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.

SIXTEEN - COLD CORNERS BASE, ANTARCTICA MARCH 13, 2002

SIXTEEN

COLD CORNERS BASE, ANTARCTICA MARCH 13, 2002