by Tricia Goyer
Gabi moved slowly, since the Brasserie Lipp was jammed following de Gaulle’s parade. Outside, two dozen people waited for the opportunity to order from its menu of renowned Alsatian cuisine, although she imagined the selection had been limited in recent years.
Making it to the private room, Gabi counted twenty or thirty people, mostly men wearing berets, locked in conversations inside this section of the restaurant reserved for Resistance heroes. Small groups huddled with hand-rolled smokes and glasses of Chardonnay.
Bernard touched her arm. “Come meet some of my friends.” He led her and Eric toward a bareheaded older gentleman with a dimpled chin. His engaging smile reminded her of Roland Mueller, her grandfather.
“Gabi and Eric, I present to you Marcel Bertille, the mastermind of the Resistance.”
His colleague deflected the characterization. “Bernard, you sell yourself short. You were always the one thinking one step ahead of the boches.”
Bertille stepped closer to Gabi and Eric. “Did he ever tell you about the time he single-handedly stopped a train bound for Berlin?”
Gabi shook her head and noticed Eric doing the same.
Bernard held up a hand. “Mon ami, let’s not bore our guests. That happened a long time ago.”
“I’d like to hear the story.” Colette smiled at her boyfriend.
“Today is not a day to tell stories from the past.”
Gabi’s interest was piqued as well, but she could see that Bernard wasn’t in the mood for storytelling. She looked around and saw Resistance members milling about, cigarettes burning in cupped hands. From the body language, they were having intense conversations, and she noted an undercurrent of tension circulating within the room. Maybe Bernard knew something she didn’t—or Libération wasn’t what it seemed to be.
“Please, take our table.” Bertille called a waiter over to dump the ashtray and remove the empty beer glasses. “There are others I need to talk with. Would you excuse me? You’d think with the Nazis gone, our job would be done, but so far that hasn’t been true.”
Gabi stepped back, giving Bertille room to slip past. He has no idea, she mused. If they only knew about Göring’s plan to steal the Mona Lisa.
Bernard thanked Bertille, and the two couples pulled chairs around the scarred wooden table. A waiter scurried to wipe the surface with a dirty dishtowel.
“Anyone hungry?” Bernard asked.
Gabi’s stomach rumbled. “I’m famished.”
The Frenchman spoke to the waiter. “Could we see a menu, s’il vous plaît?”
“I’m afraid the kitchen is out of everything except for the Pied de Porc Farci, monsieur.”
Eric turned to Gabi and spoke in Swiss-German. “Did he say stuffed pig’s feet?”
Gabi nodded and laughed, then translated for Bernard and Colette. “I think Eric wants a double portion.”
Eric grinned as laughter circled the table. “Surely the chef must have something else,” he said to the waiter.
Five minutes later, the waiter returned with half a loaf of rye bread with pâté de campagne—country-style pork pâté—and bowls of the soup du jour, a tomato bisque.
Gabi turned toward Bernard. “On a day of celebration and thanksgiving, I can’t help but notice that some of your colleagues don’t have the same joie de vivre. Their smiles seem to be missing. Is something wrong?”
“Very perceptive, Mademoiselle Mueller.” Bernard slipped into a formal elocution. “They’re talking about the sniper attack on de Gaulle at the Notre Dame.”
“Don’t you mean at the Place de la Concorde?” Eric asked.
“No, there was a second attack.” Bernard set his piece of bread with a dab of pâté back on his plate. “You noticed that a bullet fired in de Gaulle’s direction didn’t faze him. Well, there appeared to be another assassination attempt at the Notre Dame, but with more shots fired. I saw it. So did my colleagues.” He tipped his head toward the men gathered in the private section.
“What happened?” A look of concern crossed Colette’s face.
