Burnt Sienna

“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, te

“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 di

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.