by Tricia Goyer
There was also that embarrassing moment with the gold locket. Why would Bernard tell her it was a family heirloom when the pendant clearly wasn’t?
Gabi yawned but was still wide awake. There was more to Colette—and to Bernard—than what she saw at face value.
Her mind was racing. Had she made a mistake . . . sharing the information in this book with a woman she barely knew?
14
Saturday, August 26, 1944
Bern, Switzerland
The door swung open before Ernst Mueller had set foot onto the landing. Allen Dulles stood in the doorway, holding his pipe as smoke curled to the high ornate ceiling.
“You made great time.” Dulles extended his hand and beckoned Ernst across the threshold.
Ernst studied the OSS director and noticed the furrowed eyebrows behind rimless glasses. As much as anyone, Ernst knew that Paris’s liberation did not mean safety for his daughter, Gabi.
The chief directed him to the formal living room, where he took a seat.
“Can I pour you a cup of tea?”
Ernst leaned back in the nineteenth-century Charles II settee. “Certainly, Allen. And if you have any sugar, a teaspoon would be great.”
“Tea, I have, but it seems sugar is worth its weight in gold these days.” Dulles reached for a bone china tea service resting on a low French antique table. “I hope a dollop of Swiss honey will satisfy that sweet tooth of yours.”
Ernst smiled. As an American married to a Swiss, he had worked as an undercover agent with Dulles’s network for the last year and a half and had come to admire the unwavering civility of the “gentleman spy.” The formal persona of this Ivy League patrician came together nicely inside his cut-stone apartment situated in the heart of Bern’s medieval Altstadt. He watched the well-connected Dulles pour steaming tea through a fine-mesh stainless steel strainer and fill the Clarabelle-patterned cup.
The last forty-eight hours had been anxious ones for Ernst with the stunning news of Paris’s liberation. When Dulles had rung him earlier this morning, Ernst hoped all was well. The director reassured him that Gabi was not in any immediate danger, and then he asked if they could meet in Bern. Dulles’s guarded tone, as well as his unusual Saturday request to drive the ninety minutes from his home near Basel to Bern, alerted him that something important had come up.
Dulles poured a cup for himself and got right down to business. “The boys from Bletchley Park intercepted a message last night that you might find interesting.”
Ernst, who had been glancing at the headlines of several Swiss newspapers strewn across a coffee table, perked up. It was uncanny how often the code breakers at the British Secret Service cracked the Nazi ciphers.
“What did they find?”
Dulles settled into his customary wingback chair covered in burgundy leather. “We believe the message came from a Colonel Heller, speaking on behalf of his commanding officer.”
“And who would that be?”
Dulles adjusted his glasses. “A Reichsmarschall Göring.”
Ernst inched farther forward. “To whom was this Colonel Heller sending the message?”
“Our friends Schaffner and Kaufman.”
Ernst’s mind was now on full alert. He had contacts within the Swiss counterintelligence community, and Hans Schaffner and Rolf Kaufman were German agents living in Switzerland since the fall of France. The scuttlebutt was that this pair would disappear for a while and then resurface—usually in a rowdy bar nestled inside Zurich’s seedy Niederdorf, flush with cash.
Contacts believed Schaffner and Kaufman’s main task was to launder money for the Nazis’ ultra elite. The German operatives were also spotted entering and leaving numerous Swiss banks lining the Bahnhofstrasse.
Ernst took another sip of tea. “I’m not surprised. This further establishes the fact that Göring has people in Switzerland doing his bidding.”
“Here’s where it gets interesting.” Dulles’s eyebrows peaked as he explained that the German operatives were directed to drive to a chateau outside Annecy, where they were to take possession of the Mona Lisa and bring it back to Switzerland. The Dolder Bank would hold it for “safekeeping.”
Throughout the telling, Ernst sat motionless, but anger pumped through his veins. The arrogance of Göring and the sheer audacity. He slowly shook his head. “Nothing should surprise us anymore.”
