“This isn’t about painting.”
4
The stutter of a machine gun grew louder. As Malone aproached the shooting range, he noted that the shrub-lined path Bellasar had chosen avoided the Cloister. He also noted an increase in guards and remembered that Sienna had told him she had never been allowed to enter this section of the estate.
So why is Bellasar bringing me here? Malone thought. Does he feel free to show me the shooting range because he knows I’ll never live to tell anyone what I see?
The machine gun stopped, then started again. From the force of its bursts, Malone identified the weapon as a.50-caliber one, and its astonishingly rapid rate of fire made him conclude that the problem Bellasar had mentioned weeks earlier – how to compensate for the heat that a faster feeding mechanism generated – had been solved.
The shrubs gave way to an open area in which there were several wooden shooting stalls that resembled roadside vending stands, with the difference that, although each had a roof, there wasn’t a back wall. Where fruits and vegetables would normally be on display, there were spotting scopes and clamps for bracing weapons whose sighting mechanisms needed calibration.
Between two of these stations, a machine gun had been mounted on a tripod. A man in gray coveralls pulled plugs from his ears, leaned over to examine the weapon, then reached for a tool in a box next to it. An ammunition belt, its rounds as thick and long as a finger, fed into the weapon from a large metal bin on the right. Expended brass casings littered the ground, glinting in the sun.
But Malone gave these details only passing notice, too preoccupied by where the machine gun was aimed. That area was spacious: several hundred yards square. It contained a village in which everything had been devastated by explosions and bullets. Huge jagged holes gaped in concrete-block buildings. Walls had toppled, ceilings collapsed. The scorched frames of cars and trucks littered what had once been streets but were now wastelands of rubble and craters.
Movement attracted Malone’s attention back to the man in coveralls, who, at the sound of approaching footsteps, straightened from the machine gun. Behind drab spectacles, Potter’s eyes hardened when he saw Malone.
“You’re more versatile than I thought,” Malone said.
“Oh, you’d be surprised what I can do.” Potter turned toward Bellasar. “He shouldn’t be here.”
“I want to show him something.”
“It’s against your rules.”
“And since they’re my rules, I can break them.” Bellasar pointed toward the machine gun. “If you’ve finished adjusting it, put up some targets.”
“But -”
“Do what you’re told. I don’t pay you to argue.”
Potter’s cheek muscles twitched. With a glance toward Malone that left no doubt whom he blamed for the reprimand he had just received, he went over to one of the shooter’s stations and flicked a switch. Malone momentarily thought his eyes were deceiving him. The ravaged village came to life. Soldiers ran from one building to another. Civilians scurried for cover. Jeeps bumped along the wreckage-scattered streets. To the right, an armored personnel carrier lumbered into view, turning to cross in front of the village. Two large tarpaulin-covered trucks hurried after it.
None of this was what it seemed. The soldiers and civilians were lifelike mannequins dressed for their various roles. They moved in a way that suggested they were attached to a motorized track below ground level. The personnel carrier and the trucks moved on motorized tracks also.
“Impressive,” Malone said.
Bellasar nodded, as if he took for granted that the setup was exceptional. “My clients want weapons demonstrated under as close to lifelike conditions as possible.”
“It’s sort of like your own huge electric train set.”
Bellasar looked puzzled.
“I once went to school with a kid who built electric train sets so he could put firecrackers under the bridges and in the water towers and the boxcars and blow them all up,” Malone said. “I’d never met anybody who liked to destroy things so much.”
“Let’s see how much you like to destroy things.”
“What do you mean?”
“Get over here, and test-fire this weapon. You were in the Marines. Give me your expert opinion on what a.50-caliber gun feels like with a faster feeding mechanism.”
“I’m afraid my opinion wouldn’t be worth much. It’s been ten years since I handled a weapon.”
“A weapon’s like a bicycle.” The statement was a command. “You never forget.”
“Derek,” Potter cautioned.
“Stay out of this.” Bellasar kept his gaze rigidly on Malone.
“Fine.” Malone held up his hands in mock surrender. “I’m not sure what point you want to make, but I’ll go along.”
As Malone approached the machine gun, Potter put his earplugs back in, then reached his right hand beneath the bib of his coveralls – to draw a handgun if the situation got out of control, Malone assumed. Guards unslung their rifles.
“You’ll want these,” Bellasar said, throwing him a set of earplugs, then putting in his own.
Malone pushed the earplugs into place. Noting how wary Potter looked, he made an exaggerated show of keeping the machine gun aimed toward the devastated village. He looked at Bellasar. “Anything special you want me to blow apart?”
“The truck on the right.” Because of Malone’s ear-plugs, Bellasar’s voice was muffled.
When Malone aimed and squeezed the trigger, the sudden roaring assault made Malone feel as if he were trying to control a powerful living thing. He had expected an upward kick. He had braced his arms to compensate. But the force of what he held was far beyond his expectation. The recoil from an unimaginable rate of fire thrust the barrel violently into the air. As Malone shoved it back down, he aimed at the truck on the right, and if he hadn’t been concentrating so hard to control the weapon, he would have gaped at the damage it did, its massive spray of bullets disintegrating the back of the truck, reaching the front and blasting the entire vehicle into pieces. When Malone released the trigger, his hands and arms vibrated. Anyone unfamiliar with a.50-caliber weapon would have dislocated both shoulders, he was certain.
“Have you got extrapowerful loads in these rounds?”
Bellasar shrugged. “What’s your opinion of the modifications?”
“If you don’t find a way to stabilize the recoil, nobody’s going to be able to handle this thing.”
“I don’t know what recoil you’re talking about.” Bellasar stepped to the weapon, aimed, and pressed the trigger.
Malone wasn’t prepared.
As the machine gun roared, making a rhythm like a locomotive at full speed, Bellasar controlled it with seeming effortlessness, his arms dominating the weapon’s powerful inclination to jerk upward. Empty shell casings flew through the air with a velocity that made them look blurred. Bellasar’s broad shoulders, muscular chest, and ramrod-straight posture had made Malone suspect that the man exercised frequently, probably with weights, and was in exceptional condition, especially for a man in his early sixties. But what Malone saw now was a bravado demonstration of strength far beyond anything he would have believed. The ease with which Bellasar handled the bucking recoil was awesome. He blew the second truck apart, switched his aim to the Jeeps in the village, blew them apart… and the soldiers… and the civilians… and finally swung the barrel toward the personnel carrier, inflicting what Malone would have considered impossible damage to the armored vehicle, its treads bursting loose, a hatch blowing open, smoke and flames spewing out. Jesus, this ammunition has armor-piercing heads and explosive charges, Malone thought as Bellasar released the trigger and swung the machine gun in Malone’s direction.