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.