David Morrell: Burnt Sienna

“But you won’t be alone. You and I can still keep talking like this. Now that you don’t have to fear him, what would you like to do? Where would you like to go?”

“Do? That’s easy. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Malone’s throat tightened. “You’ve got a deal. And what about where?”

“You’ll think this is corny.”

“I doubt it. Give it a try.”

“I’d like to go where I told you my parents went on their honeymoon.”

“To Siena? In Italy?”

“Yes.”

“There’s nothing corny about that at all.”

When policemen streamed into the corridor, Malone refused to interrupt what he and Sienna were talking about: their dreams, regrets, and resolves. He locked the door and motioned vigorously through the window for the policemen to leave him alone. At first, they tried to break in, until the Russians told them what had happened.

Five hours passed.

A lifetime.

Finally the time lock opened.

Malone hung up the phone and stepped out of the office. The policemen had long ago left the building, afraid that the Russians had miscalculated, that the disease would still be contagious. Even the Russians had left, finally losing confidence in the safeguards they had taken.

Only Malone stood in the corridor. It made no difference to him if he caught the disease. Without Sienna, he didn’t want to live. Still not knowing how to tell her, he entered the chamber. They hugged as if it had been years since they’d been allowed to see each other. They kissed as if it would be the last time they ever did.

Siena sits on three hills in the rolling countryside of Italy’s Tuscany. Its famed cathedral has an intricately textured facade, its white marble offset with green-and rose-colored stone. The city’s piazza – sloped like half of a giant shell, paved with fiery bricks in a her-ringbone pattern – is rimmed by medieval palaces and civic buildings. Much of the old part of the city has survived. Its ancient gates, its narrow, winding up-and-down streets, its stone buildings and sloping rust-colored tile roofs have the effect of obscuring cars, motorbikes, and electrical lines and, like the piazza, taking one back in time.

That was the impression for Jeb Wainright as he made his way along a brown brick lane, opened a gray wooden gate, and entered a brightly colored flower garden, its reds, purples, and greens in contrast with the smoldering earth tones for which the city is famous. He wore sneakers, jeans, and a blue short-sleeved polo shirt. He had a camera bag slung over his left shoulder. Periodically, he rubbed that arm as if troubled by a persistent ache.

An elderly man came out of a doorway into the sunlight, his straw hat and gardener’s coveralls dusty. “May I help you?” he asked in Italian.

Jeb, who had often worked in Italy and knew the language, answered, “I’m looking for someone I’m told is renting some rooms here. An American.”

“Signor Malone?”

Jeb tried to appear subdued. “Yes. I haven’t seen him in a long time.”

The man’s troubled expression made Jeb feel troubled.

“He is where he always is.” The white-bearded man pointed toward an opposite gate, beyond which shrubs blossomed.

“Grazie.”

Massaging his left arm again, Jeb walked along a path, heard bees murmuring among the flowers, opened the gate, and entered a different kind of garden, lush grass bordered by ornamental bushes, trees providing shade.

To the left, a man was so rapt in concentration, an artist’s brush in his hand, a canvas on an easel before him, that he didn’t hear the gate open. The painting depicted the most beautiful woman Jeb had ever seen.

Its subject sat in a wicker chair, a section of the fiery brown city spread out behind her. Jeb remembered a time when he had felt so awkward in the presence of the woman’s beauty that he had found it difficult to look at her. As he approached, he fought the urge to look away.

For her part, seeing him, she fidgeted, then crossed the garden and disappeared through a doorway.

Saddened by her departure, Malone turned to see who had interrupted the session. “Jeb?” He blinked as if he thought his eyes were tricking him.

“How are you doing, old buddy? You promised you’d keep in touch. When you didn’t, I got worried.”

Surprised by Jeb’s arrival, Malone didn’t answer right away, seeming not to know what to say. “Keep in touch? Yeah, I meant to.”

“But things got busy?”

“Something like that.”

“You’re a hard man to find,” Jeb said. “All I had to go on was, the Russian heard you promise Sienna on the phone that the two of you would come here.”

“It’s a beautiful city.”

“So I found out. The next time I have to go to ground, this is where I’ll do it.” Jeb glanced toward where Sienna had disappeared through the doorway. He returned his attention to Malone. “So, how have you been?”

Malone hesitated. “Good.” He thought about it. “Everything considered.”

“You’re looking well.”

“So are you.” Malone studied him. For the first time, he spoke directly. “What do you want, Jeb?”

“Just to see my old friend and find out how he’s doing. Maybe have a few beers together. Catch up on lost time.”

Malone glanced down at his hands. “I guess I’m being rude.”

“What gave you that idea?”

The playful sarcasm made Malone smile slightly. Then he sobered. “How’s the arm?”

“That damned bullet nicked a nerve or something. The muscle twitches.”

“Sorry.”

“No big deal.”

“But it is. You did a lot for me.” Malone glanced toward the doorway. “For both of us. What about your job?”

“Laster was furious that I went behind his back. He assigned me to a desk until he decided whether he could trust me back in the field.”

“I know how sitting at a desk would drive you crazy.”

“It had its advantages. It gave me a chance to watch Laster.”

Malone frowned.

“I couldn’t stop wondering who Bellasar’s informant was in the Agency,” Jeb said. “From the start, it bugged me that Laster had been so ready to believe the body in the East River was yours. As fast as he could, he canceled the backup I’d arranged in case you managed to get Sienna off Bellasar’s estate. And there were other things – the way he brought you and Sienna to that safe house in Virginia and prolonged your debriefing, even though it was obvious we’d gotten all the information we were going to. Then Bellasar suddenly knew you were at the safe house, the same way Bellasar suddenly found out you and Sienna were in Mexico after I told Laster.”

Malone’s gaze hardened.

“So I checked his background. He’s got a wife, two kids in college. Manages to live within his means. The first couple of times I followed him, he seemed to have the most boring life in the world. But one weekend, he broke his routine, didn’t go home, and drove up to Baltimore instead. It turns out he’s got another life up there, another identity, another house, and another woman, this one twenty years younger. Under his other identity, he also has a bank account in the Bahamas that got deposits from one of Bellasar’s corporations. He’s looking at twenty years in prison.”

“Not long enough.” Malone’s voice hardened. “But when he gets out, he and I are going to have a talk.”

“Talk to me . I mean it, Chase. Are you all right?”

“Sure.”

“And what about…” Jeb pointed toward the doorway.

“Fine.”

Sunshine through a window revealed numerous paintings on a wall. All of them depicted the same beautiful woman. “You’ve been busy.”