Who could have faked such work? No one, not even Elata.
He walked to each canvas as if in a dream. He touched each in succession, running his fingers around the edges of the canvas, tracing the edge of the stretcher at the back.
My God, he thought — war provoked this. Violence begat such awesome beauty.
The helicopter revved outside. Morgan remained fixed, lost in a trance. Finally, after he had seen each painting again, after he had absorbed each one’s beauty and ugliness — yes, of course they contained ugliness, they had to, as man possessed good and evil — he took each with great care and placed them in the vinyl cases the Italian had left. Then he made seven stacks, and carried two out toward the helicopter.
The pilot had put out his landing wheels and managed to perch at the edge of the ramp. The rotor continued to turn, albeit slowly.
“Help me!” Morgan yelled as he struggled with the door.
“I’ve got to hold the aircraft,” shouted the pilot. “We’ll slide into the water if I don’t.”
Morgan carefully slid the paintings into the rear of the craft.
“There are twelve more,” said Morgan.
“Wait!” the pilot yelled as he started to go back. “You have a message — a radio message.”
“What?”
“Here.” The pilot handed him the headset and then fiddled with the radio control. Morgan, leaning into the helicopter, put it on.
“What?” demanded Morgan.
“The Swiss have arrested Constance Burns,” said Peter. He must still be aboard the boat — Morgan could hear the motor’s drone in the background. Of course — they would be running south for Italy, having panicked and initiated the backup plan.
So be it. They were small insects who could be dealt with at a more convenient time.
“Danke schön,” said Morgan simply. “Thank you very much.” He reached to pull the headset off.
“Interpol was involved,” said Peter, flustered by his employer’s nonchalance. “The Kommando der Flieger has been alerted.”
“Danke,” repeated Morgan, removing the headset. Swiss Air Force or no, he would take every Picasso from the castle. He clambered back across the ramp, losing his footing because the spray from the helicopter made the rocks slippery. He dropped one of the paintings on the way back, held his breath as it careened toward the water, propelled by the wind. It smacked against the wall, pinned there until he retrieved it.
“Turn off the rotors,” he told the pilot when he reached the helicopter.
“We’ll slide into the water.”
“I’ll take the chance,” he told him.
“We may not be able to take off.”
“Turn them off,” said Morgan in a voice so strong it could have killed the engine on its own.
The heavy drone of the Aérospatiale Alouette III’s Turboméca made it nearly impossible for Nessa to hear the transmission, so even if she had spoken German and could have deciphered the heavy Swiss accent, she would have had trouble understanding what was being said.
The ever-helpful Captain Theiber, sitting in the rear compartment behind her, had no difficulty, however. In his calm baritone voice, he supplied a concise interpretation when the transmission was complete.
“Two jets from Fleigerstaffel 8 have taken off from Meriringen,” he said. “That’s north of us. A pair of trainers from Magadino are airborne as well. They are propeller-driven, but they should match a helicopter. And a liaison is contacting NATO. Herr Morgan will not escape.”
“I’m confident,” said Nessa, though she felt anything but. Having rallied such vast resources, she had better end up with something in her net besides the gorgeous scenery.
And a case of airsickness, which had started to creep up her esophagus.
“The lake,” said the pilot.
The edge of a blue-green bowl opened in the white and gray ahead. A town, two towns, lay to the right. The pilot had the throttle full bore — they whipped forward at just over two hundred kilometers an hour.
“Ten minutes,” predicted Theiber. “Less.”
“The PC-7’s will approach from the west,” said the pilot, pointing in the distance. “Castello Dinelli will be straight ahead.”
Nessa leaned straight ahead, willing it to appear.
Morgan’s ankle had started to swell and his knees were deeply bruised from his falls by the time he slid the last painting into the helicopter. He had to shove his chest to the side awkwardly to get into the craft, which was listing and had its left forward wheel underwater. The pilot’s frown did not lift as the rotors whipped into action; he wrestled with the controls as the aircraft began bucking violently.
“Go!” commanded Morgan.
“I’m trying,” growled the pilot.
Morgan buckled his seat belt and leaned against the seat as the helicopter pitched upward. Falling on the rocks had temporarily fatigued him, but as he thought of the paintings he now possessed, his characteristic bonhomie returned. “Now, now,” he told the pilot. “Come — you’ll be richly rewarded. Let us fly back to Zurich now.”
The helicopter trembled for a few moments more, but began gradually to lift steadily. The pilot’s frown faded.
Then a dark cross appeared a bare meter from the windshield and the Sikorsky lurched sideways to duck it.
“Shit! Don’t ram them!” shouted Nessa. “Tell them not to ram him!”
The two Pilatus PC-7’s buzzed in front of the Sikorsky so close, it seemed as if one of the wings would clip the rotor.
“It’s under control, I’m sure,” said Captain Theiber. He leaned forward and put his hand on her shoulder.
A few minutes before, Nessa would have reached up and touched his hand with her fingers. But the captain’s tone suddenly felt patronizing.
“Can you reach them on the radio?” she asked the pilot, ignoring Theiber.
“That switch,” he said. “The international emergency band.” His own hands were busy — he ducked the Alouette to the right as the Sikorsky began skittering away from the two orange-red Swiss Air Force planes.
“Helicopter leaving Castello Dinelli, this is Interpol,” said Nessa. “You are ordered to follow the directions of the Commando Fliers.”
“Kommando der Flieger,” corrected Captain Theiber over the circuit.
“Yeah, thanks.” Nessa flicked his hand off her shoulder. “Follow our directions and you won’t get hurt. You are to follow us back to the Magadino airport.”
The Sikorsky began powering away southward. It was a civilian version of the American Blackhawk combat helicopter, and its twin turboshafts could propel the helicopter more than twice as fast as the Alouette — and in fact could give the two small trainers a decent run if its maneuverability was used correctly.
It was not, however, in any way a match for the F-5E’s the Swiss Air Force had scrambled, which chose this moment to close from the rear.
“You’re surrounded. Give up,” said Nessa. “Mr. Morgan can’t possibly pay you enough to die for. We can arrange a deal, I’m sure.”
Morgan punched the radio with his fist. Interpol? How in God’s name had the inept bastards traced him here?
“We have to land,” said the pilot.
A silvery-gray object whizzed down from overhead, whipping across the lake in front of him. The helicopter pilot threw the Sikorsky around, heading back toward the castle. Another helicopter, probably the one with the woman who had been speaking to them over the UHF band, was heading for them.
“We have to land,” repeated the pilot.
There were always contingencies; there were always escape routes. When the Americans had closed in on him for that tax nonsense, he had found a way to get out. There would be an escape now.