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.