Maybe it had. It did look quite red. But perhaps because the two policemen who prodded her shoulders did not appear terribly sympathetic, Burns made no comment as she rose and walked from the room under their escort.

John Theiber, the Swiss liaison—a tall, wide-shouldered man with gorgeous blond hair—came over as they left, saying something in clipped German to the men before turning toward Nessa.

“Your office in Paris wishes you to call,” he said in an English so perfect the Queen would have assumed he was one of her subjects. “A Mr. Jairdain.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

Nessa punched the number as Captain Theiber took a few steps away to accord her privacy.

Such manners.

“Jairdain.”

“What’s up?” she asked.

“About a half hour ago, we received a strange e-mail, beaucoup strange, sent to our public e-mail address,” said the Frenchman. “It was from Elata.”

“Elata?”

“ ‘Picassos at Castello Dinelli now. Quickly. Elata.’ That’s the message.”

“That’s it?”

“There’s also a bank name and address, along with a number in America. We believe—I don’t know if I have it correct, but the FBI liaison believes it is a safety-deposit box—a safe in a bank there. They are getting an order to have it seized. Louis is taking care of it.”

Nessa looked over at the gorgeous Swiss. “Castello Dinelli?”

“An island castle in Lake Maggiore, at the Italian border. Near the border. In the fourteenth century—”

“We need to get there now,” she said, jumping up. “That helicopter you promised—where is it?”

Hal Pruitt had thought landing Pedro Martinez in the pre-season draft to be the deal of a lifetime until it was finally cut, at which point he’d realized he couldn’t live with himself for having gone ahead with it. As Captain Ahab had screamed from the Pequod’s bow moments before he went under with a long sucking sound, his topmost greatness lay in his topmost grief.