Cold War

FIFTEEN

Elata walked onto the dock as a dead man must walk — with great purpose and deliberation. The Italian’s boat had taken him back to Astona, still in Switzerland. But the location did not matter. Morgan undoubtedly had people to trail him; this might even be part of his plan, not the Italian’s. Elata would not get away, and did not intend to. He had already sent the e-mail to Interpol, using their public address obtained off the Web clipper service. He trusted that the note would find its way to the proper person; if it did not, a second one to the FBI in the U.S. was bound to.

The man guiding the Zodiac rubberized craft hadn’t minded him using the pager as they sped toward shore, nor had he reacted when Elata threw the device into the water.

What became of the notes and what the police did in reaction to them no longer concerned him. He had a few Swiss francs in his pocket, enough to buy a small notebook and a pen from the stationer he found two blocks away from the dock. There was enough change for a large coffee at the cafe next door. Wanting privacy and feeling somewhat considerate — surely Morgan’s men would be here at any minute, and he didn’t want to trouble the patrons — he decided to sit outside despite the brisk breeze. Elata took a long sip of the strong, black liquid, then began to write.

“Today, God has proven to me that he does exist,” he wrote on his pad. He labored over the words; he was a painter, not a writer, and even if he was merely writing the truth, he had difficulty letting it flow.

“He has shown how petty man is. Or no, how petty and evil some men are. I must include myself among them. For until today I did not fully understand the potential man has, or what he should truly aspire to. I did not understand how good and evil coexist and do battle always, nor the importance of—”

Elata looked up. A man in a hooded blue sweatsuit stood a few feet from him. A newspaper was folded over his hand; beneath the newspaper, a slim, silenced.22 pistol.

Elata nodded. The paper jerked upward and he heard the sound of a bee swarming around his head. The buzz turned into the drone of a Junker Ju 86; as he slid forward against the table, his eyes were filled with tears, not because of his pain or regret at the way he had lived his life, but because he saw the images Picasso had drawn once more as he died.

The old castle sat in a gray circle of water roughly equidistant from the shores, its large stones a defense against time as well as human enemies. The brigands who had built it used it not so much as a hideout as a depository; they had bought off anyone with power enough to storm or starve the island fortress, and needed only a place that could be secured against fellow thieves.

Morgan’s needs were more complex. Eyeing the castle from the forward seat of his Sikorski S-76C, he considered whether it wasn’t time to leave Switzerland for an extended period. The latest messages from Antarctica presaged failure there, and even if the Scottish matter unfolded in a suitable manner, there might be unforeseen repercussions.

He had to congratulate himself for being an agreeable three or four steps ahead on both counts. Clearly the Scots were befuddled. The misdirected uranium would be found in a rusting hulk in Glasgow harbor. Not the misdirected uranium, of course, not even a portion of what had actually been diverted. But enough to close out any investigation successfully. His agent, meanwhile, would arrange for a last accident as directed; with luck she would be apprehended, implicating Burns, not him — a precaution arranged by the expedience of using the inchworm’s identity for all contacts in this business.

As for the inchworm herself: She would meet with a regrettable air mishap en route home this afternoon, when the private aircraft Morgan had supplied her would mysteriously disappear at sea. Suitable portions would be found at a respectable interval several weeks into the future.

Thus would a host of problems be solved even before they became problems. The situation in Antarctica remained considerably more complicated, but he could afford to be hopeful there as well; nothing on the continent directly connected him with the venture, with the exception of the easily disposed of e-mail account.

As a precaution, however, he should leave Switzerland, at least for a while. His money could only purchase so much tolerance. One of the former Soviet Republics would afford safety; he had places in Iran and Peru prepared. But could he live in any of them?

He wanted to return to America, with its free air and ready indulgences. Even to go to a place like Thailand or Malaysia, where he could live like a king — what would be the point? If it meant giving up greater glories, the chances of appreciating moments like the one that lay ahead of him, what would be the sense?

“Boat’s clearing,” said the pilot.

“Very good.”

His men in the speedboat, carrying off the professors. He had actually considered keeping them alive — he did owe them a debt of gratitude — but in the end, he judged that this treasure was simply too valuable to jeopardize. The two men would not reach the shore.

The fact that Elata had been treated differently by the Italian bothered Morgan. His men, of course, would find him, but it raised the possibility — distant but distinct — that this was an elaborate fraud and that Elata was involved in it. It would be foolish to try to cheat Morgan, but men did foolish things all the time.

The Italian was no doubt halfway to Milan by now. He might as well go to Antarctica, for all the good that would do him if the Picassos proved to be fake.