Bernard leaned in. “We were marching into the plaza in front of the Notre Dame when I looked up toward the tower on the left. I saw the tips of three rifles extend between the openings of one of the pylons. Before I could warn anyone, shots swept across the square. French soldiers weren’t sure where the bullets were coming from, so they raked the rooftops. You can imagine the panic as people screamed and scrambled for cover, even though there was no place to hide.
“Once again, de Gaulle was indifferent to the bullets aimed in his direction. He strode into the cathedral as if it was Christmas morning. The pews inside the Notre Dame were full, but when I arrived, everyone had ducked for cover.”
“Did the thanksgiving service go on?” Gabi asked.
Bernard nodded. “De Gaulle walked up the center aisle while we could still hear shooting from the plaza. He took his place of honor at the front of the main aisle, and then he and the priest recited the Magnificat together. When they finished, I think they both realized it was folly to continue, so de Gaulle departed with the same steady pace. I watched the expressions of everyone. They looked at him like he was walking on water. When news gets out about what happened at the Notre Dame, de Gaulle will have France resting in the palm of his hand.”
As Gabi listened, everything made sense. The Resistance in Paris had been dominated by Communist-led cells and organizations, but it was de Gaulle who was winning the hearts of the people at just the right moment in history. No wonder these Resistance members at the Brasserie Lipp were dismayed.
“Colonel Rol thinks the Free French were taking the potshots,” Bernard continued. “That it was a setup orchestrated to make de Gaulle’s arrival look like the Second Coming.” He cursed under his breath.
Gabi looked at Eric, but they both were silent. She was beginning to understand the war was far from over. It was obvious the French Communist leadership was angered by the apparent checkmate from their rival, Charles de Gaulle.
She wondered what their next move would be.
Eric also noted the tension in the room, and even at the table. But now was the time for him to make his move—to get the help he needed—or France would lose much more than they already had.
“Colette, there’s something we want to tell you,” Eric lowered his voice so only she and Bernard could hear. “Gabi and I are part of an underground as well, although our work for the Allies has been from the Swiss side of the border.”
“Really?” Colette said. “Are you some sort of spies?”
“Not a term we use.” Gabi remained composed. “But we help where we can, which is why we drove to Paris yesterday with the medicines and supplies on behalf of the Red Cross.”
“So why are you telling me this?” Colette eyed them skeptically.
“Because we need your help.”
“With . . . ?”
“The Mona Lisa.”
Eric registered the looks of shock and distanced determination at the mention of their national treasure.
“Hear me out,” he encouraged, seeing Colette pull away. “We have solid information that German operatives are preparing to steal her.”
“What?” Colette’s eyebrows knitted with incredulity. “How could you know this? And why would they want to take La Joconde now?”
Bernard’s face hardened. “The painting could never be sold to another collector. It’s priceless. Even if it was sold, they would be found out.”
“Which makes the painting the ultimate bargaining chip,” Gabi chimed in. “This is pure speculation, but we think a Nazi bigwig might want to use the painting to save himself from the hangman’s noose when the war’s over.”
“Any ideas on who that could be?” Bernard asked.
“We have a strong assumption that a Colonel Heller is involved,” Eric replied smoothly.
Colette’s chin quivered, and tears rimmed her lower eyelids. Eric could see she was distraught by the news—and even more so by the mention o
f Heller’s name.
Eric fixed his eyes on the beautiful curator. “Does Heller’s name mean something to you?”
Colette reached into her small purse and pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed her damp eyes. “Sorry. I feared something like this during the Occupation, but not . . .”
The curator stopped herself. “What I mean is, I don’t think I—or France—could bear the news that the Germans have the Mona Lisa in their possession. It would be devastating for all of us. Unthinkable, especially now that we’ve been liberated.”
“What do you know about Heller?” Eric persisted.
Bernard’s gaze bore down on Colette as she gathered herself.
“This is complicated . . .” Colette looked pained.
Bernard placed his hand on top of hers. “But you know this boche, correct?”
