David Morrell - Burnt Sienna

“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?”

“How soon till we get to Nice?” Malone asked.

“An hour.”

Malone peered from the Agency’s jet. The sky was turning gray. It would soon be dawn. “We’re going to need weapons and special equipment.”

Jeb nodded. “Back in February, when you agreed to work for us, I made arrangements to have them ready in case we had to go in.”

“After we land and the jet’s refueled, one of these men will have to fly to Paris.”

“What’s in Paris?”

“Bellasar’s new girlfriend and her father.”

“What are you thinking?”

Malone explained.

Jeb raised his eyebrows.

“When does Bellasar expect Ahmed?” Malone asked.

“Two P.M.”

“That gives us enough time,” Malone said.

“To do what?”

When Malone told him, Jeb raised his eyebrows higher. “Risky.”

“Have you got an alternative?”

“You know I don’t.”

“Then, with or without your help, I intend to try this.”

“Hey, who said I wouldn’t help?”

“But it isn’t going to work if I can’t get into France. I need a passport.”

Jeb reached into his jacket.

Malone looked in amazement as Jeb handed him a passport. “How…”

“It was with the documents I had delivered at Dulles when we refueled.”

Malone examined his photograph and the name in the passport. “I’m Thomas Corrigan?”

“A pseudonym will come in handy if this doesn’t work.”

“But it is going to work. It has to.”

“Maybe this will encourage you.”

Malone shook his head, puzzled, when he was handed another passport.

The photograph inside was Sienna’s, the name under it Janice Corrigan. “Thank you,” Malone said.

It gave him a reason to hope.

“ How do you know these things ?” Derek insisted.

Sienna was sprawled in a chair in the library, where Derek had pushed her as soon as they entered.

“What things? I don’t know what you mean. All I did was tell you about a disturbing dream I had.”

“In which you fell from a balcony and you were also riding a pony.”

“No. Not in the same… I woke and drifted off. Several dreams blurred together.”

“What color was the pony?”

Sienna strained to remember the photograph. “It was dark. But it had a white mane.”

“In the Alps, you said.”

“Yes.” Sienna shook her head from side to side. “Why are you doing this? Quit bullying me. If you’re going to punish me, do it. But stop this -”

“How old were you when you had the pony?”

“I didn’t say I had a pony. I said I dreamed about -”

“Damn it, how old were you?”

There had been a handwritten date on the photograph: 1949.

The date on Christina’s birth certificate had been 1939 .

“… Ten.”

“And who gave you the pony?”

This is the end, Sienna thought. If I guess wrong… The obvious answer was, “My parents,” but something in Derek’s insistent gaze told her that the question had a trick, that the pony’s relevance was fiercely personal. Why should it matter who gave the pony? Unless…

“My brother.”

Derek shuddered.

“ Why am I having these dreams ?” Sienna demanded.

Someone knocked on the door.

“Not now!” Derek shouted.

“Do you want me to meet Ahmed at the airport?” Potter’s voice came from behind the door. “Or do you want the guards to bring him?”

“Meet him!”

“But how do you want me to act? Friendly or distant?”

“Whatever you want! Just leave us the hell alone!”

After a pause, footsteps retreated along the outside corridor.

Derek swung toward Sienna. “Who told you about the balcony and the pony?”

“Nobody! They were in my dream!”

“What else did you dream?”

“I was at a carnival.”

“What kind of -”

“A fiesta. In a street. People were in costumes.”

“Where?”

The crowd in the photograph’s background had looked Latin. Sienna remembered another photograph in which a gigantic statue of Christ, His arms outstretched, had loomed on a ridge behind Christina. The only statue like that she knew of was in -

“Rio.”

The city was famous for its carnivals, but Derek didn’t react.

God help me, I guessed wrong. Sienna tensed.

“Rio.” Derek glared.

He’s going to kill me now.

“How Christina loved Rio.” Derek yanked her up from the chair. “Who told you about my sister?”

“Your sister? I didn’t know you have a -”

“Had!”

“Her name was Christina?” Sienna asked.

“She died a long time ago. Are you trying to convince me you’re dreaming about her ?”

“I’m not trying to convince you of anything! I never heard of her until you -”

“Do you think I won’t kill you because I’d feel it was like killing my sister?”

“Killing your sister?”

The look in Derek’s eyes was terrifying.

“Did Christina fall from a balcony? Did I dream about how she died?”

Derek shook with anger. “As much as I adored her, she had a way of making me furious. Just as you’re making me furious.”

With a chill, Sienna realized what had happened on the balcony that night. “In the dream, I was pushed.”

Derek raised his hands.

“Please, don’t kill me again,” Sienna whispered.

Distraught, Potter watched Nice’s airport enlarge below him as the helicopter descended. He was intentionally early to meet Ahmed. Anything to get away from Derek. To be shouted at. To be treated no better than a servant. When this is over, I’m leaving, Potter thought.

The helicopter set down in its usual far corner of the airport. After getting Ahmed, Potter would return to the estate, and by this time tomorrow, he thought, when the woman is taken care of, when business is settled and I bring Ahmed back to the airport, I’ll keep going. I saved my money. I planned for when Derek would turn against me. Now he’ll find out what it’s like to be on his own.

“We have plenty of time. Refuel it,” Potter told the pilot. He turned to his two guards. “We’ll go into the terminal.”

But instead of moving, they stared past him toward the open hatch, where three men in mechanic’s coveralls leaned in, aiming pistols.

One of the guards almost drew his weapon, but after a further look at the sound suppressors on the pistols, he remained still.

“Think,” one of the armed men said. He was heavy-set, with short blond hair. “Very slowly, using the tips of your fingers, remove your weapons and set them on the floor. Good. If you do this right, nobody’s going to die.”

“Who…?” Potter started to ask.

The man ignored him. A van pulled up next to the helicopter. “Everybody out. You’re taking a ride.”