“I’ve been thinking how to best approach this.” Dulles took a draw from his pipe. “First, we have to get a message to your daughter and Eric and brief them. They need to get to the Mona Lisa before Schaffner and Kaufman, but that will take some time and planning. The painting is supposed to be in a chateau outside Annecy, but the exact location has not been confirmed, at least according to the intercept. Regarding Schaffner and Kaufman, you could loosen a few tongues in the Niederdorf. Talk to the streetwalkers and barkeeps, that sort of thing. From what I hear, these two Germans aren’t the most discreet agents to walk the earth.” Dulles produced a legal-sized envelope bulging with Swiss francs. “This should help you unearth some clues.”
Ernst rifled through his memory of contacts in Zurich’s red-light district. He smiled slightly, considering what the people in his congregation would think of the friendships he valued in such places.
“There was another message.”
“Oh?”
“Anton Wessner was told by Colonel Heller to expect to hear from Schaffner and Kaufman and to give them his full cooperation. Carte blanche, the message said.”
“Anton Wessner—the president of Dolder Bank?”
“One and the same. Are you surprised that a Swiss banker is in bed with the Nazis?”
Ernst paused. “No, not that a banker is collaborating, but Wessner is well-respected in Zurich.”
Dulles reached for his cup of tea, but before he took a sip, his eyes bore into the agent. “It’s up to us to stop them. The Mona Lisa cannot fall into Göring’s hands. I don’t know what our adversary is up to, but whatever his scheme, the fragile French psyche can’t afford to lose their national treasure, not after Libération.”
“Agreed. If I can borrow your transmitter, I’ll contact Eric right away.”
“You’ll find it in the back bedroom. Interesting, though, how history repeats itself.”
“How’s that, Allen?”
This time, Dulles allowed himself a long drink of tea before answering. “The Mona Lisa was stolen right under French noses before the last war—1911, if memory serves me correctly. It was two years before they found the painting. Terribly traumatic for the French back then. I’m sure this distraction would be the last thing de Gaulle needs right now.”
Gabi raised the window shade and looked into the empty Beaumont courtyard. Paper trash littered the ground, and broken glass created a mosaic on pockets of cobblestones. The boisterous revelers were undoubtedly sleeping off their celebration, leaving behind an eerie calm for the late morning hour.
A form stirred in one of the twin beds. “What’s it like out there?” a voice moaned as she pulled the duvet back over her head.
“A bright sunshiny day,” Gabi replied to her new acquaintance. Her voice sounded cheerier than she felt. The Ost soldiers had haunted her dreams, and a heavy presence weighed on her shoulders.
Colette turned over in the bed. “What time is it?”
Gabi found her watch on her nightstand. “Later than I thought. Just about 10:30.”
Colette came out of hibernation and stretched her arms. She covered her mouth, stifling a large yawn. “When did the party stop?”
Gabi, who had been gathering her clothes to get dressed in the bathroom, stopped in her tracks. “I think the accordion player collapsed shortly after 4 a.m. At least, that’s when I last looked at my watch.”
A knock on the door caused both young women to look up.
Colette spoke in a whisper. “Probably Bernard’s aunt, wondering when we’re coming down for breakfast.” She raised her voice. “Who is it?”
“Eric. Is Gabi there?”
“I’m here. Be there in a moment,” Gabi said.
There was a pause. “A message from the Red Cross came over the transmitter,” Eric’s voice was urgent.
“Okay.”
Gabi stepped into the bathroom and set her clothes on the edge of a rattan hamper. Another message from Mr. Dulles? She wondered why the OSS chief was contacting them again, especially after they just spoke last night. It didn’t sound good.
If the events of the last twenty-four hours were any indication, today would be another day of surprises.
Eric had copied the letters of Morse code streaming through his headset onto a yellow pad. Then he used a codebook to decipher the message. He committed the contents to memory before burning the piece of paper in the bedroom fireplace:
Information from London indicates that the Mona Lisa painting is in harm’s way in southern France. The painting is thought to be near Annecy, but waiting to confirm exact location. Begin planning departure for Annecy. The Mona Lisa must be protected at all costs.
