This was the moment he’d been dreading. After his years in the military, Malone’s aversion to authority was such that if he thought he was being manipulated, friendship wouldn’t matter — he’d force Jeb to leave.

  “Oh, that’s just swell,” Malone said. “Great. Fucking fabulous.”

  “Now before you get yourself worked up, let me explain. How much do you know about Bellasar?”

  Malone’s mouth twisted. “He’s a bully with too much money.”

  “And do you know how he got that money?”

  “Oil. Shipping. Widgets. What difference does it make?”

  “Black-market weapons.”

  Malone’s gaze intensified, his blue eyes becoming like lasers.

  “Bellasar’s one of the three biggest arms dealers in the world,” Jeb said. “Name any civil war going on right now — they’re using Bellasar’s weapons to destroy each other. But he’s not just satisfied to wait for an opportunity to knock. If a country’s on the brink, he likes to send agitators in to bomb buildings, assassinate politicians, pin the blame on rival factions, and make the civil war happen. Thanks to him, Iraq got the technology to build a nuclear reactor capable of manufacturing weapons-grade plutonium. Ditto Pakistan and India. Ditto North Korea. He sold sarin nerve gas to that cult in Japan that let it loose in the subways as a dress rehearsal for taking out Tokyo. He’s rumored to be peddling nuclear weapons he got his hands on when the Soviet Union collapsed. He’s my personal candidate for world’s scariest guy, and if you think you can just fly to New York and ‘settle a score’ with him, as you put it, you’re going to find out what a hornet feels like when it gets splattered on the windshield of a car going a hundred miles an hour.”

  Malone’s voice sounded like two pieces of flint being scraped together. “I guess you don’t know me as well as I thought.”

  Jeb frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Have you ever known me to back off ?”

  “Never,” Jeb said.

  “It isn’t going to happen this time, either. I don’t care how powerful Bellasar is. He isn’t going to get away with what he’s done to me. I had a good life here. I took a lot of effort to build it. And now the son of a bitch is destroying it, no matter what it costs him, just because he can’t stand anybody to say no. Well, he’s going to find out what no sounds like in thunder.”

  “Hey, I’m not saying don’t get even. I’m on your side. Make him pay. What I am saying is, be smart about how you do it. Stick it to him where it really hurts.”

  “And where would that be?”

  “Accept the commission he offered you.”

  11

  The surf pounded. Nonetheless, a silence seemed to gather around them.

  “Accept the …” Malone gestured as if the idea was outrageous.

  “The Agency’s been wanting to get close to Bellasar for a long time,” Jeb said. “If we can find out what his plans are, we might be able to stop them. There’s no telling how many lives we could save. But Bellasar comes from a family of experts in survival. His father was an arms merchant. So was his grandfather and his great-grandfather, all the way back to the Napoleonic Wars. It’s not just his family’s business. It’s in his genes. He’s got an incredible sixth sense about avoiding traps and sniffing out surveillance. Every time we’ve tried to get somebody near him, we’ve failed. But now he’s handing us a chance.”

  “This is a joke, right? You can’t seriously be suggesting that I cooperate with him.”

  “With us.”

  “And if Bellasar still has people watching me, he now knows someone from the CIA is trying to recruit me.”

  “An old friend who showed up unexpectedly for a week of diving and windsurfing. As far as anybody can tell, I’m still in corporate security. When Bellasar checks me out, he won’t find any tie between me and the Agency. This conversation hasn’t tainted you.”

  “I’m an artist, not a spy.”

  “The thing is, I was hoping you’re still a soldier,” Jeb said.

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “You were too good at being a soldier ever to stop.”

  “But I did stop, remember?” Malone stepped closer. “You should have been able to predict I wouldn’t ever let anybody tell me what to do again.”

  The surf seemed to pound louder. Spray drifted over them as they stared at each other.

  “Do you want me to leave?” Jeb massaged the bullet scar on his thigh.

  “What?”

  “Are we still friends, or should I find a place in town to spend the night?”

  “What are you talking about? Of course we’re still friends.”

  “Then hear me out.”

  Malone raised his hands in exasperation.

  “Please.” Jeb put a wealth of meaning into the word. “There’s something I have to show you.”

  12

  As the rented Ford jounced along a potholed road that led past vine-covered mahogany trees, Jeb checked his rearview mirror to make sure they weren’t being followed. He took his right hand from the steering wheel and gestured toward his suitcase on the backseat. “Look in the side flap.”

  Despite his annoyance, Malone pivoted in the passenger seat and leaned back to unzip the flap. But what he found puzzled him. “The only thing in here is a magazine. Glamour? What does a fashion magazine have to do with anything?”

  “Check the date.”

  “Six years ago?”

  “Now take a good look at the woman on the cover.”

  More puzzled, Malone studied her. She was dressed in a black evening gown, only the top of which was visible. Its tastefully revealing bustline was highlighted by a perfect string of pearls, matching earrings, and an intriguing black hat with a wide, slightly drooping brim that reminded Malone of the sophisticated look costume designers had given movie actresses in the fifties.

  “I didn’t know women wore hats anymore,” Malone said.

  “It was a retro issue. Keep looking at her.”

  The woman on the cover was a fiery brunette. She had a strong, well-toned presence that suggested she’d been swimmin
g or jogging before she got dressed and made up. Even though she had been photographed only from the waist up, Malone had the feeling that she was tall and that her figure, when seen from feet to head, would be athletic and alluring.

  He was reminded of Sophia Loren, and not just because she, too, was a voluptuous brunette with full lips and arousingly dusky eyes, but also because their skin color was the same, a smoldering earth color to which Malone had always been attracted. It made him suspect that the woman had something else in common with Sophia Loren — both were Italian.

  The car hit another pothole.

  “She’s Bellasar’s wife,” Jeb said.

  Malone looked up in surprise.

  “The woman whose portrait Bellasar wants you to paint,” Jeb said.

  “I feel as if I’ve seen her before.”

  “Because she was featured on about a hundred magazine covers, not to mention thousands of ads for lipstick, shampoo, eyeliner, you name it. Newsweek, Time, and People did articles about her. She had a best-selling bathing-suit calendar. She had a once-a-week fashion-tip segment on the Today show. She was so famous, all you had to do was mention her first name and people in the fashion industry knew who you were talking about. Sienna.”

  “The color of her skin.”

  “The first thing I thought of was the city in Italy,” Jeb said.

  “You’re not an artist. Burnt sienna’s the most brilliant earth color, reddish brown and fiery.”

  “Fiery. Yeah, that describes the impression she creates all right,” Jeb said. “She was as super as super-models get. Five years ago, she gave it all up.”

  “Why?”

  “Who knows? She was twenty-five, almost past the prime age for a model. Maybe she thought she’d get out while she was ahead. Or maybe she fell in love.”

  “With Mr. I Won’t Take No For An Answer?”

  “That could be exactly what happened. Maybe Bellasar wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

  “But now he wants me to paint two portraits of her, one of her face, the other full length? Nude? I get the feeling I’m missing something.”