The helicopter pitched its nose downward, passing over the fortress twice. Morgan’s men had already searched it using IR sensors; they’d swept it for booby traps and neutralized the electronic surveillance system. What they hadn’t done was establish a suitable place for a helicopter to land. The castle covered the entire island; while there were two courtyards, neither was particularly large, and the pilot feared he’d damage the rotors on the side wall even of the biggest.

“I can take you back to the shore and meet the speedboat,” suggested the pilot.

“Not viable,” said Morgan. “I’ll climb down.”

“Long way to go, even if we had a ladder,” said the pilot. “Which we do not.”

“The boat landing then.”

“I can’t get in with those rocks.”

Morgan considered waiting for his people to finish with the professors. But every night — and every morning, and every afternoon — since meeting the Italian, he had taken out the photocopies and reexamined them. He had decided beyond question to keep the bull and the infant; he suspected, in fact, that he might eventually decide to keep them all. Fifteen million dollars was a minuscule amount of his fortune. Compared to the true worth of the paintings, it was laughable.

If they were real. Elata and the others had said they were, but he had to see himself.

“Get as close as you can and I’ll jump. Hover over the boat landing.”

When he was younger, Morgan had been a good enough athlete to play first-string soccer through college. He still worked out every day and, largely because of his stomach problems, was not horribly overweight. But the wash from the helicopter blades and the craft’s jittery approach nearly unnerved him as it hovered near the wall. The Sikorsky’s stowed landing gear made it impossible for him to climb down, and while the pilot was able to get closer than he’d thought to the wall, there was still a considerable distance between Morgan’s legs and the stones as he lowered himself out the doorway.

But he remembered the face of the child. Holding his breath, he let go.

Morgan landed on the smooth stone ramp, a good two feet from the edge of the water. He tottered forward, but easily regained his balance. There was more room here than it seemed from the air, he decided. Ignoring the pain in his ankle, he walked up the ramp into the empty castle.

The paintings were in the small courtyard, ahead on the left. His heart began pounding heavily, his feet slipped, his head buzzed.

Smaller than he imagined, though he had pored over every detail beforehand, the paintings stood on cheap wooden easels in staggered rows at the middle of the twenty-by-ten-foot atrium. His glimpse of the first left him disappointed; the perpendicular outline of the lantern outline in the teeth of the horse played poorly against the boldness of the flaming background.

But his next step took him in view of the child. Morgan felt the mother’s hand clawing with despair, grasping for the last breath draining the infant’s lungs. The baby’s eyes — top closed, bottom fixed upward — took hold of his skull. Morgan took another step and felt his senses implode.

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.

Morgan thought of the eyes of the child in the painting. One closed, one open.

“The jets are firing at us,” said the pilot.

“Fly into the helicopter,” said Morgan, pointing ahead.

“Into it! You’re insane.”

“They’ll veer off,” he said. “The jets will back off.”

“And then?”

“Then we will think of what to do next.”

“He’s heading right for us!” Nessa shouted as the Sikorsky came on.

They were low to begin with. The pilot veered to get out of the way, and the aircraft’s doors and rotor blades practically touched the lake.

“Get the sodding buggers!” said Nessa, clenching her teeth against the rising bile.

For three hours, the German bombers attacked Guernica. First they hit it with explosives and firebombs. The people of the town fled into the nearby fields, seeking shelter. The planes followed them there, strafing victim after victim, the aircrews laughing as the bullets danced into the bodies. Red blood pooled everywhere. There was no escape.

Morgan would not be captured. It was not a matter of spending time in prison, or being paraded around as an international prize. He would not give up the Picassos.

“Where do you want me to go?” asked the pilot calmly as the other helicopter veered away. Castello Dinelli sat in the water about a half kilometer away. “Should we land back near the speedboat dock, or follow them all the way to Magadino?”

“Neither,” said Morgan softly. “Go for the castle.”

“It’s fifty meters away. Then what?”

In answer, Morgan slipped the small Glock from his belt and shot the pilot twice in the head. His body slumped forward, but the aircraft continued ahead, its trajectory edging slightly downward but still aimed at the stone walls.

It was not the contingency he had wanted, but there was the consolation of having owned the Picassos, if only for an hour.

Nessa watched the Sikorsky slow as it approached Castello Dinelli.

“I think they’re going to try to land on the castle island, maybe in one of the courtyards,” she said.

The Sikorsky glided toward the yellow stone rampart, its nose tipping lower. It seemed to hesitate, then slide to the left, then crumple into a red burst of flames as it smacked into the wall.

“No!” shouted Nessa. “No, no, no!”

The only answer was a spray of black and red as the Sikorsky’s fuel tank exploded.