Cold War - Jerome Preisler [109]
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