“Damn you, Ferguson,” Rossi cried, his right hand coming out of his pocket holding the Madonna.

At the same moment, Klein, up above and thoroughly drunk, leaned out and shouted, “I’ve got you now, Baron,” hurled the empty schnapps bottle and fired both barrels of his sawn-off.

Strangely enough, it was Ferguson who saved the Baron, hurling himself forward and knocking him from his chair, but it was Derry Gibson, the old Irish hand, who got Klein, firing a Browning three times, catching Klein in the forehead, sending him back into the wall to bounce back over the edge and fall into the hall below.

All of their timing was blown. Billy, advancing on Newton and Cook, had no choice but to shoot Newton while Dillon, below, kicked in the door, stood to one side and sprayed across.

Ferguson and the Baron were behind the sofa, Rossi and Gibson upended the table and fired toward the door.

Dillon called, “You okay, Billy?”

“Got Newton. Cook to go.”

There was a burst of firing. Dillon called, “See what you can do with the chandelier. I’ll help. One, two, three, go.”

They gave it sustained fire, it splintered, shards flying everywhere, sagged, then ripped out of the ceiling, plunging the hall into darkness, and crashed to the floor, parts of it showering the table.

On the landing, Cook panicked totally, stood up firing his AK47, and Billy drove him back with a short burst, then started down the stairs. Dillon ran in, firing high, and confronted Rossi and Derry Gibson as they emerged from behind the wreck of the chandelier and table. Billy came up behind them.

“Hold it.” He ran his hands over them and relieved them of two pistols and Rossi of the ivory Madonna. He sprang the blade. “That’s handy.” He snapped the blade shut and put it in his pocket.

Ferguson and the Baron were standing now. Ferguson said, “What kept you?”

Billy said, “From what I could see from up there, you saved this old sod. What on earth for?”

“It seemed like the civilized thing to do, and he was very civilized to me, Dillon. He took me to the chapel and produced a tantalizing glimpse of the diary. Hidden in the mausoleum.”

“Really? Well, we came for you, Charles, but the diary is definitely a bonus.”

Rossi hadn’t said a word, merely stood there glowering, and Gibson was poised to take any chance to run for it, Dillon knew that.

“All right,” he said to Rossi. “Lead the way.”

Coming in at six hundred feet, Kubel had a perfect view of the Schloss, wonderfully floodlit, the meadow below. At one hundred and sixty miles per hour, he’d made a hugely quick run in spite of the heavy rain, but at the end, it had faded into a drizzle. There was a quarter-moon, pale, rain-washed, and then the floodlit Schloss, the great meadow, and he went down and made a perfect landing, taxied to the far end, turned and taxied back. His Codex Four sounded and he replied.

“Kubel.”

“Dillon here. Heard you coming in. We’ve got him.”

“Fine. Ready to leave when you are.”

They grouped close to the mausoleum in the chapel, Billy covering Rossi, Gibson and the Baron with his Schmeisser. Ferguson fiddled about at the back.

“It’s in here somewhere, a secret cavity of some sort.”

“You’ll never find it,” the Baron said tranquilly.

“I haven’t got time to waste.” Dillon grabbed Rossi by the hair, took a Walther from the pocket of his raincoat and rammed the muzzle against the side of his skull. “Produce it or I’ll kill him.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then you don’t know me.” Dillon turned to Gibson. “I told you never to run back to me.” He shot him between the eyes, hurling him back against the steps of the mausoleum, blood flying.

There was general shock, and then he rammed the muzzle of the Walther against Rossi’s skull again.

“It’s up to you.”

“No,” the Baron cried in anguish. “I’ll give it to you, but only if you swear on your honor to spare him.”

It was Ferguson who intervened. “You have my word.”

The old man went to the back of the mausoleum, and there was one slight creaking as he opened the cavity. He came back with the diary and held it out to Ferguson, who took it.

“A ‘holy book,’ according to Sara Hesser. You swore an oath never to copy it.”

“I never did.”

“Excellent.” Ferguson went up the two steps to the eternal flame and dropped the diary inside. It started to burn at once.

Rossi cried out, “You bloody fool, Father, they’ll kill us anyway.”

Dillon shoved him away and raised his Walther, but Ferguson said, “No, it’s over, and I did give my word. We leave now,” and he walked out.

“You’re a lucky man,” Dillon said. “I gave up on honor a long time ago. Come on, Billy.” They went out, following Ferguson back along the tunnel, hurrying past the carnage in the Great Hall and out to the front door, turning down the steps to the courtyard. Several vehicles were parked there, including a Land Rover with the keys in it.

“This will do,” Dillon said, and got behind the wheel. The other two scrambled in and he drove away and out across the drawbridge.

Rossi emerged from the front of the chapel, his father on his heels, and looked far down into the meadow. “My God, it’s a Storch; they’re leaving in an old crate like that. Well, I’ll show them.”

He stormed down the path to the courtyard, and his father stumbled along behind him. “But what are you going to do?”

“My Gulfstream is three times faster than that thing. I’ll run the bastards into the ground.”

He was beside himself with rage.

“You’re crazy,” the Baron said, as he plucked at Rossi’s sleeve. Rossi pulled away, started to run, and the old man went after him.

In the courtyard, Rossi scrambled into a station wagon, switched it on, drove for the gate and found the Baron standing there, arms outstretched, the familiar cane in one hand. Rossi had no option but to stop, and the Baron had the passenger door open in a second and hauled himself in.

“Whatever we do, we do together. Now get on with it.”

Ferguson, Dillon and Billy packed into the Storch, and Max Kubel grinned and shouted over the roaring of the engine, “All’s well that ends well. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

“A sound idea. We’ve left four dead men up there,” Ferguson told him.

“Then we really had better get moving.” He boosted power, roared down the meadow and lifted into the air.

Dillon looked out and down in time to see the station wagon drawing up to the Gulfstream, and gestured. Kubel glanced back.

“If you didn’t leave Rossi dead back there, then that will be him. There’s no one else it could be. Let’s move it.”

He didn’t stand a hope, of course; there was no way of getting away, not with the Gulfstream’s speed. There was no chance of being shot down, because the Gulfstream wasn’t a fighting aircraft, which meant only one thing. He was going to get bounced. Rossi would force him to crash in the forest, and Rossi was a damn good pilot.

He was at one thousand feet when he felt a great shock wave. The Storch rocked in the turbulence; the Gulfstream passed over them, then banked, came around and took up a station to port as Rossi reduced speed. He had the cockpit lights on and, looking across, Dillon could see von Berger siting in the right-hand pilot’s seat, staring out.

“My God, he’s got the Baron with him,” he shouted. The Gulfstream roared away, banked and came back toward them head-on, lifting at the last moment and passing over, the Storch rocking again in the turbulence.

“No,” Kubel said. “He’s trying to force me down so low I’ll hit the trees. Let’s play a different game.”

He hauled back the column and climbed to two and a half thousand feet, and, in the cockpit of the Gulfstream, Rossi snarled, “What in the hell is he doing, that pilot?”