David Morrell - Burnt Sienna

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

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.

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.

“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.”