—E
The Mona Lisa? Eric had many important missions before, but this . . . he couldn’t put it into words. The Mona Lisa was the world’s most well-known painting, France’s greatest treasure. He did not wonder why the Nazis wanted it . . . but how could he and Gabi stop them?
When she arrived in the dining room, Eric whispered the explosive contents to Gabi. Her eyes widened slightly as her mind took in his words. She nodded and smiled, and Eric let out a slow breath. He admired how she maintained her calm.
“We must find petrol, which will not be an easy task—”
The sound of footsteps bounding down the wooden staircase caused him to pause. He glanced up to see Colette and then turned back to Gabi.
Gabi gave Eric a knowing look. They’d resume the conversation later.
As Colette entered the dining area, Madame Beaumont stepped out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a faded red apron. She shooed Eric, Gabi, and Colette toward the dinner table.
“Our hens must have known that Paris was liberated yesterday,” she said gaily. “There were plenty of eggs this morning. I even have a little Comté that I can mix in some scrambled eggs,” she said and then stepped back into the kitchen.
Eric missed his daily fix of animal protein. “That would be very kind of you, Madame Beaumont, especially at this late hour,” he called to her.
He looked through the open kitchen door and saw Madame Beaumont crack a half-dozen eggs into a small bowl and then beat them with a silver fork before pouring them into the saucepan. She sprinkled dabs of creamy yellow cheese onto the foamy mixture.
The smell of cooking eggs avec fromage filled the living quarters, and Eric’s stomach rumbled.
Five minutes later, Madame Beaumont walked out with scrambled eggs heaped upon a china platter. Steam rose into the air, spreading a delightful scent through the room.
“Did you rob a farm?” Colette asked.
“No, just happy chickens. Please, eat up.”
“You’re sitting down with us,” Colette insisted.
Madame Beaumont declined. “I had something earlier—”
Colette turned to Gabi and Eric. “Madame Beaumont is as good at stretching a meal as she is at stretching the truth.” With laughter in her voice, she turned back to Madame Beaumont. “You’ve eaten nothing but rutabaga and turnips all summer. We’re certainly not going to enjoy these delicious eggs without you.”
“Well, if you insist.” Madame Beaumont returned to the kitchen to fetch another plate and place setting.
As they settled into their breakfast of eggs and ersatz tea, Madame Beaumont proudly expounded on the latest gossip circulating the neighborhood. Thousands of Germans had surrendered, and those paraded through the streets were cursed by jeering mobs. Some German soldiers were tackled and strangled with bare hands; others put a pistol to their temples rather than face the vengeful crowds.
“Then I heard on the radio this morning that the Free French and the Allied forces are dealing with stray snipers. Perhaps they didn’t get the message that German forces had surrendered.” Madame Beaumont shook her head.
Colette sighed. “Or they want to have the last word—or last shot—on the way out.”
“Good point.” Madame Beaumont clapped her hands together. “The other big news report was that General de Gaulle will be leading the big parade this afternoon on the Champs Élysées.”
Eric set down his fork and knife. “I would imagine that Bernard will be marching.”
“Maybe. I don’t really know,” Colette said.
“He didn’t say anything when he left the party last night. I would imagine that’s why he’s busy this morning.”
“How long have you known that he was with the Resistance?” Gabi asked.
“I had my suspicions all along, but one thing we learned quickly under Nazi rule is that you dare not raise such a topic with anyone, sometimes even with your boyfriend. Bernard is passionate about his political views, and it was obvious that he wouldn’t be a passive observer throughout the Occupation, but we never discussed specifics. I think a tank parked in the courtyard is evidence enough.”
Madame Beaumont stood up and began clearing dishes. “Mademoiselle Colette is correct. We all lived in fear of being turned in to the Gestapo. Thank goodness that era is over. Listen, I’ll clean up and let you visit.”
The matron stacked the plates with silver forks and knives and returned to the kitchen, closing the door behind her.
