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.
Next to a larger table in the middle, Bellasar – commanding in his tuxedo, his dark hair and Italian features made more dramatic by his formal clothes – raised a glass of red liquid to his lips. A male servant stood discreetly in the background.
“Feeling rested?” Bellasar asked.
“Fine.” Malone held up the pamphlet. “I’m returning this. I hate to think something might happen to it in my room.”
“Just because it’s a first edition?”
“It’s awfully expensive bedside reading.”
“All of these are rare first editions. I wouldn’t read the texts in any other form. What’s the point of collecting things if you don’t use them?”
“What’s the point of collecting things in the first place?”
“Pride of ownership.”
Malone set the pamphlet on a table. “Perhaps a paperback is more my style.”
“Did you get a chance to look through it?”
“It’s a classic discussion of the causes of overpopulation and of ways to control it. I’d heard of Malthus before. I’d just never looked at his actual words.”
Bellasar sipped more of the red liquid. “What would you like to drink? I’m told you like tequila.”
“You don’t miss much.”
“I was raised to believe it’s a sin to be uninformed. May I recommend a brand from a private estate in Mexico’s Jalisco region? The agave juice is distilled three times and aged twenty years. The family makes only limited quantities that it sells to preferred customers. This particular lot had a quantity of only two hundred bottles. I purchased them all.”
“It’ll be interesting to find out what the rest of the world is missing.”
In the background, the servant poured the drink.
“And make me another of these,” Bellasar said.
The servant nodded.
“Since you’re a connoisseur, what special vodka do you prefer in your Bloody Mary?” Malone asked.
“Vodka? Good heavens, no. This isn’t a Bloody Mary. It’s a blend of fresh vegetable juices. I never drink alcohol. It damages brain and liver cells.”
“But you’re not bothered if the rest of us drink it?”
“As Malthus might have said, alcohol is a way of reducing the population.” It wasn’t clear if Bellasar was joking.
To the left, a door opened, and the most beautiful woman Malone had ever seen stepped into the room.
8
Malone had to remind himself to breathe.
It was obvious now why Bellasar had insisted that cocktails and dinner be formal. Bellasar wanted a stage in which to present another of his possessions.
The woman’s evening dress was black but caught the lamp glow around her in a way that made it shimmer. It was strapless, leaving the elegant curve of her tan shoulders unbroken. It was low-cut, revealing the smooth tops of her breasts. Its waist left no doubt how firm her stomach was. Its sensuous line flowed over her hips and down to her ankles, emphasizing how long and statuesque her legs were.
But the ultimate effect was to focus attention on her face. The magazine cover hadn’t done justice to the burnt sienna color of her skin. Her features were in perfect proportion. The curve of her chin paralleled the opposite curve of her eyebrows, which further paralleled the way she had twisted her long, lush fiery brunette hair into a swirl. But the grace of symmetry was only a partial explanation for her beauty. Her eyes were the key – and the captivating spirit behind them.
Captivating even though she was troubled. “The others are late?” Her voice made Malone think of grapes and hot summer afternoons.
“There won’t be any others,” Bellasar said.
“But when you told me the evening was formal, I thought…”
“It’ll be just the three of us. I want you to meet Chase Malone. He’s an artist. Perhaps you’ve heard of him.”
Malone felt his cheeks turn warm with self-consciousness as she looked at him.
“I recognize the name.” Her accent was American. She sounded hesitant.
“There’s no reason you should know my work,” Malone said. “The art world’s too preoccupied with itself.”
“But you will know his work,” Bellasar said.
She looked puzzled.
“He’s going to paint you. Mr. Malone, allow me to introduce my wife, Sienna.”
“You never mentioned anything about this,” Sienna said.
“It’s an idea I’ve been considering. When I had the good fortune to cross paths with Mr. Malone, I offered a commission. He graciously accepted.”
“But why would -”
“To immortalize you, my dear.”
Throughout the afternoon, Malone had begun to wonder if Jeb had been telling the truth about the danger Sienna was in. After all, Jeb might have been willing to say anything to get Malone to accept the assignment. But a darkness in Bellasar’s tone now convinced him. For her part, Sienna seemed to have no idea how close she was to dying.
“Can you start tomorrow morning?” Bellasar asked her.
“If that’s what you want.” She sounded confused.
“If you want. You’re not being forced,” Bellasar said.
But that was exactly how Sienna looked – forced – when she turned toward Malone. “What time?”
“Is nine o’clock too early?”
“No, I’m usually up by six.”
“Sienna’s an avid horsewoman,” Bellasar explained. “Early every morning, she rides.”
Bellasar’s pride in Sienna’s riding seemed artificial, Malone thought. He sensed another dark undertone and couldn’t help recalling that Bellasar’s three previous wives had died in accidents. Was that how Bellasar planned for Sienna to be killed – in a faked riding accident? He nodded. “I used to ride when I was a kid. Nine o’clock, then. In the sunroom off the terrace.”
“Good.” As Bellasar leaned close to kiss Sienna’s right cheek, he was distracted by something at the edge of her eye.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“Nothing.” He turned toward Malone. “You haven’t tasted your tequila.”
9
The dining room had logs blazing in a huge fireplace. The table was long enough to seat forty and looked even longer with just the three of them. Bellasar took the end, while Malone and Sienna sat on each side of him, facing each other. As candlelight flickered, the movements of servants echoed in the cavernous space.
“Food and sex,” Bellasar said.
Malone shook his head in puzzlement. He noticed that Sienna kept her eyes down, concentrating on her meal. Or was she trying to avoid attracting Bellasar’s attention?
“Food and sex?” Malone asked.
“Two of the four foundations of Malthus’s argument.” Bellasar looked at a plate of poached trout being set before him. “Humans need food. Their sexual attraction is powerful.”
“And the other two?”
“Population grows at a geometric rate: one, two, four, eight, sixteen, thirty-two. In contrast, food production grows at a mathematical rate: one, two, three, four, five, six. Our ability to reproduce always outreaches our ability to feed the population. As a consequence, a considerable part of society is doomed to live in misery.”
Bellasar paused to savor the trout. “Of course, we can try to check the growth of population by contraception, chastity, and limiting the number of children a woman may have. Some societies recommend abortion. But the power of the sex drive being what it is, the population continues to grow. This year alone, the world’s population has swelled with the equivalent of everyone living in Scandinavia and the United Kingdom. We’re approaching the six billion mark, with ten billion estimated by the middle of the twenty-first century. There won’t – there can’t – be enough food to sustain them all. But other factors come into play, for God’s merciful plan arranges that whenever there’s a drastic imbalance between population and food supply, pestilence and war reduce it.”