“Unfortunately, yes, I know the colonel all too well,” she began. “He has been a painful thorn in my side since I took my position at the Louvre. I believe he’s working for Göring and serves as a buyer of art—I’m talking about massive quantities—on his behalf.” She paused and looked around the table. “Colonel Heller is a shrewd and determined man. One not to be underestimated.”
The sudden revelation left the table silent, absorbed in thought. All eyes remained transfixed on Colette.
“Do you think Heller really knows where La Joconde is hidden?” Bernard was staring hard at Colette. “After all, isn’t this a carefully guarded secret?”
Colette, with upturned palms, said, “But of course. She’s been moved several times since the war began. So who knows if Heller has this information? He’s a ruthless man. I wouldn’t put anything past him, including extortion and murder.”
Gabi motioned to speak. “We don’t want anything to happen to the Mona Lisa. We can help you bring her back.”
“You’re sure your intelligence is reliable,” Colette said.
“Quite sure.”
“Then we have to do everything we can to bring her home. If Heller gets to her first, she’ll be gone for good.”
Eric turned to Bernard. “Could you come along? We don’t know who or what we’ll find, but you have a lot of field experience.”
Bernard smiled. “But of course. Anything to save our national treasure.”
“Good. First, we’ll need some fuel.” Eric was eager to get started.
Bernard frowned. “Petrol has yet to trickle into Paris. From what I hear, they’re saying Monday. Plus, I imagine the line would stretch the length of the Champs Élysées.”
“I might know someone who can help,” Eric said.
If Dulles could get to the right people, their car would be the first to fill up in Paris.
Evening had dropped like a curtain over the City of Light.
As the group stood to leave the Brasserie, Bernard told the others to go ahead. “There’s someone I need to talk to.”
After the trio had departed, Bernard caught Bertille’s eye and waved him over to the table.
He got right to the point. “We need to meet with Colonel Rol.”
“Something happen?”
“Yes.” Pulling him aside, Bernard shared the startling new development. What he left unsaid was how the German operatives even knew where the Mona Lisa was being hidden at this moment. He feared that Colette had relayed that information but hoped that wasn’t true.
Bertille tugged on his right earlobe, lost in thought. “I know what the Colonel would say.”
“What?”
“Nous faisons d’une pierre deux coups.” We hit twice with the same stone.
“I don’t quite understand—”
“You secure the Mona Lisa, which solves one problem. Then at the right moment, we deliver La Joconde with maximum public attention, which will solve another.”
Bernard frowned. “It sounds like you’re asking me to steal the Mona Lisa before the Germans do.”
“Exactly, comrade. If we have possession of La Joconde under de Gaulle’s watch, we undermine confidence in his leadership. We can go to the people and say, ‘Look, de Gaulle is in charge for one week, and the first thing that happens is that the Nazis steal our crown jewel! This wouldn’t have happened under a democratic socialist government.’ Then we deliver the Mona Lisa, saving the day, just as we have during the entire Occupation while de Gaulle sipped tea in England.”
Bernard saw the merit in Bertille’s thinking. The public would blame the Gaullists if the painting fell into German hands—and create a perfect public relations nightmare. Colonel Rol could disseminate a story about how the Mona Lisa was stolen, and then at the most advantageous time, they would “recover” the celebrated artwork and reap a windfall of goodwill—and support for the Communist Party.
But that meant taking possession of the Mona Lisa from Colette. What would happen to her? He rationalized that as an informant, no matter the outcome, she had it coming, but things would be worse if the painting was lost. Either way, all fingers would point to his girlfriend’s loose lips. He would do what he could to protect her, of course, but one thing was certain: it would cost him their relationship.
Bernard’s heart ached. His emotions felt torn between Colette and the future of France. Then again, what if she was part of it? She seemed saddened and anxious by the news . . . maybe her fearful eyes were due to the fact she’d been found out. There was so much he didn’t know, and Colette herself admitted her help in selling their country’s priceless artwork to Heller. How could he trust her?