Eric could tell something bothered Colette. “Are you supposed to go in to the Louvre today?” he asked.
“No, my supervisor told me to return on Monday. Since I’ve been there, we’ve worked under German control. I can’t wait to see how things will change. I would imagine the first thing we’ll do is bring back the priceless art from their hiding places.”
Eric and Gabi looked at each other askance.
“I always wondered what happened to your most famous pieces, like the Mona Lisa and Venus de Milo,” Gabi
said.
Colette shrugged her shoulders. “I guess it’s no big secret now. The most valuable pieces in the Louvre collection were moved out for safekeeping shortly after Hitler invaded Poland. Many were originally taken to various chateaus in the Loire Valley, but when Germany conquered France, the most famous pieces were trucked even further south into the Unoccupied Zone. The last convoy crossed the Loire River just hours before the bridges were blown.”
“But didn’t the Nazis want to get their hands on priceless works of art like the Mona Lisa?”
Colette sighed, as if she was measuring her words. “We had to stay one step ahead of them.”
“That couldn’t have been easy to do,” Eric said. “We’ve heard rumors of how the Nazis deposited their plunder in Swiss banks.”
“Most likely true. Especially if the paintings happened to be owned by Jews. While German art museums and, uh”—Colette hesitated for a moment—“private collectors augmented their collections by confiscations of art from what they called ‘enemy aliens,’ they also embarked on a purchasing program of gigantic proportions.”
“You mean they bought the art they wanted?” Eric asked.
“Yes . . . there’s no use hiding what they’ve done. The Nazis were fueled by unlimited funds made available from the economies of the countries they conquered. But many of our works at the Louvre weren’t available at any price, and the Germans knew that. It turns out there were treasures that they could not steal.”
Eric listened intently, fascinated by what he was hearing. “You seem to know a lot,” he offered, baiting his hook, waiting for her response.
A guarded look crossed over Colette’s face, and she hesitated a moment before replying. “Large museum. Small staff,” she declared simply.
“I could imagine that you were put into some delicate situations.”
Eric dared to press her further. “You mentioned last night that you were a
curator. Can I ask who is in charge of the Mona Lisa?”
Colette paused and looked suspiciously toward Gabi, then back to Eric.
“C’est moi,” she said. It’s me.
15
The heavy scent of coffee and cigarettes filled the air.
Hans Schaffner was surveying the café when a woman seated at a front table caught his eye. Even though she tended to a baby in a pram, he noticed she met and held his gaze. He didn’t mind keeping company with housewives whose husbands were away, but this potential liaison would have to wait. He cast her a warm smile, then with a sigh of reluctance, he brushed past.
Needing to keep his mind focused, he cradled a copy of the Neue Zürcher Zeitung and found an empty table in the back of the café, away from the other customers. What he read soured his Kaffee crème.
Zurich’s newspaper of record, customarily with a gray visage, was one of the most austere in Europe. Uncharacteristically on this Saturday morning, however, three rectangular photos were splashed above the front-page fold: a half-dozen French infantrymen aboard a Sherman tank that motored past adoring crowds on Avenue Victor Hugo; an older woman in a pleated summer dress running up to General de Gaulle to plant a grateful kiss on his cheek; and untidy rows of Wehrmacht prisoners—hands raised—parading past vengeful crowds.
“Nazis Driven Out of Paris,” blared the headline in seventy-two-point type—another rarity for the stolid Swiss newspaper. “Parisians Celebrate Hour of Reckoning,” stated the second deck.
Schaffner knew his fortunes rose and fell on the advances and retreat of the German front lines. For the last two years, the territory of the Third Reich had shrunk considerably—and so had the “jobs” he and his partner, Rolf Kaufman, performed on the behest of Colonel Heller. Sadly, most of the money wired into his bank account had been squandered on loose women, cheap wine, and mediocre card skills at the jass table. A chill of desperation passed through him as he reached for another sip of coffee. Their next job had to succeed. His lifestyle depended