15
As Malone reached the cover of the olive trees at the bottom of the slope, he risked a precious few seconds to catch his breath and check behind him. But any hope that Bellasar might have been left back there was destroyed when he saw the tiny figures of men hurry over the crest. At their lead, his suit and tie somehow more threatening than the rugged clothes of the guards, his broad shoulders and strong chest unmistakable, was Bellasar.
Malone raced on. The olive trees were dense enough that he couldn’t see Sienna, but the snap of branches and the crunch of footsteps ahead told him where to run to catch up to her. Despite his excellent physical condition, he had trouble narrowing the distance between them. At once he glimpsed her, the earth colors of her skirt and top helping her blend with the trees as she fled through them. He managed to join her as the trees gave way to a field, a fence, Quonset huts, and the airstrip.
All the while he and Sienna raced across the field, Malone was intensely aware of the cold spot on his back where he expected to be shot. Sienna got to the fence first, dropped to her back, pushed up the lowest strand of wire, and squirmed under. Shouts from the trees behind Malone added to his speed when he gripped a post and vaulted the fence to catch up to her.
The Quonset huts were rusted, he saw when he reached them. Cracks in the airstrip were choked with grass. Christ, it’s abandoned, he thought. Jeb, what have you sent me to? But even as unnerving doubts seized him, he and Sienna rounded a corner and almost bumped into a pickup truck. Past it were an old Renault sedan and a beat-up station wagon. Three single-propeller planes stood at the side of the runway.
About to hurry into the largest building, Malone bumped into a bearded man coming out dressed in mechanic’s coveralls and carrying a greasy rag.
With his limited French, Malone tried to blurt his apologies, quickly adding, “I’m looking for a man named Harry Lockhart.”
The man raised his eyebrows and hands in confusion.
“Harry Lockhart.” Malone couldn’t help noticing the frown Sienna gave him. “Do you know a man named…”
The mystified expression on the Frenchman’s face made Malone give up.
“Speak English, monsieur. I don’t understand your French. I’ve never heard of anyone named Harry Lockhart.”
“But he’s supposed to meet me here!”
Sienna’s frown became more severe.
“Are you certain you came to the right airfield?” the Frenchman asked.
“Is there another one around here?”
“No.”
“Then I’m in the right place.”
“You’re bleeding, monsieur.”
“What?”
“Your face. You’re bleeding.”
Malone had assumed the moisture he felt was sweat. For a moment, he feared he’d been shot. Then he realized that the blood came from the scabs on his cheek and mouth. The exertion had opened them.
Two other men stepped from the building. They, too, wore coveralls, and although one was a little heavier than the other, they looked like brothers.
The first man turned to them and asked something in French.
At the mention of the name Harry Lockhart, they shook their heads no, then looked puzzled at the blood on Malone’s face.
Damn it, Jeb, you promised he’d be here! Malone thought.
“What happened to you?” the first man asked in English. “Were you in those explosions we heard?”
Sienna kept glancing nervously back toward the field they had run across. “We can’t wait any longer. If this guy Lockhart isn’t here to help us…” She started to run.
Malone spoke more frantically to the Frenchmen. “Did anybody show up here in the past couple of weeks and say he was waiting for Chase Malone.”
“No, monsieur. The only people who come here are the three of us and a few others in the area who like to fly old planes.”
You bastard, Jeb. You swore you’d back me up.
The Frenchman’s gaze drifted toward the sky and the swiftly approaching sound of a helicopter.
Oh shit, Malone thought. He pulled his steel and gold Rolex from his wrist and put it in the man’s hand.
“This is worth six thousand dollars. Show me how fast you can get your plane in the air.”
16
Halfway across the field, Bellasar faltered at the sound of a small plane sputtering, then droning. The engine gained more power, sounding as if it was about to take off. No! he raged, charging forward again, faster. If Sienna and Malone are in that plane…
The engine reached full power, the distinctive thrust of a plane speeding along a runway. I’ve lost them! Bellasar thought. He came to a breathless stop. His sweat-drenched suit and white shirt clinging to him, he stared at the sky above the metal buildings. Raising his pistol, his men doing the same, he got ready to fire the instant the plane soared into view. His intentions were rash, he knew, given that there would probably be witnesses at the airfield. The imprecision bothered him also, the risk of stray bullets killing Sienna and Malone rather than merely forcing the plane down. But, by God, he had to do something. He wasn’t just going to stand there and watch Malone fly away with his wife.
17
When Potter saw the smoking wreckage of the helicopter and then the three abandoned vehicles, two of them crushed, the doors of the third one open, as if its occupants had left in a hurry, he was reminded of the aftermath of an ambush he’d seen in the Balkans a month earlier. Except, in this case, there weren’t any bodies. Where was… About to tell the pilot to keep a distance until he figured out what was going on, he heard his cell phone ring, and he answered it.
“I’m in the next valley!” Bellasar shouted. “There’s an airstrip! Sienna and Malone are in a plane, about to take off!”
As Bellasar told him what to do, Potter felt uncustomarily euphoric. The helicopter increased speed, clearing the top of the hill. Immediately the airfield was in view. So was the tiny outline of the single-prop airplane taking off. Although the airplane rapidly gained altitude, the turbo-charged helicopter climbed much faster, making Potter feel energized, pressing his stomach pleasantly against his back.
The airplane leveled off, speeding toward rugged hills to the west. The helicopter raced after it, gaining, quickly coming abreast of it on the left.
Potter studied the shapes of passengers in the back-seat and motioned for the plane’s pilot to set down.
The pilot ignored him.
The plane dipped sharply.
So did the helicopter.
The plane veered more sharply to the right.
So did the helicopter.
“Get ahead of him,” Potter said. “Keep cutting him off. Force him to go back to the airfield.”
But before the helicopter’s pilot could do what he was told, the plane soared.
So did the helicopter.
Unexpectedly, the plane swooped toward the countryside and banked beneath the helicopter, speeding in the opposite direction.
The pilot muttered, chasing the plane, narrowing the distance between them. Now he matched everything the airplane did, dipping, banking, soaring. Each maneuver bringing him closer, the pilot took the offensive and cut ahead of the plane, compelling it to turn. When it dipped, he anticipated which side the plane’s pilot was going to choose and was waiting for him, forcing him to turn again. When the plane soared, the helicopter pilot again anticipated which side he would bank to and waited to block his way.
As the helicopter nudged closer, the bearded face of the plane’s pilot became distinct. Although his Plexiglas window was scratched and dusty, there was no mistaking his alarm. Potter’s French was excellent, and so was his ability to read lips. The pilot was cursing.
The man grabbed his radio microphone. The chopper’s pilot found the frequency he was using. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” the Frenchman demanded.