He couldn’t bear to see his political cause lose out due to his affections for a traitorous woman. If forced to decide between Colette and the political direction of France under Communist rule . . . well, that decision would be easy.
Seated at the end of the bar, sipping a glass of beer, Antoine Celeste watched Rousseau and Bertille walk to the front of the restaurant to use the telephone. The two men huddled near the entry as Bertille made the call, probably to their leader Colonel Rol.
With his hat pulled low to conceal his eyes in the shadow of its brim, he saw that Rousseau—with his back to him—concentrated on his colleague’s phone call.
This was his chance. He rapidly closed the distance between them with his hand buried in the pocket of his jacket, fingers tightly wrapped around a handle securing the tang of a wide six-inch blade. His dying brother’s face filled his vision.
Then, just as he neared his mark, a waiter carrying a tray of empty beer glasses high above his head squeezed in between, stopping Celeste’s advance.
The waiter passed by with a swish of his apron. Celeste looked up to find himself face-to-face with Rousseau. The element of surprise had vanished. He froze for an uncomfortable moment. Rousseau made an awkward nod of greeting, and instinctively, Celeste nodded in return, then slipped out the front door.
Standing on the curb, Celeste steadied his trembling right hand. He lit a cigarette to calm his nerves and think through what had just happened. He’d almost snuffed out the quisling, but the opportune moment was gone. He could have skewered Rousseau and slipped back into the crowd, lost in the commotion.
Revenge would have to wait.
17
Sunday, August 27, 1944
Zurich, Switzerland
Hans Schaffner paced the Bahnhofstrasse—leading to Zurich’s fashionable business district—with purpose. Rolf Kaufman strode by his side. It was good to be back in business, even if the assignment to steal the Mona Lisa was so audacious.
Schaffner knew that neither Göring nor Heller would ever take physical possession of the Mona Lisa. The priceless painting was to be delivered to the banker Anton Wessner for safekeeping. From there . . . well, who knew? All he cared about was his fee and the freedom it would provide.
They had an appointment to meet with Wessner on this quiet Sunday afternoon. Three or four years ago, Germans like him would have been invited to the bank to meet in an expansive office or over a sumptuous meal at the Alt Züri, one of Zurich’s finest restaurants. But when the tid
e of the war changed—especially after the Allies gained a foothold in Normandy—Germans became persona non grata. The Swiss might blather on about their sacrosanct neutrality, but they knew how to choose sides when the outcome was no longer in doubt.
It came as no surprise—Wessner didn’t want to meet in a public place.
Department stores and shops along Zurich’s famed Bahnhofstrasse were closed for the Sabbath. Only a few restaurants remained open, including the Zeughauskeller, packed with the after-church crowd enjoying a decent bratwurst and a half-liter of Klosterbrau.
The pair walked past the busy restaurant and turned left at the corner. Across the street, they saw an olive-green Mercedes 170V parked, facing away. Wessner watched them from his rearview mirror. With his left hand, he patted the door to get their attention.
They approached the car on the passenger side, and Wessner leaned across the seat and opened the door. Schaffner climbed into the front, and Kaufman took a seat in the back.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen.” Wessner extended his hand. He was in his late forties with close-cropped black hair flecked with gray. The smile appeared genuine but his manner was abrupt.
“Shall we get right down to business? Let’s start with your plan to obtain the painting.” Wessner turned at a forty-five-degree angle to face both men.
Schaffner looked to Kaufman, who nodded his head, indicating he wanted his partner to take the lead.
“Procuring enough petrol will be difficult, even with bribes,” he began. “I don’t see how we can get out of Zurich before mid-morning, at the earliest.”
“Perhaps I can help—” Wessner stopped himself. “No, sorry. On second thought, it’s better that you solve this problem. I suppose our mutual acquaintance anticipated this since I have been authorized to give you a sizable advance.”
“I figured as much.” Schaffner had never known a banker to get his hands dirty. “Speaking of money . . .”